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Ben Carlish

Ben Carlish is a writer, blogger and personal fitness trainer, among other things, who moved with his wife and two sons to Perth, Western Australia from Manchester, Northern England, nearly 10 years ago. As well as helping people to get fitter, he also works in public relations for the Department of Fisheries Western Australia, which allows him to combine two of his passions fishing and writing. Outside of the day jobs, he is currently working on a non-fictional book about his personal sorties into the world of boxing and stand-up comedy in a bid to overcome depression. Ben has also recently launched his own blog site “looking at antipodean life from the perspective of an Englishman living in a dream-like state.”

Dark nothingness….then the slightest glimmer…then BANG-BANG-BANG went the door. Ignore it, just ignore it - go back to the darkness. BANG-BANG-BANG.

“Devo! DEVO! Wake the fuck up, man. It’s six o’ clock. Ya told me to wake you up at six so that’s what I’m facking doing!” came the gravelly voice.


The voice was not to be ignored.


“Yeah, yeah – well FACK ‘AWF THEN,” Damon shouted back.


“WELL FACK YOURSELF AND YOUR WHORE OF A MOTHER!” Damon roared as his eyes now flashed open letting in far too much of the harsh light.


BOOM-BOOM – the cunt on the other side of the caravan door was now apparently trying to put his boot through the flimsy fibreglass. The door hinges just about held – but Damon’s didn’t.




Now his rage was pitted against his nausea, but the adrenaline merely fuelled the nausea making it win out at a canter. With the first oesophagus spasm, he leapt off his mattress, smashing his shin on the table stem in the process, provoking another squall of expletives as he crashed through the narrow doorframe, flinging the toilet lid up and projecting a torrent of dark brown fizzing spew into the blue chemical pool.

“Devo? Devo? What the fack’s going on in there? Ya giving it the purple yawn, mate? Well it facking serves you right, ya mongrel.  You keep going on like this, you’re out the facking tent, ya hear me? The punters want to fight proper fit fighters, not fat boozy cants like them what waddle around like a bush pig with a pineapple stuck up its arse!”


Damon groaned before his stomach violently turned itself inside out again.  After he’d finished spitting out the last semi-digested bits of food from his mouth, he shouted,




Silence again. Finally the penny dropped, Dicko was long gone. His rage flew out of its corner and smashed his nausea into smithereens. He sprung up from his kneeling position at the altar of vomit and launched a fist at the flimsy fibreglass wall. “FACCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKK!” he bellowed as his fist went straight through the wall.  Dark red blood immediately started pissing from his knuckles where he lacerated them on the jagged edge of yet another hole in the interior of his caravan, that was fast resembling a war-torn unit in down-town Gaza.


Sweating, swearing and seething, he grabbed the thee-quarters empty bottle of vodka from beside his bed, screwed the lid off with his teeth and liberally doused his cut hand with the spirit. Searing white pain and anger knifed through him and he instinctively held the bottle to his lips and chugged down the remaining contents of the bottle. Despite retching heavily again with the mule kick to the guts the spirit delivered, he was able to hold it down and the warmth that coursed through his body brought momentary relief from the swarming discomforts which racked him. He found an old tea towel in one of his draws, ripped it, not giving a fuck about dripping more claret onto the stucco floor in the process and wrapped it around his hand. It wasn’t the most sterile of bandages, but it would do.


Hand wrapped, he plonked himself down on the sole remaining rickety chair he hadn’t smashed up in a pissed-up rage. Fuck this hang-over, it wouldn’t beat him. No cunt would beat him.

His mouth was drier than a dead dingo’s donger, but. He spied the red and white tin underneath his bed – bent down furiously ignoring the waves of dizziness and nausea that rushed back in and picked it up. Shaking it from side to side he was gratified to find it was still half full of beer. He chugged it down lustily not giving a fuck the liquid was warmer, flatter and less flavourful than used bathwater. He let out a satisfied “ahhh” and then a cavernous belch and was ready to go about his day.


He scraped on a pair of battered old boardies and pulled a ripe vest over his shaved scarred head. Grabbing his battered trainers, he was again forced to hold back the retches as the footwear’s foetid vapours perverted the air around him. He manically pumped the water tap pedal with his foot with the vim and vigour of a thrash metal drummer. Plunging his head beneath the tap he massaged the water over his skull, scooped some water in his mouth, sluiced it around and spat. He made for the dented door, but caught himself in the cracked mirror, as he reached for the door handle.


