Diary of a Dosser: The Travel Misadventures of a Politically Incorrect Crusader

By Matt Quigley

Chauvinist. Larrikin. Conman. Alcoholic. A new Aussie hero is born.

It’s 2003 and the once great country of Australia is changing for the worst, giving rise to a new breed of male: the metrosexual. But Shane Sykes isn’t having a bar of it. Shane is a man’s man, a true crusader for old-school values. Willing to fight — but preferring to run — he heads to London, determined to escape the scourge of metrosexuality. Shane’s quest leads him on a series of alcohol-fuelled misadventures through Europe, where he soon discovers the whole world is changing.

Can Shane succeed in finding a new home and true mates, or will he fall victim to the same fate as his old mates back in Australia? …

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Quigley
• Release date: Oct 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781925786651

Book preview

METROMORPHOSIS

WAX ON, SACKS OFF

(Sydney, Australia)

I hadn’t seen the Boys — Macca, Dan and Steve — since doing my annual letterbox collection for Christmas cards that contained money. During the collection, I acquired a ‘ten dollar all you can eat’ fast food coupon from Dan’s letterbox. In keeping with the spirit of the festive season, I generously gave my brain-damaged older brother Leechboy the coupon and sent him to the brothel to use it.

A pimp subsequently showed Leechboy and his wheelchair the door, and seven flights of stairs. The incident sparked a media frenzy. Since a lucrative magazine interview, in which I blamed Dan for causing Leechboy’s mishap by indirectly supplying my brother with the coupon, I had been steering clear of the Boys.

However, when a strangely metrosexual-sounding Dan tracked me down to inform me that Macca was getting married, I finally admitted to Dan that Leechboy had brought the wrath of the pimp on himself. For I couldn’t bear to continue our feud and miss the biggest event of Macca’s life — his buck’s night.

Apparently Dan had massive difficulties finding me, and didn’t manage to pass on the news about the wedding and Macca’s buck’s night until a few hours before his buck’s night was due to commence. So I started making the appropriate arrangements immediately, lining up a lift with Dan, ending our conversation and hitting the local pub to score some essential party aids off the Oreo.

The Oreo was the self-appointed pub prophet-cum-preacher, like an oracle, except he sold biscuits — disco biscuits — and other drugs. A man who claimed to have extensive connections and reckoned he knew everything about everything, the Oreo only ever left his barstool to masquerade as a council worker. Sitting at his usual table in the corner of the pub, he was a more permanent fixture than the pokies.

What’s happenin’, hmm? You wanna score? Best shit man, wicked wicked, he said, jaw grinding. While dealing, the Oreo always fastidiously conducted quality checks on his products. This caused him to babble in tongues. His current blusterous demeanour indicated that the drug of the day was ice.

Gear for Macca’s buck’s for Macca’s buck’s, eh? Your mates are going through ‘the Change’. They don’t hang round the pub anymore, the Oreo said.

Yeah, Dan sounded a bit metrosexual. Must be due to his girlfriend. He said him and Steve have girlfriends now. Don’t worry, I’ll snap Dan out of his little metrosexual phase, bro.

Oh no no no no n-o. Saw Dan, saw ’em all. They can’t be cured. They’re beyond that. Your mates are fully infected. They’re going through ‘the Change’. Yes, hooking up with the wrong chick can lead to metrosexuality. But ‘the Change’ is an advanced derivative. A native, sexually transmitted disease. Very rarely found outside Australia. Rare, rare, rare, rarely. It started with the wombats. An evolutionary cycle.

Dismissing the Oreo’s far-fetched theory, I concluded that the Boys were in danger of becoming full-blown metrosexuals. I consequently came up with a plan to save them. My plan simply involved me making sure Macca began his marriage right — by cheating on his buck’s night.

Give us a satty of roeys. I’m in a rush, bro, I said, altering my shopping list to suit my plan. The Oreo instantly produced a satchel, which I seized. The drugs in the satchel magnified the effects of alcohol and would hopefully help Macca find a whore to root, and return Dan and Steve to their old selves.

When I got home, I drank several beers and waited for Dan. He took an eternity. Eventually turning up two hours late in an unfamiliar sunflower-yellow hatchback, Dan revealed the reason for his delay. Sorry I’m late, getting ready was a total nightmare. Firstly, trying to choose an outfit, not to mention Kylie hogging the bathroom. Dan bitchily glared at an unknown female sitting in the back seat of the vehicle, in front of a parcel tray of fluffy toys. Here, you drive, Shane.

