Substitute

Well I'm a substitute for another guy
Look pretty tall but my heels are high
Simple things you see are all complicated
Look pretty young but I'm just backdated, yeah...
- The Who, 1966

Lena drew her knees up to her body and watched the day slowly die in the skies above, reflected in the seas below. She felt immensely content. She also felt immensely drunk. At five-thirty in the afternoon. On the beach. Sitting on a sand dune with a half-empty bottle of champagne under one arm and her best friend in the entire universe under the other. McCarthy, for his part, was beyond immensely drunk and was well on the way to completely fucking slashed. Then again, it was his birthday, dammit, and he’d be completely fucking slashed if he wanted to. He, she and the assembled throng had started somewhat before lunch, and now, seven hours of drinking, barbequeing, more drinking, swimming, beach cricket, more drinking, speeches, toasts, more swimming and yet more drinking later, he and Lena seemed to be all that was left with some form of consciousness.

“Not exactly the main ballroom at the Museum of Victoria, is it,” he observed deadpan.

“Thank Christ,” she spluttered. “We’d never get in, dressed like this. Imagine. A dress code at your own fucking birthday party.”

“Your birthday was great,” he protested. “Very classy. Stylish. Noone vomited on the neighbours’ dog.”

“Would have made it a lot more colourful,” she replied. “Though it wouldn’t have gone with the decor, which would never have done…”

He sighed heavily, almost comically. “Don’t tell me Melancholy Maggie is all juiced up again. You’re not much fun when you’re ludicrously drunk you know. Extremely drunk is OK, but ludicrously drink… drunk…”

“I’m not melancholy,” she insisted. “It’s just that this is soooo much cooler. So relaxed. And your mates are so funny and laid back. They’re awesome. I mean, a lot of them are single, and justifiably so, but they are awesome….” Keep digging, girl, he grinned to himself. “And this place… I feel I understand you, now.”

He laughed. “Now, after how many years is it? What the fuck's there to work out, Lena?”

“I mean, I can see why you’re so grounded compared with that lot in Sydney. Why you’re so, you know, down to Earth. You have a place like this to come home to. I mean, do you seriously know how beautiful this place is?”

“No,” McCarthy said. “I’m too drrrrunnnnk.”

She tightened her arm around his neck playfully. “And your family are just… the best. Your mum and dad still like each other. That’s very novel. And your sister, she’s very ‘together’, she’s very switched on. I like her a lot.”

“Sorry, could you run that by me again? We are talking about Anne McCarthy here. My sister has dated more hapless losers than even… well, you.”

She pointed an accusing finger. “You’re just lucky I’m single at the moment,” Lena growled, “or I’d be inclined to take offence at that. Anyway, be nice to your sister, she’s cool,” she insisted. “For one thing, your sister didn’t try to seduce me at your 21st…”

“Agnes was not trying to seduce me. She was just being friendly. Maybe a little overfriendly, I’ll admit, but there was a lot of champagne around…”

“And you did so much to try and dissuade her, didn’t you.”

“Dissuade, that’s a good word. You need to drink more, you’re making too much fuckin' sense,” he advised. “Yeah, I appreciated the attention, she’s young and, um, well put together. But she was never that keen and you know it. She was just flirting with me to get a rise out of you, try and upstage you on your big day. Anyway, she reminds me too much of you… and Rebecca… in a bizarre kind of hybrid that could only be feasible in that genetics lab Angus works in. Anyway, what do you care, anyway?” he inquired with mock accusation, and far too many anyways.

“She always wants my stuff,” Lena declaimed. “My clothes, my jewellery, my Hawaiian Princess Barbie from Christmas 1986…”

“Oh, the horror of it all. Anything but Hawaiian Princess Fuckin' Barbie.” Sam got heroically sweary when he was completely fucking slashed. Even by our usual exacting standards. It was like he threw some sort of switch and became Super Dave v2.0.

“Look, no shit, she’s evil, I’m telling you. Anything I have, she’ll have a go at taking away from me.”

“Wasn’t aware I was listed as one of your possessions on your Home and Fuckin' Contents policy. So I'm just an object to be toyed with, at the whims of your desires?”

“Oh fuck off, you pretentious bastard.”

“Oooh, bitch. Seriously though Lena, what’s the story?” he pursued, warming to the challenge. “What would it be to you if something like that happened?”