The sight that met him was….confronting. The yellowed hued skin stretched over his angular cheek bones was pock-marked with scars and indentations. His cracked lips were a putrid purple and his chin coated with iron filings stubble. The thickset jaw clenched and unclenched almost uncontrollably and  his nose was scar-striped, squashed and broken as if someone had splattered a fat slug with a baseball bat…and his eyes – dark darting spheres sunken back in the dark recesses of his eye sockets. If the eyes really were the windows to the soul, then Damon was in purgatory right now. A business card on the shelf under the mirror caught his bloodshot eye. He picked it up and studied it intently for a moment. Tapped it on the shelf and tossed it down again. He let out a long deep sigh, looked upwards and shook his head vigorously as if trying to shake away a wasp.


“FACKIT!” he exclaimed as this time he wrenched the handle and threw the door open. He jumped down off the step slammed the door shut and pushed off into a jog padding gingerly around the perimeter of the boxing tent – being extra careful not to trip on the guy ropes. As he bounded out of the vacant lot at the back of the pub where they’d pitched the tent and set up shop, the pain began to shoot through every inch of his body. His legs ached dully, his neck and shoulders felt like they’d been massaged with concrete bollards and it was a given his head ached from the short hairs on his head right down to the inner most cell of his cerebral cortex. But his arms and ribs shared today’s top prize in the pain stakes. They felt like someone had given them a going-over with a lump hammer and it was then that he remembered last night and the last body of the night he’d been up against – a Serbian slab of a man off and of a building site – still in his work pants, boots and with no shirt under his fluoro-vest to reveal sun-burnished skin inked large with the depiction of the devil fucking an angel from behind on his back. It nicely offset the Frankenstein skull joins inked on his forehead and the almost 3-D tattooed bolts in his neck – clearly “Gorgo” as his mates bayed in support of him from around the ring called him – was not without a sense of humour to go along with his penchant for Satanic pornography. Or at least more likely his mischievous mates had talked him into the ill-advised Herman Munster-esque inking after one or half a dozen Slivovitzes too many.


Gorgo had brought a truck-load of thirsty Serbian mates along with him to see him fight, so it was up to Damon to put up a good show, keep them interested and most importantly to keep them drinking at the make-shift bar long into the night celebrating their mate’s heroic battle. So Damon couldn’t just use his honed evasive skills to dance in and out of Gorgo’s clumsy haymakers, picking him off on the counter; he had to make the big freak look like he could actually land the odd punch – so he’d let Gorgo pound away at his arms tucked tightly around his torso as he rolled back and forth on the ropes. But the man-beast could punch! And each shot that detonated into his arms brought jolts of dull pain first to his arms and then to his ribs as his elbows were pile-driven into his sides. Ducking the big swinging headshots was easy enough – a seasoned pro like Devo could see them coming about half an hour before they were thrown – but he had to just clam up and take the body shots on his arms waiting for him punch himself out before going to work on him. He had to give the Serb credit he could bang and he was fitter than most – working on the sites clearly kept him in good nick – but he was still carrying a stone or two of flab too much – the piss and pies looked like they’d seen to that – and by round five of the six, sure enough he was wasted.


Then it was the usual script of Devo dancing in and out and peppering him with light punches neither hard or frequent enough to make the Serb look like the lumbering, spent drongo he was – and just when he was and truly all over the place like a mad woman’s breakfast in the last round, Devo feinted a shot to his head, ducked down and nailed a short vicious left rip into the Serb’s solar plexus. Gorgo let out an audible grunt adding to the collective “oohs” from the crowd – every last one of them thinking at that moment how glad it wasn’t them in there who’d been on the wrong end of that rocket punch. The Serb knelt down on the canvas sucking and blowing air like a stuffed carp. Devo went back to his corner and had one foot on the rope ready to exit to the changing rooms, get showered down and get to the bar, it being the last bout of the night – he knew the Serb wouldn’t get up after that…they never did after one of Devo’s trademark body-shots. That was how he’d got his ring name, “Damon Devastation Donnelly” – or just “Devo” to that dwindling number who called him a friend or at least an associate. He might have schooled the Serb in the ring, but Gorgo had given him a bloody good run for his money in the bar afterwards getting into a drinking duel of Olympian proportions. Devo never stood a chance against a man half as much again his size and he could remember getting up to about round 10 of the vodka shots (with beer chasers of course) – after that…it was as if he’d been knocked out – not that had ever happened of course – he was Devastation Donnelly after all, but he had no recollection at all of how he’d ended up back in his caravan. 