Dan’s definition of ‘getting ready’ had certainly changed for the worse since the last time we had gone out and his definition of ‘getting ready’ was sculling a six-pack. Thinking Dan must have stupidly stopped drink-driving because he had crashed his own car — or something — I asked him where it was. Bro, where’s your Land Cruiser, at the smash repairer’s? I took the wheel of the sunflower-yellow hatchback.

Dan’s girlfriend drives his four-wheel drive these days for safety reasons. This is Dan’s new ride. I’m K-Kyle-lee, the female in the back seat replied, grappling with her own name, as if it were new to her.

Kylie. She’s Macca’s fiancée. Our whole group met at a swinger’s club — Flingers, Dan swiftly cut in, clarifying Kylie’s name while downplaying the fact that he, Macca and Steve had recently been sexually experimenting.

We aren’t married yet, Shane, Kylie said, exhibiting an insatiable appetite for swinging. Under my plan of making sure Macca began his marriage right, the Boys and I weren’t scheduled to root whores until later that night, so I ignored Kylie’s sexual advance and addressed the sacrilege of Dan’s Land Cruiser instead.

Bro, if you have to have a girlfriend she is supposed to put out in the back of your car, not drive the fucken thing!

And when are we ditching her? I asked, struggling to comprehend the degree of Dan’s decline, as I sought to remove the bad influence of Kylie.

The buck’s night’s chief organiser? She and the rest of the girls are coming, silly. We’re meeting the others at a karaoke restaurant for dinner and then we’re having a big sleepover in a hotel opposite the restaurant, Dan replied with an annoying casualness that not only suggested bringing girlfriends to a buck’s night was standard procedure but dinner at a karaoke restaurant and a sleepover in a hotel would make for an awesome time. Rejecting this absurd notion, I fight-stared Dan.

He blushed. Whoops. I didn’t tell you that you could invite a date, did I? he said, not only misinterpreting the source of my anger but also failing to acknowledge all the other sordid details he’d previously neglected to mention. I intensified my fight-stare, flaring the pupils of my eyes.

I’m sure Shane will pick up there, Kylie whispered, pouting her lips.

Dan cupped his hand around his mouth to prevent Kylie from hearing what he was about to say. Look, I feel dreadful. Don’t bother about buying Macca and Kylie a wedding gift, everybody’s already chipped in for one. Here, write your name on the card and give it back to me. No hurry.

Dan passed me a lavender envelope, adding to my primary wedding present of showing up to Macca’s buck’s night. I put it in my pocket and silently headed to the karaoke restaurant, even more determined to make sure Macca began his marriage right by cheating on his buck’s night.

When Dan, Kylie and I arrived at the restaurant, the unconventional buck’s party approached us. Dan and Steve’s girlfriends were the first to greet us, with kisses on the cheek. Macca and Steve followed. Wearing their shirts with the top buttons undone, they lunged at us in an identical manner to the chicks. Realising Macca and Steve were about to kiss us too, I beat them to the punch, hitting them in the arm. They whimpered away.

What’s wrong with you, you fucken skirts? I said, well aware of their problem — a nasty bout of metrosexuality. Aghast, Macca and Steve screwed up their faces in disgust, appearing to perceive my crack as a sexist insult.

Although totally inexcusable, Macca and Steve’s bizarre greeting did however bring to light one encouraging sign: when they had lunged at us, I smelt the unmistakable scent of women’s perfume on Macca. It had obviously rubbed off Kylie while he was rooting her.

Because Macca’s sex drive strangely seemed normal despite the fact that he and the rest of the Boys were currently going through a chronic metrosexual phase, conditions were perfect for me to execute my plan. Now it was only a matter of getting the Boys retarded before Macca cheated on Kylie, and Dan and Steve rediscovered their masculinity.

Biding my time over a corny candlelit dinner, I drank beer, while the Boys sipped red wine.

I can’t kick onto the Breezers later: moderation. Alcohol equals bad skin, said Macca as, incidentally, Kylie was touching my dick under the table with her feet.