She gripped the neck of the empty champagne bottle in a way which slightly alarmed McCarthy, who began to wonder if he should fear an almighty glassing. Hold on, he realised, she’s just seeing if there’s any left. “It would matter, dear Samuel,” she said with astonishing clarity for her condition, “because you would then have no particular need for the likes of me, because all the things you seem to like about me, she has in abundance, without being some Amazonian freak from the planet Loud And Opinionated. Okay?”

“Oh come on, you don’t seriously believe that, do you?”

Apparently so, judging by the way she wouldn’t look at him, even shaking free when he tried to lift her chin to look into her eyes. “Lena, you know I’ve always got your back, girl. I’m here for the duration.”

She looked up. “You promise?”

He laughed. “Of course.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she said. “When you’re sixty-one years old and editor of the New York Times, expect me to turn up at your door sobbing and cursing about how much of a bastard my last ex-boyfriend was.”

“Why should I expect anything else?” he smiled.

“You’re good to me, Sam,” she said softly. “I use you, and I never say thank you.” Lena gently slipped her arms around him and kissed his mouth, her lips biting against his. Opening her eyes, she said, “Officially, thank you.”

“All part of the service,” he replied. And found himself wanting very, very much to kiss her back. And sensing, through the alcoholic haze that she’d like very, very much to be kissed back. He followed instructions. All of a sudden, they were all over each other, tumbling down the side of the small sand drift, to come to rest a few feet below on the beach proper.

“Okay then,” he began, and lost his train of thought. But the minor adrenaline rush had sobered him a little. He realised what this turn of events most closely resembled, and to his absolute self-disgust, he found he wasn’t sure at all about this. He mightn’t have been as good as recognising this-can’t-end-well moments as yours truly, but he was learning.

She bit her bottom lip. “You want to go for a swim?”

“My second pair of wet swimmers are on the line, with my first pair,” he said.

“Who said anything about swimmers?” she inquired impishly, with a delicious smile.

“Lena, you naughty girl, whatever would your mother think.”

“Let’s hope never to find out, shall we?” She squeezed him tight and searched deep into his eyes. Finding reluctance in there was not what she’d expected.

“I’m pretty sure this is a bad idea,” he said gently.

“You should be too drunk to have ideas by now. It’s your 21st, goddamn it.”

However, his misguided self-control wasn’t given a chance to totally fuck things up for him. We were good enough to do that instead.

“Oy, Samboy!” called Brown Mullet. To his family, Brown Mullet was Greg Holsworth, but to his mates, ever since he’d come back to school after the winter holidays with the mullet to end all mullets (we’re talking Uncanny-X-Men-grade mulletry), Brown Mullet was forever to be known as Brown Mullet. Notwithstanding the fact Brown Mullet now part-owned a computer store in Lismore (with his brother, another recovering mullet-merchant), was a respectable member of the community (well, as respectable as computer dealers get), and had a short-back-and-sides these days. Brown Mullet was leering drunkenly down at them from the dunes, flanked by most of the other lads from the Old School (including your correspondent), and various like-minded degenerates from Sydney (Super Dave, Cuntstable Care et al). “The fuck you doing my brother?”

“Orm doin’ stuff with me woman, ay,” McCarthy grunted in the most rural manner he could muster. Lena, despite herself, started giggling.

“Roight,” grunted Super Dave. “Gissa go after youse, ay. One-in, all-in.”

“Fuck you’re a seedy bastard, Dave,” McCarthy grinned.

“Orm an engineer,” Super Dave declared proudly. “Fucken ay.”

“Hey where’s that sweaty ballsack Young Angus? Softed-on as usual?”

“That’s a compliment coming from you, you fetid sphincter,” I offered pleasantly. “But enough of the usual sparkling fuckin’ repartee. Fungus’ old man just brought around that rat-arse old Honda XR we used to fang about their farm, remember?”

“Christ,” McCarthy said. “Noone let anyone on it, we’re all far too pissed. Who’s idea was that?”

“Everyone’s,” said Fungus (Darren Carter to his mother). “Pulled it down over Christmas. Rebore, new sparkies, valve grind. New muffler, tyres, even repainted the old bitch. All chipped in for parts. Anyway, she’s yours.”

McCarthy shook his head, crawling to his feet. “No fucking way.”