And here he was pounding the tarmac with a biblical-sized hangover in the early morning Western Australian sun already cooking his seamy skin with the azure water of Shark Bay shimmering off into the distance across the road as he jogged along the main drag through the town. The more achingly beautiful the setting, and there were a lot of beautiful settings in WA and no mistaking, the worse his hang-overs felt. He felt like a perversion, a greasy, booze stinking blot on a pristine landscape –and if he wasn’t careful he could find himself questioning the whole nature and point of his existence. But he kept his head down gritted his teeth and dutifully did his k’s – sweating out the toxins and the endorphins beginning to take the edge off this horror show hangover.


Now he found himself at the jetty. It was gone seven now and the heat of the day was already beginning to build in earnest. He remembered his da had taken him up here to Denham one winter after one of his mates had leant him a boat. They’d caught two enormous glistening snapper from the gulf – almost surreally pink with iridescent blue spots on their flanks, a spiky dorsal fin, a bulbous clown nose and big disbelieving staring eyes. His da cooked up the pink snapper for him, his ma and his sister and it tasted heavenly. Outside of boxing and booze, it was one of the few happy memories of his childhood. He ran to the end of the jetty ripped his vest off, chucked his trainers off and feeling half human again whooped gleefully and plunged into the cooling, crystal clear water – maybe everything was going to turn out just fine after all.  “No facking wuccas, she’ll be apples,” as Dicko would say.


It was the last fight of the night – he’d pretty much cruised through the four bouts he’d been assigned, even turning on a bit of slapstick for the penultimate one – it had been a raucous bucks’ do and the buck was something of a portly chap who wanted to have a go. Damon had played for the crowd – turning into a hit and run keystone cops affair swaying in and out as the fat bloke – pissed as a fart – came staggering after him. Damon ducked under his punches with consummate ease, then tapped him on the head, before darting out of range again. In this instance it was fine to take the piss because that would keep his mates happy, who were the ones critically paying for the booze. Damon finished the fight by rolling under another pitifully slow haymaker spinning low past his opponent and pulling his shorts down. The bloke lumbered forward and fell over. He fumbled pathetically at his shorts’ draw-string with his gloved hands, slowly writhing around on the floor like a fat sedated snake. Dicko dramatically counted him out with the whole tent crying with laughter at the ridiculous spectacle.


Damon was actually enjoying himself, but looking forward to hitting the bar afterwards – once again forgetting his ritual post-training vow that morning to quit the booze for once and for all. After the bucks’ mates had helped lift their stricken mate out of the ring – Dicko announced the last fighter of the night. “LAAAAADDDIESSS AND GENTLEMAN, PLEASE GIVE IT UP FOR ASNEEEEEE ‘THE DRAGON’ DAVIS’”.  A skinny and slight Asian-looking guy emerged impassively from the back of the tent wearing golden Thai boxing shorts embossed with silver lightning and Thai dragon emblems. He couldn’t have been much over 130 pounds. A couple of people clapped, but generally his entrance was met with indifference  and didn’t appear to have brought any mates along with him. Damon looked at Dicko and nodded him over. “What the fack, Dicko? This kid shouldn’t be fighting me – I’ve got 40-odd pounds on him and I’m about a foot taller - whaddya want me to do fight him on my knees with a blindfold on?”


“I facking know, I facking know!,” rasped Dicko  furtively with his hand covering his mouth.  “What can I tell you – the kid asked for you especially.”

“For me especially? What the fack’s that about?” said Damon now having a proper look at the kid across the ring from him for the first time….now he properly looked there was something vaguely familiar about him.

“Buggered if I know, but he was insistent it had to be you – he gave me a wad to make it happen – 500 facking bucks. We can’t turn down that kind of money. So look you know the facking script, give him his moment in the sun, go gentle on him to start, let him land a few digs, get the crowd going and then put him down in the last round.”

“Well oright, but fack me, Dicko, there’s something weird about this.”

“Just do what you do and she’ll be roight.”