Itching to somehow slip Macca, Dan and Steve the roeys I had scored off the Oreo, I ignored Macca’s comments and Kylie’s antics, until a slutty teen waitress served the Boys chicken Caesar salad, cucumber soup and a side serving of guilt that provided a perfect opportunity to give them the drugs.

Goodness. This protein-packed salad better not go to my thighs. I don’t want to look like a big fat heifer on my wedding day, said Macca, crazily complaining about the amount of chicken in his salad.

Bro, dump a digestive supplement. These pills increase the body’s ability to process red and white, I said, taking my cue and handing out the roeys. Thinking that by ‘red’ and ‘white’, I meant meat, as opposed to wine, the Boys daintily swallowed the narcotics.

But then instead of hitting on a chick, Macca hit the karaoke mic along with Dan and Steve. A shameless drunken performance ensued. Murdering some already shocking boy band ballad, the Boys sang in falsetto, highlighting just how hard their girlfriends had them by the balls. Acting more like the bride than the groom, Macca started blubbering at the conclusion of the song.

I’d like to dedicate that number to a special person responsible for starting a transformation in us all, sobbed an emotional Macca to Kylie, evoking tears of gratitude from Dan and Steve too.

Fearing the Boys must be approaching the irreversible stage of metrosexuality, I realised that Macca desperately needed further assistance with his buck’s night cheating duties. I subsequently dodged Kylie’s relentless fondling feet and got up and called over the Slutty Teen Waitress, who was the closest thing available to a whore. Obviously impressed with Macca’s singing, and a cash incentive that I had given her, she propositioned him.

So … you’re into music? Me too. My favourite artist is Britney Spears, she said, bobbing her head animatedly.

Oh, I love Britney. Huge fan. Huge, said Macca, understandably showing a hard spot for Britney. His enthusiasm for musical acts normally only surfaced at festivals when he pegged his undies on stage after shitting himself.

Tell me about it. Talent. Britney’s been miming forever and she still hasn’t lost it. I guess you never lose what she’s got … So … Wanna go and listen to her latest CD? In my bedroom? Together? Naked? The Slutty Teen Waitress giggled, leaning forwards to expose precisely the type of talent Britney would never lose.

"No thanks. Music-wise I’m more of a Robbie Williams fan. But I love Britney’s spritz. Smell," Macca said, holding out his wrist.

Macca’s statement rocked me — Kylie’s perfume hadn’t rubbed off on him at all. He’d sprayed it on himself. Painfully, I accepted that metrosexuality had taken a complete stranglehold on him and the rest of the Boys. Logic suggested that if Macca wasn’t going to cheat on Kylie, persuading Kylie to cheat on Macca was the next best thing. After all, at least one of them had to begin their marriage right.

Paving the way for Kylie to have an affair, I smiled at her. She mouthed the word ‘wax’, stroking a candle on our table.

Wax, I responded, embracing the prospect of getting some kinky action with her. Kylie nodded towards the hotel where we were going to be staying the night and whispered to Macca what I presumed was some sort of excuse, before leaving the restaurant. I momentarily chilled. Meanwhile, Macca and his metrosexual mates went on a group excursion to the shitter, granting me a smooth exit.

At the hotel, the receptionist directed me to Kylie’s room and things took a positive turn. Inside her room, leaning against the walls of the unlit hallway, were three individuals in lingerie. Although the Former Boys had seemingly stopped their sexual experimenting, Kylie and anonymous co. clearly continued to swing full throttle.

Come to the bathroom for a good waxing! Kylie said.

Anticipating the sizzling sound of Kylie dripping hot candle wax on her boobs and the role her three lingerie-clad friends might play in our affair, I hastily entered the bathroom.

Bewilderingly, it was pitch black, devoid of even candle light. The door slammed shut and the light switch clicked. I spun around to find Kylie’s three lingerie-clad friends — Macca, Dan and Steve — encircling me. The Former Boys’ sheer lingerie revealed that they all had female pube-dos in the form of sleek mohawks. Their mohawks ran right down to the top of their … manginas?!