“Yes fucking way. It’s your fuckin’ 21st and you’re not going to shit me and the boys by not accepting it.” Fungus used to get quite strident about concepts of mateship and group loyalty when he was as drunk as forty bastards. He was in the Army these days, where mateship, group loyalty and being drunk as forty bastards were all highly prized. “We couldn’t get you off that bloody thing for ten years, don’t tell me you don’t want it. I don’t want to hear it,” Fungus grinned. “Happy 21st, my son.” Fungus also always called people his son when he was drunk. Even though he was the youngest in our year by a clear month. In conclusion, Fungus was a bit odd, but we liked him.

McCarthy stumbled up the dune and shook the hands of all our tribe, his face beaming. Then he sat on the XR and kicked it into life. The little 250cc two-stroke had never sounded sweeter. Granted, it always sounded like an overgrown lawnmower, but that was two-strokes for you. Brought back memories of so many afternoons and weekends spent with the boys, fanging all over everyone’s respective farms and properties, on Fungus’ Honda XRs and my old Suzuki TS185 and ancient Yamahas and even Chops’ Flying Booger, one of the original iridescent snot-green Kawasaki trailbikes. The worst colour in all of Christendom. Well, at least it was distinctive, as Chops used to say. Actually, come to think of it, the kitchen Laminex at Chateau Dodgy in Lismore was pretty much exactly the same colour.

He slid forward on the seat so that Lena could perch behind him. A concept she didn’t find ideal.

“No way, Sam. You’re far too drunk to be on a trailbike.”

“I know. I’m just going to walk it up to the house. Just get on and shut up, woman.”

“Okay, but if you get me killed I’m not your friend any more.”

McCarthy looked around at all of us. Those of us who didn’t know better seemed to be thinking the same thing: he’s done very well for himself. For today, they were welcome to the misconception, McCarthy seemed to be thinking in return. He let out the clutch and gingerly idled the XR up the pathway from the beach to the street leading uphill to the McCarthy residence, walking the bike along with his feet off the pegs to aid stability.

“Remember what my friends chipped in together to get for my 21st?” she asked.

His brow furrowed, scratching for recollection. “Front row tickets to Les Mis, wasn’t it?”

“My point exactly,” said Lena, squeezing his shoulder. “My point exactly.”

He wasn’t sure what her exact point was, but he didn’t seem to care, seeing as though he was preoccupied with feeling immensely happy. Which, in effect, was her point.

Substitute... me for him
Substitute... my Coke for gin
Substitute... you for my mum
At least I'll get my washing done.

Lena and McCarthy graduated together at the end of that year. As did Emma and me, though we, erm, weren't as close. Hadn't been since first year in college, funnily enough. Mid-semester break, semester two, if you wanted to be specific. No, I hadn't banged her best friend on her bedspread where her stuffed Elmo had to watch. (That was a different ex. And yes, that one was more offended by the prospect of it warping Elmo's fragile little mind than anything relating to the triangle of emotions between me, her and her soon-to-be-former bestie. College was FUN.) I'd long since gotten used to the idea that Emma was a completely different person when she was off-chops on Passion Pop and the intermittently demonstrated but impressively demonstrative casual sex I was having wasn't really with Emma-the-nice-Christian-girl but was with her drunken alter-ego who danced on tables in nightclubs, snogged other girls to impress boys (or just 'cos she liked snogging girls, never figured which) and liked to talk gutter filth while riding the boy-next-door reverse-cowgirl. The drunken alter-ego called herself Tiffany. I'm not making this up.

No, all of the above wasn't what torpedoed Emma and me (such as there ever was an Emma and me.) What torpedoed it was the nice ADFA boyfriend, the childhood sweetheart, coming to visit. It wasn't that he was huge, hairy and threatened to tear off my head and do number twos down my throat. In fact, he looked... basically like me. In fact, other than being a bit of a ranga - a LOT like me. Hmmm. But what torpedoed things wasn't my suspicion I was being jumped drunkenly on an occasional to semi-regular basis as a proxy for him, given he was absent and unwilling and I was neither. Nor was it even any suspicion on his part that his beloved was cheating. It was just the fact that he really was a nice bloke. A good, decent, stand-up sort of dude. Good for a yarn, got his round in down at the Rec Club, no trace of bonehead army jock or north Queensland yeehaa to him. Just a good bloke. One who deserved better than to have his girlfriend - who he absolutely worshipped - fucking around on him on the excuse of pretending to be a slapper called Tiffany.