The bell rang and Damon nonchalantly made his way out of his corner – not even bothering to put his hands up in a full guard. But the Asian kid fair flew out of his corner. “Here we go,” thought Damon to himself, “another twat who fancies himself as the next Jackie Chan.” Damon went to lift his hands to throw out a gentle jab to keep Jackie Chan at bay – but suddenly the kid wasn’t there. The next thing Damon knew, his rib-cage was singing in pain, his head was swimming and he was kneeling down and sucking in air and a huge roar of approval went up from the crowd.


In the blink of an eye the kid had machine-gunned Damon’s torso with a volley of body punches – the last one catching him flush on the solar plexus and totally knocking the wind out of him. Damon had taken harder body shots from sparring with heavyweights, but the speed and accuracy of the shots had completely disarmed him. He blew hard as Dicko gave him the count. He looked quizzically at Dicko – who just shrugged his shoulders. The kid stood back looking down at Damon with a contemptuous gleam in his eyes. What the fuck was going on here? On the count of eight, Damon got to his feet, shook his head and this time put his full guard up and brought his elbows tight into his side. The kid flew back at him and furious punches seemed to rain down from everywhere on Damon – he instinctively started pumping his jab just to get a bit of distance and to try to set up his right – but unbelievably the kid dropped down and moved low with the stealth and speed of an osprey and popped him with a looping overhand right. A small explosion went off in Damon’s right eye.


Now Damon finally realised he had a proper fight on his hands – the time for pissing about was over. As the kid came in for another assault, Damon smartly side-stepped him and turned and before he could dart forward he smothered him up on the ropes. Now he could start throwing bombs into the slighter man’s rib-cage. He let go with several evil rips into the guys’ sides – that should give him more than enough to think about. But he simply rolled with the punches like….like he was doing the rope-a-dope to Damon. After throwing several more thunderous shots, he paused for breath and the kid passively stared him in the eyes and said, “That all you got? My grandma punches harder than you.” Damon growled and launched a scud missile of a right cross at the source of the outrage. But again before his punch came anywhere near, his opponent’s face had vanished before him and a keening pain shot through his side and all over his body. Damon was forced to kneel again – floored by the little man’s scything counterpunch to his ribs. The little man was dancing back and forth around him as Dicko counted Damon who gritted his teeth shaking his head in disbelief. “Had enough, fat man, already? I thought you had more in you than a prissy little school-girl,” the kid taunted him. By now the crowd were firmly on the little Dragon’s side and the chant “DRA-GON, DRA-GON, DRA-GON!” went up.   

Now Dicko was staring hard at Damon. “Mate, you got to tie him up on the ropes and start bullying him otherwise he’s gonna facking take you apart,” he told Damon pretending to check his gloves before ushering the pairto box on.

“You think I facking don’t know that for fack’s sake,” spat Damon, “Who the fack is this cant?” “This cant” was now smiling back at Damon with a big cheesy grin that wound him up all the more,

“You wanna try again, fat white boy? Or have you pissed your pants too much?” the little dragon goaded him.

“CAMON THEN YOU CANT!” Damon roared at his antagonist and marched forward determined to unleash a blitzkrieg of punches at this incredible upstart. This time though the little dragon ducked and span so low and fast as to make Damon look positively pedestrian – rising up to a quick burst of punches at Damon’s left ear and somehow…and this move nearly brought the tent down….twanging Damon’s boxing shorts elastic as he moved smartly passed him. A cacophony of approval and laughter resounded around the canvas as this little Asian man appeared to be schooling this seasoned pro-boxer. Damon’s rage went nuclear. “RIGHT THAT’S FACKING IT YOU JUMPED UP LITTLE PRICK!” he bellowed throwing his gloves off. “LET’S STOP FACKING AROUND – LET’S DO THIS OLD SCHOOL.” “Devo – what the fack you think you’re doing?” growled Dicko. “LEAVE IT DICKO – I WANT THIS CANT – HE NEEDS TO BE TAUGHT A LESSON.” Dicko took one look at Damon’s eyes and realised he wasn’t about to stop him, besides the crowd, which by now had swollen considerably, were utterly gripped by this turn of events and were screaming at Dicko to let them proceed. Dicko looked at the crowd and they went silent for a moment all eyes back on Dicko. Dicko  looked at the dragon who nodded his approval and tossed his gloves off – Dicko shook his head and gestured at them to fight – the roar that went up nearly shook the floor. “RIGHT – NO HOLDS BARRED, YA FUCKER!” Damon roared with globules of spit flying out of his mouth . “Cool with me – you good with kicking?” “WHATEVER I’M GONNA DESTROY YA!” A wan smile spread across the dragon’s lips and he bounded forward and all of a sudden he seemed to be flying a full five feet off the ground towards Damon and then….blackness.


