Dear Mum,

Last week Annik walked past a person who may or may not have been lying dead in a park. She didn’t stop to help, but she thought about it, which was nice. She’s a writer so she wrote about it.  It was an interesting moral dilemma.

I have a confession mum. I bought some roma tomatoes from Coles the other day (four to be precise) and I was using the self-help checkout counter. Roma tomatoes were $4.99 a kilo. On the checkout screen they have a list of favourite items you can pick from and tomatoes were on the list. Not roma tomatoes – the normal ones. They were $2.49 a kilo. Half the price.

I was about to scroll through the A-Z list of fresh produce items to find roma tomatoes, but I didn’t know if they’d be under ‘T’ for ‘Tomatoes: Roma‘ or ‘R’ for ‘Roma Tomatoes‘. I suspected it would have been ‘T’ but I wasn’t sure.

I knew if I scrolled through it would have taken me an extra 10-15 seconds and I was in a hurry to get home. It was at that point a little voice inside my head, let’s call him Satan, said:

“Hey Matt, just pretend they’re normal tomatoes and you’ll save money and time. No one will ever know.”

So I did.

But then I felt really guilty. I was considering explaining my ‘mistake’ to someone in charge, but I decided they’d think I was an idiot. I got in the car and felt really guilty about it, such were the values you impressed upon me mum. I drove home and made a mental note to make atonement.

Next time I was at Coles you know what I did mum? I bought five normal tomatoes and put them through as roma tomatoes. Proud much?

So, although I technically shoplifted the difference between roma tomatoes and normal tomatoes, I paid it back with one tomato interest, which is, like, way more than they would have got if they’d just had the money in the bank. I think that technically anulls my shoplifting record back to zero shoplifting incidents. Apart from the time I wagged school with Luke and stole a steak knife from the op-shop so we could go fishing. But that was his idea. I was just an accomplice. We’ll talk about me wagging school some other time. Sorry about that.

Matt

Dear Dad,

Imagine if there was a civil war in Australia. Not like the State of Origin dad, a proper civil war. With guns. Imagine if the indigenous population teamed up with all the other non-white recent immigrants in an attempt to remove white Australians from power in a game of black people vs. white people. A bit like chess I guess, but without castles.

Imagine if Team Black’s goal was to remove any influence Christians had over Australia and its culture. I’m not just talking about banning Christmas either, I’m talking about a war with the sole goal of removing all white Australians from positions of power and erasing as much of white Christian history as possible.

Now, imagine if Team Black didn’t just cause a bit of a ruckus in the suburbs where there’s a big majority of black people, imagine if they actually won the war and were now starting to make life hard for white Australians. They start murdering all white politicians and removing any influential white people from other positions power immediately. You can’t be a mayor if you’re white, you can’t be a manager at a company, you can’t even be a school teacher. They imprison anyone who dares speak out against the new regime and they kill anyone who tries to resist. They ban the bible, they ban white TV presenters. They take away all our passports and they ban us from traveling outside the country.

Worse still, for you, they are hunting down anyone who has ever been a member of a church and they’re putting them into forced labour camps. Even praying is now a crime. Remember the time in 1995 when we went to Pizza Hut with the church group and all the grown-ups sang grace at the table. Not softly, but loud enough for Jesus to hear? There were kids working there who knew me and I had to go to school the next day with them. They thought I was in a cult. I got beaten up. I wanted to stone you all to death with frozen cheese at the time, but if they got caught doing that now under the new regime, I could stone you all to death with frozen cheese. In fact, I’d be given a medal for it.

Not only is being Christian now a crime under this new regime, but anyone who was ever a vocal supporter of white Christian culture has to try and leave the country or they will almost certainly be killed. They even do background checks on people’s parents to find the children of preachers. Your parents were missionaries Dad, and you have been going to church since you were born. You even say grace at McDonalds. You’re screwed.

In fact, not only are you screwed, there’s a price on your head. They want you dead because as a business owner, they fear you’ll try to lead a Toowoomba-based uprising against the new regime. You can’t just turn up at an airport and hop on a plane because they took your passport and if you do get caught trying to leave, you will be taken away and forced to dig your own grave and mum will be tortured. And you have a beard, which they’ll find scary.