It was the evolutionary disease the Oreo had spoken of — the advanced derivative of metrosexuality: ‘the Change’. With power-hungry chicks pushing for equal rights in society and attempting to invade male territory, the superior sex had evidently undertaken a belated but more rapid evolution, morphing into females. Being a morph also explained why Kylie was constantly horny — despite going through ‘the Change’, she still had the sex drive of a male. Interrupting this disturbing realisation, Kylie leapt from behind the shower curtain holding a sheet of hair removal wax, while the Former Boys wrestled with my tracksuit pants. Repelling their attack with a beer burp, containing a lethal fart smell, I fled.

Once outside on the street, I reefed my trackies back up. As I did so, I felt Macca and Kylie’s wedding card in the pocket of them. Cautiously opening the lavender envelope, I found a matching lavender card and two plane tickets to London for the couple’s honeymoon. Upon seeing the tickets, I was struck by another realisation: marriage doesn’t officially start until the actual wedding ceremony ends. Accordingly, cheating on the buck’s night couldn’t truly be considered beginning a marriage right. A proper honeymoon was the real marital launching pad.

Since neither Macca nor any of the other members of the Former Boys had any hope of nailing it, there was only one man left for the job — me.

Having just witnessed the demise of the Boys, and seeing their old haunt, Flingers, now as a likely breeding ground for a morph epidemic in Sydney, I prepared to seek safer shores that promised a new home, new mates and, hopefully, sanctuary from morphs and metrosexuals too.

FEDERAL RODEO

​(Canberra, Australia)

Because the Former Boys hadn’t yet publicly come out of the closet wearing dresses, I knew they would willingly sacrifice Macca’s wedding present so their shocking secret would disappear along with me. Before I set off overseas though, I needed to get some sort of visa or something for England, and quickly, so I could stay there. So I decided to go directly to the British High Commission in Canberra.

Unfortunately, the city is famous for two things of opposing credibility: hosting Australia’s national parliament and virtually holding the exclusive legal rights to manufacture pornography in Australia. Keen to avoid Canberra’s sleazy political scene and get acquainted with the good side of the city, I called a long-time associate of mine who lived in Canberra: Myron.

Myron and I had first bumped into each other at my local police station, where he was progressing through the beat cop ranks, indiscriminately bashing people. As I visited the building on a frequent basis, we swiftly developed a rapport and we would often hang out and discuss my minor misdemeanours over beers. But usually Myron just preferred it when I gave him money to buy his own beer later. Efficient evidence-handling involving Myron misplacing a sex tape of a high-profile businessman for a sizable bribe saw him promoted by the Police Commissioner to Canberra’s top-secret, unlisted Pornography Extortion Department.

Being a massive fan of porn, most notably Slushy Sandra’s delectable work, I asked Myron if he could use his connections to organise for me to check out some live action. Uncharacteristically, Myron obliged incentive-free, arranging for me to visit a movie shoot. He also indulged my well-known fetish for female law enforcement workers, insisting on providing me with a female police officer as a tour guide.

Unsure of the British High Commission’s trading hours and not wanting to waste my mobile credit calling it, I allowed Leechboy to borrow his car off me, which he had long ago forced me to confiscate, (and a golf club to operate the pedals) and drive down to Canberra to find out. Of course, there was a catch — he had to fill the currently empty petrol tank as soon as he got home. Once Leechboy had collected and passed on the necessary information, I completed the four-hour drive to Canberra and got the visa I required.

I then headed to Myron’s house. When I arrived there, his housemate, an apparent zoo escapee, answered the door.

Myron-wyron’s coming. He’s just getting cleaned up, the gorgeous devil. I’m El Toro, well, actually, Tina. El Toro’s my nickname. You see, my footy coach — the fucken scrotum wart — reckons I look like a bull, Myron’s repulsive housemate said in a gruff voice, evidently feeling a need to explain the reason behind her nickname, despite the fact that her physical traits already did this — a gold septum ring covered in dried snot, jagged five-centimetre dreadlocks that faded into bumfluff sideburns, a wild lazy eye and gigantic shoulders. A few seconds later, an equally repulsive figure stole Tina’s freak-show spotlight.

Let’s roll, Shane. We’re meeting some of the shit-kickers in my department at my private office. Afterwards, the Special Officer I’ve assigned to be your tour guide will show you round the set of a skin flick that’s being shot out the back of a local sex shop. Myron cackled.

Diligently continuing the cleaning process Tina had just spoken of, he proceeded to lick his hands, which were coated in strawberry icing, and wipe doughnut sprinkles off his face. Myron’s sticky fingers had always extended beyond merely accepting bribes, to feed a common police doughnut habit.