That, and I was working my longer-term slow-release Osmocote magic on another Nice Girl from college - I must have had a thing for 'em at the time - trying to see if I could be in a relationship that lasted longer than three contiguous weeks. Successfully, I'd add. Gemma and I lasted a heady FOUR weeks, that's practically a month. Admittedly one of those weeks was stu-vac which she spent up the coast at her olds' place in Caloundra. Then came back to college and unlocked her door to find... well, I'm sure Elmo recovered with the aid of suitably tailored professional therapy. If he REALLY meant so much to her she'd have taken him with, surely?

Anyway Sam, who this chapter was MEANT to be about, and Lena both graduated at the end of 1997. They’d survived four years of an Arts degree, both did reasonably well, and it looked as though they might even have a chance to gain employment from their aforementioned Arts degrees that didn’t involve the phrase ‘Do you want fries with that?’

“You going to be home on New Year’s Eve?” she asked. “Morning, I mean.”

“Can’t see why not,” replied Sam, closer the end than the beginning of their now-traditional Boxing Day ‘I got better presents than you so Nyaahh’ long-distance phone call between Evans Head and Melbourne. “Erm... Which home?”

“Sydney, obviously...”

“Oh, home. Not home home.” He heard her giggle at the distinction. “Sure, I’ll be back down by then. Not permitted to miss New Years with the Sin City circus, particularly seeing as though I might be back up here if I can’t get a position on a Sydney paper - the Star of the North seem to be happy to take me on.” He’d already talked this through with her, but he felt he should go over it again, just on the off chance she’d go “Don’t go Sam, I’ll do anything, I love you!” or something equally probable. “Why do you ask, need to know my whereabouts for booking another long-distance bleat about your latest clueless boy, all proceeds donated to Telstra?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Lena was a damn liar, as ever. Because on the morning of December 31, it wasn’t her voice on the phone he noted. It was her entire three-dimensional presence on his front doorstep in Randwick.

“Surprise,” she said.

Obviously others were also not permitted to miss New Years with the Sin City circus.

Many hours later…

“I’ve decided to be by myself for a while,” she said wearily and not a little drunkenly. “No boys. Just me on my own, see if I like it, see if I can handle being single... You know what I mean?”

“I know exactly what you mean, Lena,” he nodded.

“Yeah?” She smiled at his approval. “You think it’s a good idea too?”

“No, because this is about the eighteenth fucking time you’ve told me that tonight, and it always seems to correlate with some vaguely decent-looking male wandering by. Who you trying to convince here?”

“Not fair. You’re not supposed to make this much sense at a quarter to sunrise. Be nice to the pathetic drunk girl in the inappropriate footwear, okay?”

“For an agent of conscience, I make a great devil’s advocate,” he quipped.

“...What?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. McCarthy wasn’t sure he understood what he was saying either. Actually, he was pretty sure he didn’t. He went back to concentrating on standing up for the pair of them - in her current state, Vertical Lena wasn’t particularly structurally sound.

“Hey. I’m gonna go work for Drum Media,” she said with a delighted, dishevelled grin.

“I know,” he said. “You’ve mentioned that too.”

“Well, be happy about it dammit! At least pretend you’ll miss me when you move back to Yeehaasville to report exclusively on fuckin’ cattle prices. I’ll miss you. Horribly. I swear.”

“Yeah, I’ll miss you too,” he said, trying not so sound as tired as he was. “But however things turn out, whether I’m here or up there, it’ll be great fun next year. This year. Whatever. What year’s this again?”

“Nice try,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. For a moment he thought she’d fall asleep, which wasn’t something he liked the idea of - partly due to the spectre of having to carry her all the way back to Circular Quay from here, but mostly because she’d miss the entire point of his dragging her up here on a drunken whim, on the steps leading up the south-eastern pylon of the Sydney Harbour Coathanger - to see sunrise over the harbour on the first day of the new year. Provided the cloud cover fucked off and gave the spectacle a chance of firing, of course. This seemed to be turning into a poorer idea with every passing minute. He shook her gently. “You still with me?”

“This pillow’s lumpy,” she muttered, screwing up her nose, then smiling. “Still here, O fearless expedition leader. I’m drunk and I’m freezing and nobody loves me... but I’m here.”

He groaned. “Well, I love you,” he said, voice laden with heavy irony, and enveloped her in his arms, right on cue. She giggled.