Imagine you kiss mum goodbye and go into hiding in the bush with a few other Christians you know and you all pray for a solution. For a while nothing happens and you start to lose hope, but one day, out of the blue, word reaches you that there’s a small boat leaving from Broome and it’s heading to China. It’s operated by a people-smuggling operation. You’ve heard the Chinese don’t like the new Australian regime very much and have offered asylum to white Australians in the past. The boat sounds dodgy, but you know if you stay in Australia you will certainly be killed and mum will be tortured, so you decide to take the risk. You can’t speak Chinese, but you know enough about China to know that it sounds better than death and torture in Australia. You’ve heard there’s a large community of white Australians living there and you decide to go for it, mum can follow as soon as you get to China and are granted refugee status. You get to Broome by bribing state border guards with every scrap of cash you can raise and meet up with 100 other white asylum-seekers and get on a tiny boat.

You’ve heard some rumours and seen patchy news broadcasts about other boats carrying asylum seekers which have been smashed up on rocks in bad weather, and while it all sounds a bit scary, you figure it’s not likely to happen to you and you can’t afford to waste any time because the longer you wait, the more chance you have of being killed.

You make the voyage and arrive in Chinese territorial waters three weeks later. Instead of setting off some fireworks and giving everyone prawn crackers, they tell you to go away because they’re full and threaten to sink your boat and lock you up on a remote rat-infested island in the scorching sun and throw away the key. Stories of your arrival run on the Chinese version of Today Tonight and the public decides there’s no way in hell a boat full of outlaws from Australia should be let into the country. Every other nation in sailing distance says they will sink your boat if you enter their waters because they can’t take on any more refugees.

The Chinese navy tows your boat back to Australian waters and your are met by an Australian naval vessel manned by the new regime. As soon as the Chinese vessel is out of sight, they take you all prisoner, ferry you away to a secret military base near Darwin, torture half of you to death and send the other half to a forced labour camp where you build railroads in the desert for the next 20 years.

Oh, and they make you cut off your beard.

That’s what we’re dealing with here dad. It’s what happened in Nazi Germany in the 1930s. It’s what happened in China in the 1950s. It happened in Cambodia in the 1970s, Rwanda in the 1980s and Yugoslavia in the 1990s. The same thing is happening right now in Sri Lanka, Afghanistan, Iran and Sudan.

You like Chinese food dad. You’ve probably never had Cambodian food, but you’d like that too. I know you like chicken soup. Everyone likes chicken soup. OK, vegetarians don’t like chicken soup, but the Jews invented lots of tasty non-meat things too. Like bagels. The point is, when Australia throws open its doors to boat people we get cool things, like chicken soup, and kebabs, and rice-paper rolls, and culture. I know right now you’re thinking “gee, it’s really really sad that some boat people died, but what we need to do right now is get really really tough on border protection and turn back all the boats and not let anyone in to the country and that will solve the problem.”

It won’t solve the problem Dad. If we get all huffy and cranky and turn back all the boats they’ll probably stop for a while, just like they did when John Howard pretended they were throwing children overboard and everyone got cranky then. But the only thing that will change is that, at best, they’ll become someone else’s problem, or at worst, the people who were trying to come here on boats will be sent back home and tortured to death for trying to leave in the first place.

There are around 798 genuine refugees waiting to come to Australia from the Indonesian port Puncak right now and at least another 1,769 whose refugee status is pending. Do you want to know the best way to stop people smugglers Dad? Put them out of a job. Australia is a massive place. Like you, I’ve seen rather a lot of it. We’re not full. Western Sydney is full. Toorak is full. Everywhere else is far from full. In fact, everywhere else is empty. We don’t need to turn away the boats Dad. We need to send them back for more.

Matt

From: Chris Leese [mailto:ChrisL@marcusevansuk.com]
Sent: Thursday, 2 December 2010 7:36 PM
To: matt@dialogix.c*m.au
Subject: Contact from marcus evans.

Dear Mr. Granfield,

I have received your details from a colleague in Sydney.

I understand that you have received a number of calls from various Marcus Evans representatives over recent months and would prefer a more channeled approach.

I would like to identify and agree to a more suited way of keeping you informed about our events. As we do offer several product lines specific to our Conference model, I can assign a single seasoned manager to update you regarding all relevant events moving forward. This arrangement works extremely well for those who have account managers already.

Please advise.

With Regards
Chris Leese.
—————————————————————–
Christopher Leese
Director, Client Relationship Management
marcus evans
11 Connaught Place
London
W2 2ET
Direct: +44 (0)20 3002 3090
Tel: +44 (0) 20 3002 3002
Fax: +44 (0) 20 3002 3136
email: chrisl@marcusevansuk.com
www.marcusevans.com
www.thgworldwide.com

From: Matt Granfield [mailto:matt@dialogix.c*m.au]
Sent: Thursday, 2 December 2010 10:38 PM
To: ‘Chris Leese’
Subject: RE: Contact from marcus evans.