Damon came to on the table in the dressing room area. The room was blurred and spinning and his head felt like it had been hit with an iron. His blurred vision cleared to reveal the saggy, craggy face of Dicko staring over him.

“Strewth! Fack me drunk- you look like you fell out the ugly tree! You’ve a face only a mother could love,” Dicko chuckled.

“Yeah thanks ya facking banana bender. What the fack happened?” Damon groaned.

“Well Devo me old ding-bat, how can I put this – he devastated ya…owned ya…schooled ya!”

“Did I get knocked out?”

“Did ya get knocked out? Faaark! Maaaaate, he kicked your arse to whoop-whoop and back!”

“But how?”

“Well, I ain’t quite seen anything like it, but, fair dinkum, he jumped up high as your ugly mug, span a full 360 in mid-air dropping a ripper of a kick that fair well took your head clean awf. Ya went down like a sack of shite – asleep before you even hit the ground. We had to carry you out on a stretcher – you were gawn, mate, lights out and that’s all she wrote.”

“Who the fack was that guy? Was he for real?” Damon asked bewildered by what Dicko has just relayed to him.

“Oh yeah, mate, he was ridgey-didge; I wanted to sign him up to the tent right there and then – but he told me he only did this kind of thing for facking fun!”

 Damon tried to swing his legs up and sit up on the table, but the room began to swim again.

“Whoah there, cowboy, give yourself some time – you need to recover – get this facking icebag on your swede,” Dicko told him gingerly helping him to an upright position. Damon really wasn’t feeling himself.


He was about to pay for his double vodka and beer chaser in the pony glass, when a brown hand shot out from behind him proffering a 50 dollar note to the barman. “I’ll get these,” said the voice of whomever it was the hand belonged. Damon tried to swing around on his bar stool, but everything hurt and he winced glancing sideways instead to see the face. “Oh facking hell - not you again,” said Damon getting ready to jump off his bar stool to fight.

The face of the dragon broke out into a big beaming smile. “S’okay, s’okay – I don’t need to fight you anymore, I’ve come to buy you a drink and to thank you.” “To thank me? Thank me for facking what? Giving you the chance to wipe the floor with me and make me look like a useless drongo in front of the punters?” Damon asked bitterly and somewhat incredulously as he looked over the skinny waif in front of him in loose-fitting jeans and a baggy hoody. Who the fuck was this guy?

“Well – maybe a bit of that – but, no, much more than that in fact. You don’t remember who I am do you?” said the dragon.


Damon looked at him – there was something there – but a fuck a lot of brain cells had gone under the bridge since whenever he’d apparently met this guy. He held his hands up and shrugged.

“Darkie Davis? Drongo Davis? Arsehole Asnee? Deadbeat Davis? Ringing any bells?”

And slowly the dim recollection took shape through the haze.

“From school? Davis? The class punch-bag? That was you,” Damon asked his mouth somewhat agape.

“Ha-ha – the class punch-bag – that’s it,” said Asnee, seemingly appreciating the joke. “Well you certainly went to town on this punch-bag – remember you cut your knuckles on my teeth and put me in hospital at the tender age of eight? You did a good job – fractured my cheek bone – didn’t quite break my jaw, but I had to eat liquidised food through a straw for a few weeks after…”

“Fack – that was you? You did call me a ‘paddy prick’ and try and threw a punch at me,” now I come to think of it.

“Yeah, that’s right, I did, mate – well remembered – but that was after you’d thrown my school bag down the toilet, took a crap in my desk and wrote ‘Darkie drongo dickhead Davis,’ on the desktop – remember that bit?” Damon was for once in his gob-shite life lost for words – he felt genuine shame for what he’d done – making the kid’s life a misery just because he was black and didn’t fit in – just like he didn’t back then in fact.

“Fack, mate, what can I say….sorry?”