“Yeah, but you’re contractually obliged to say that,” she protested. “Still... thanks, Sam. And I’m not freezing to death quite so much now either.”

So he nestled behind Lena and wrapped his arms around her and held her firmly and rested his chin on her shoulder and thought about basically anything other than how much of a mess this was making of his insides and how badly he wanted to get that job at the Telegraph, even if it was a fucking Murdoch tabloid not worthy of being used as emergency bum fodder… if it meant he could stay here in Sydney with her. The sun could take its sweet-arsed fucking time over this one, as far as he was concerned. He was quite keen on holding on to this moment and squeezing everything he could out of it.

“Here we go,” he whispered, as the sun began to break through.

“Yeah,” she murmured in kind.

“We’re in luck,” he observed softly, “there’s just that little window in the clouds on the horizon for the sun to peek through.”

“...Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are we whispering?”

“I don't fucking know. So the usher doesn’t find us and turf us out for not paying to get in.”

“Oh.”

So, gradually, Sydney Harbour caught fire. The reflection of the virgin rays of dawn in the still waters of the great city’s harbour turned the surface to molten gold - as promised by McCarthy on first proposing the ludicrous venture of staggering all the way up here at four-fifty in the morning. He’d seen it once, in the same bleary state of wonderment from the window of an overnight-to-Sydney express bus rolling over the bridge at first light.

Lena, for once in her life, said nothing. Until the effect was complete, when she turned back to him with those big dark eyes of hers and simply conceded, “You were right... it was completely worth it.”

“Told you so, O ye of little faith. Stick with me kid, we’ll go places.”

Lena smiled. She turned to face him, her face illuminated in gold. “Sam... you know I’d follow you to the very ends of the Earth, if only to hear you look over the edge and go, ‘Jesus Christ, bit of a fucking drop-off here.’”

“That’s the worst ‘me’ accent I’ve ever heard - and I live with the guy who does the next worst.”

Lena nuzzled against his chest, hiding there. “Oh, that guy,” she sighed. “I know him. Actually, I think I’m in love with him.”

“You’re in love with Super Dave?” he asked. “Didn’t think chemical engineers were your type.”

A heavier sigh. “Thought I’d managed to slip that into general conversation cleverly enough… A bit too cleverly, apparently. Sam, I’m not joking, and I’m not being flippant.”

Her eyes, when she gathered enough spirit to link them with his, read exactly that - she wasn’t joking, she wasn’t being flippant. In fact, she was deadly, utterly serious, with the conviction of mind only possessed by the truly drunk.

Something deep inside Sam was rapidly knotting itself into a pretzel. Yup, there it is. As much of a this-can’t-end-well situation as they ever look like rolling off the factory floor. Fuck fuck fuck. This couldn’t be a good development. Trying not to be dismissive, or patronising, he tried to suggest they’d both had a ludicrous, stupefyingly large amount to drink, that it was (equally) ludicrously, stupefyingly late (or early), and so on and so forth... and knew full-well that he was sounding both dismissive and patronising and was patently lying through his fucking teeth the whole time. So he just mumbled off into nothingness and stared over her shoulder. The sunlight beginning to glint off the IBM towers hurt his retinas. Why the fuck was he saying no to this?

“Sam,” she interrupted, “I’m pretty sure I’m going to throw myself at you. I just thought I should warn you first.” She bit her bottom lip, and all of a sudden her face was streaked with tears; he stood there stupidly and wondered if she’d bitten too hard. Her gorgeous, golden face, backlit by the best efforts of Nature, was streaked with tears, and he just stood there stupidly with that fucking pretzel trying like hell to choke him to death. He stood there stupidly as she threw her arms around him and buried her face against his, kissing him more desperately than even she’d figured possible. And yet he still stood there stupidly. Hey, if you’ve got a natural talent for something, stick with it. Only once her moment of partial sanity had receded, could he find the nous to squeeze her sides limply with his hands. Pathetic, really. He’d been in love with this girl for how long? He couldn’t even remember when he’d known. Probably since he’d met her, not long after then surely. Call it four years? And here she was, desperate and vulnerable, almost pleading to be loved. Last minute of the world cup final, scores level, ten yards out, ‘keeper beaten... and about to dismally spoon the ball over the crossbar and into row ‘H’. Not at all unlike him to think of a pissant sporting metaphor for something as important as this, come to think of it...