Goodbye, Myron-wyron. Tina hoofed at her crotch, scratching her balls.

Get lost. You’re fat and you smell. Myron cackled. Have a bath … bitch, he said, typically fancying himself as a comedian in front of others.

Is it — she — your girlfriend, bro? I asked as we departed, knowing full well Tina was way too good for Myron.

Urgh, no, urgh. You can’t blame the girl for chasing me though. She’s tried every move on me from sending me flowers and love notes to wanking my toes and fingering my belly button, he said, doing his best to conceal his pride.

Myron’s private office turned out to be the bakery section of a service station in Fyshwick. Canberra’s entire police force seemed to be there. Coveting his usual doughnut of choice — strawberry icing with sprinkles — Myron began to satisfy his gluttonous cravings. He repeatedly licked the doughnut’s strawberry icing with his salivating tongue, then he gnawed at the sprinkles with his buck teeth. Finally, Myron stuffed most of the doughnut into his mouth, causing a flood of orgasmic drool to run down his chin. Throughout the entire sickening episode, he talked dirty to the doughnut. Ooooh yes, yeah. Get wet over Sergeant Myron. It’s all about the icing. Now give me those sprinkles you naughty, naughty doughnut, he said, letting out groans of pleasure and satisfaction.

Can I’ve a bite, bro? I joked.

No. They’re about to start filming on the skin flick. Eat the on-set catering. Myron cackled. Go to the shops across the road and tell the moron working behind the counter of the sex shop that you’re interested in going out the back. The Special Officer I’ve assigned to give you a guided tour of the set is there. We’ll wait here, Myron said, showing no intention of cutting short his doughnut romp to come with me. He proceeded to cackle profusely.

I followed his instructions and easily located the sex shop. Upon entering the back room of the shop to look for my female tour guide, I was confronted by an unnerving scene. In the hallway of the porn set, several guys were sitting at computers, staring at their monitors. Adeptly manoeuvring the mouses of these computers, they clicked on internet images — of nude men. Realising that most pornos require a dick, I figured these fellas were probably casting agents and ventured forth.

The porn set curiously branched into a dark warren of narrow halls and small rooms, on tiny split-levels. Purple fluorescent ceiling lights coloured the ceiling, the black walls and the floor of the set a dull shade of violet. I couldn’t see a camera crew or porn star anywhere. Enormous paintings of erect white dicks on the walls, minus accompanying pussies, suddenly dominated the scenery.

Clearly, the on-set caterers here only served date slice and poo pie. Myron had punk’d me. I was trapped in a cruise lounge and the head caterer was calling me.

"Hello sweetheart, I’m Officer Pain. I need to conduct a cavity search," he said over my shoulder in a husky voice.

In fright, I whipped my head around to find a strategically positioned two-metre tall homo sporting a handlebar moustache and wearing an eighties police uniform, complete with black leather biker cap and mirrored aviator sunnies. This was obviously Myron’s ring-in tour guide. Handcuffs at the ready, the phoney officer was clutching a menacingly-placed weapon in anticipation of probing me.

Eluding him, I legged it down one of the many hallways in the cruise lounge. The Phoney Officer chased me. Flustered, I couldn’t find the exit. The establishment was a maze. I sprinted up a random series of stairs and reached a room. Back-door action was rife in there, but not the kind I was desperately seeking. Homos were propping other homos up on sinks to stabilise their partners for arse-rooting.

Ominously approaching, the Phoney Officer trapped me against one of these porcelain death beds.

Bend over, pavlova. He raised his handcuffs and sneered at me.

Fuck no! I’m straight, bro.

Don’t let that stop you, sweetheart, I’m engaged. Look. The Phoney Officer held up his ring finger as supporting evidence. There was a ring on it alright: a chocolate one, with a carrot flake ‘diamond’ in the centre. I grabbed the Phoney Officer’s wrist and locked one of the clasps of his handcuffs shut on him and secured the other one to the sink-pipe.

Heart pounding, I swiftly exited the cruise lounge and went back to the service station, where Myron was ravishing three more doughnuts with strawberry icing and sprinkles.

Bro, you’ve got lame taste in movies — I skipped the end, I said angrily.

"Don’t