“No, no, no, Damon – like I said I want to thank you for what you did. After that my mum got scared about what was happening to us – my dad had gone walk-about a long time before then – we were living a hand to mouth existence and the hospital bills for me cleaned us out. So my mum took me back to Chiang Mai – you know in Thailand – where she was from and my uncle took us in.

“When my uncle heard what had happened to me, he told told me that I needed to take my fear and that hatred and turn it into energy that could help me build skills, speed and power that would ensure no one could every hurt me badly again. He took me to his friend’s Muay Thai boxing school.

“It was harder than anything you can imagine, getting up an hour before dawn every morning to kick iron bars planted in the ground to toughen up our shins – an hour of kicking – my shins bled to begin with, but they still made us do the run afterwards. The trainers would drive along behind us on mopeds and hit us with bamboo sticks if we slacked off at all. That was just the morning session – we’d train like that three, four times a day. In the first few weeks I’d hit the pillow crying every night but I was so tired, I’d fall asleep with the tears rolling down my cheeks. But you know what kept me going? The thought of you beating me up and that one day I’d come and find you and beat you.”

“And that’s what you did today?” said Damon feeling sicker and sicker by the second.

“And that’s what I did today,” said Asnee “but you know what, with the rage you put in my belly, I actually got pretty good at Muay Thai. In fact, I cleaned up in Bangkok, got a name for myself and having backed myself on the sly – you can do that in Bangkok easy enough – I made enough to start my own Thai boxing school. I got the best trainers and the best fighters around me – and now we’re Chiang Mai’s premier Muay Thai school - people travel from all over the world to train with us. What’s really good as far as I’m concerned is we’re doing a lot of work with the shanty town kids from Bangkok – as well as with other kids who’ve gone off the rails, getting them back on track and turning some of them into world-class fighters.

“I’ve come back to Aus to see if we can start a similar project back in Perth with some of the Indigenous kids. That appeals to me – what with my old man being a black fella and all – I say being – who knows if he’s even still alive anymore?,” Asnee monetarily looked wistful, before snapping back his gaze to his old now vanquished foe.


“I hear from some of my Thai boxing contacts in Perth that this is what you were doing these days – so I thought I’d come and…. take care of unfinished business and to thank you – because without that battering you gave me – I would never have had the life I’ve had. And what about you – you still a racist prick?”

Damon shook his head vigorously as a mixture of uncomfortable emotions began to assail his head and heart.

“Nah, mate, I swear to God – look, I may still be a prick, but I ain’t no racist .  I married an Indo girl, I gotta  mixed race kid – look.” He took the picture out of his wallet of his two-year-old son he’d left back in Perth with his mother, who’d walked out on Damon, after he’d smashed up one too many pieces of furniture in a drunken rage.  He showed the picture to Asnee, whose face lit up with a warm smile.

“His name’s Jonathon,” said Damon suddenly feeling profoundly sorry for himself. “I ain’t seen him for six months. I miss the little bloke…and his mother I guess.”

“Ah, mate, he’s beautiful – I’ve got a little girl and a boy – changes your whole world doesn’t it?”

Damon looked down shamefully at his drinks – but not even thinking about lifting a glass to his lips anymore. Finally a tear rolled down his cheek. “Fark! I haven’t cried since I was three,” Damon confessed.

Asnee put his arm around Damon’s shoulder and said, “Damon, if you’ve got him back in Perth – what the hell are you doing here?” Damon let out a deep long sigh – he had no answer to that.


Damon walked back across the waste ground at the back of the pub to the tent site. He looked up at the spectacular cosmic array of stars and the milky-way put on by the universe on a nightly basis up here in this remote corner of the world. Looking out to the bay was pure inky blackness apart from one shaft of silver shimmering water that stretched out to where the black stopped and the stars started and to where the neon half-moon nestled low in the night sky. He opened the door of the caravan and surveyed the carnage around him. He slumped down on the chair and blew out a long, slow, resigned breath of air. He picked up the business card and his phone in trembling hands as the shakes began to kick in. He could barely punch in the numbers his digits were throbbing and pulsating so much. The dialling tone rang a couple of times before crackly, husky voice finally answered – a voice that sounded like it had smoked a thousand cigarettes that day.

“G’day – this is Alchoholics Anonymous – how can I help you, friend?”

Damon paused for a minute, wiped his swollen dry lips with the back of his hand, blew out a long lingering breath and said finally, “Erm, yeah, look I think I might have a bit of a problem with the grog….”


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