Finally she broke away, ashamed, and not a little humiliated. She gently placed her hands on his chest, almost apologetic in her body language, and pushed herself away, like a weak swimmer might do to the wall of the pool, before turning and slumping disconsolately against the rough cement railing.

“So, after all this time, I finally make up my mind to throw myself at you...” For once, she sounded as tired and emotional as she actually was. “And, I’ll be damned, you ducked.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He didn’t have a clue why he said that. For one thing, he wasn’t sorry.

“Why be sorry?” she asked. “You’ve always been the good friend to me, Sam. Always with my best interests at heart, yeah? So why be sorry? I’m obviously just drunk and lonely and feeling sorry for myself, and this will all blow over in a few hours, whereupon you can go back to your comfortable existence where you’ve got me for affection and support and all that relationship shit, and you’ve got whatever other girl you’re fucking this month and not telling me about for physical gratification, 'cos you never share, you never tell me, you never let me in, and there’s no commitments, and no hassles, and everything’s just so fucking wonderful... And God forbid I go and fuck the whole thing up by falling in love with you.”

McCarthy was astounding himself more and more with his boundless ability to fuck up even the simplest of tasks. Standing around looking stupid was about the limit of his talents at the mo, it appeared. He ground his face into his hands and pushed his fingers against his closed eye sockets, in a vain attempt to resist the advance of the Pretzel From Hell that had reef-knotted his larynx.

Right. Fuck this. Here goes nothing.

He grabbed for her arm and spun her around sharply, with more force than he’d intended. She looked about to say something, but he touched his finger to her lips. “Shhh.” Those beautiful soft lips proved far too tempting, and he immediately gave into temptation, drawing her to him and into a searching embrace. To say they merely kissed would be a misrepresentation of the facts. He devoured her, and she returned fire in kind; where one kiss ended and another began was a matter for arbitration. What had definitely ended, McCarthy realised, was their friendship. What was to begin in its place, not even Christ knew. (Christ had enough on his plate as it was anyway, with having to deal with all those whinging bloody Christians.) McCarthy knew only this: he was pretzel-free for the first time in ages. Four years, at last count.

She took him home to her empty apartment - her flatmate Rebecca had gone back with some of the other drama queens to some drama queen New Years after-party in a warehouse Newtown, which they'd opted out of, leading to the Harbour Bridge mission - and led him to her bedroom. As tired as they were, they found energy and passion enough to make love to the point of exhaustion. Then they curled up together and slept until the afternoon sunlight crept in through Lena’s bedroom window.

You don’t really need to hear the rest. Not in any great detail. Hurts me to write about it and I wasn't even there (we won't go into what I was doing, but enough to say I was in a backpackers in Surfers having much of the same fun with much less of the same consequence.) Things had changed by the time Sam awoke late on New Year’s afternoon, January 1, 1998. Lena wasn’t next to him, wasn’t in the bedroom, wasn't even in the house. She'd run away. From her own house. Now that takes skill. Oh, she’d left a scrawled note, saying she’d made a terrible mistake, she’d taken advantage of him, rebound thing, she was weak and pathetic, hated herself, she was so very sorry, she meant him no harm, she hoped he would understand. Paraphrased: don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out. And a lipstick kiss, to say goodbye.

“Reckon I’ll get it framed,” McCarthy winced sourly when he finished relating the story to me, in the early hours of a Saturday morning on the deck at Chateau Dodgy after we'd kicked on at home post-Powerhouse. “First Dear John of my career, got to be worth preserving. Fair enough you reckon?”

I don’t know what McCarthy deserved for all those years of loyal service to Lena. It sure as fuck wasn’t that. Hollywood rom-coms be fucked: it never ends well for the boy BFF. Hadn’t for me, hadn’t for him.

Anyway, McCarthy eventually had the pleasure of being able to turn down Murdoch’s Telegraph job offer (fight the power!) in favour of the Northern Star position he’d lined up in the latter months of ’97, waved farewell to the friends he still had, and flipped-off the pretention and artifice of Sydney once and for all. With that, McCarthy packed up his troubles in his old kit bag (or the old Camira at least), and tried his hand at my old trick of facing all your problems, then facing in the opposite direction, and driving about five hundred miles away from them. (And AYE would drive five hundred miles, and AYE would drive five hundred more…)

Which brought Uncle Sam McCarthy to the driveway of Chateau Dodgy. And the start of something else which would inevitably need running away from, more than likely.