Hi Chris,

To be honest, I’m a tad surprised that after telling two phone representatives in the space of two hours this morning that I don’t want to be contacted by Marcus Evans ever again, I now receive an email from you suggesting I might prefer a more “channelled approach”.

I don’t want to be contacted via a more “channelled approach” Chris. I don’t even know what that means. Does it involve a trip to Calais? I don’t like Calais. Paris, yes. Calais; no.

Chris, I’d like to be very clear about this. Even if I was drowning in the English Channel and Marcus Evans himself, if there is such a man, was a trained lifeguard and happened to be passing by in a lifeboat, a lifeboat with a jacuzzi, and some hot towels, and cold beer, and a fluffy new Hilton bathrobe, and lifeguard babes on board, I would rather drown than get on the boat.

You know what would have been nice Chris? If someone had emailed me a year or so ago, or whenever it was that you first started calling me, and said “hey Matt, we put on conferences and stuff and were wondering if you’d be interested in this one we’ve got coming up, you’ve got to give us money to advertise and be there and stuff, but gosh, it’ll be just dandy, I can send you more details if you like.”

That would have been lovely. I would have replied sooner or later, probably later because I’m busy, and said “sure Marcus Evans dude/ette, that sounds OK, I’ll take a look when I get a moment, I’m generally really busy so thanks for not hassling me too much about it”.

You know what would have been really gob-smackingly terrifically annoying Chris? If representatives of Marcus Evans called my personal mobile phone randomly every month or so outside business hours from private numbers and offered me information about conferences I’ve already told them I’m not interested in.

The only thing more annoying than that would be me telling a representative that I never wanted to hear from them again and then hearing from a different representative again two hours later. The only thing more annoying than that would be receiving an email later that day from the Director of Client ‘Relationship’ Management telling me that I’d somewhere along the line insinuated that I’d prefer “a more channelled approach”.

Have you ever had a ‘relationship’ Chris? Not a client one, an actual personal one with a real person. I have. They’re lovely. Relationships are things involving hugs, and cuddles, and love, and sometimes even sex if you’re lucky, and phone calls which end in: “OK, well it was great to talk to you, let’s talk again soon.”

The last four times I’ve spoken to Marcus Evans representatives, Chris, the conversations have ended with: “Please stop calling me. Take me off your list and don’t ever contact me again, ever. No really. Please, don’t ever call me again.”

You know who I feel like Chris?

You know who you remind me of Chris?

Please understand Chris, I’m not insinuating that you, or Marcus Evans as an organisation, like Ike Turner have any musical talent whatsoever. I want to be very clear about this, Chris, I am insinuating that like Ike Turner, you, and Marcus Evans as an organisation, are, metaphorically speaking, wife-beating douchebags.

Chris, either you are so completely retarded you honestly thought that after I’d told two of your colleagues in the space of two hours to never call me again I would actually be pleased to get an email from you, and in which case, I feel sorry for you and I forgive you – or, and I suspect the latter is the case, you weren’t talented or focussed enough to get a proper job are so desperate for money you work for an organisation which views customers the same way a fat Mexican kid views a piñata. In which case, you are a complete retard and I have so little respect for you I still feel sorry for you.

Chris, go away. Do something with your life. Stop annoying me. Don’t email me again unless it’s to tell me you’ve quit your job at Marcus Evans to work for UNICEF, that you now volunteer at a local homeless shelter on weekends and that last night you saved a cat from a tree.

Have an absolutely fantastic Christmas and a super New Year. I hear it’s snowing over there in Londontown, it must be truly magical.

Matt

Dear Lulu,

I can’t be honest about how perfectly amazing Splendour was because you’ll cry. It was better than everything else in the entire world. I put some more pics up if you want to take a peek. Sarah had better band photos, my camera didn’t like the lights, but it does make everything look cool.

Highlights: I had a backstage pass so I could watch bands backstage. I mostly didn’t because they sound better when you’re in front of the speakers and the vibe in the crowd was just so darn lovely. Everyone was just loving it and not trying to push people out of the way or throw inanimate objects. Someone did throw a giant inflatable giraffe at Ted Mumford though. In a good way. You can kind of see it here: http://www.facebook.com/mattgranfield#!/photo.php?pid=5218360&id=621121839

That was most excellent. No one was wearing flouro. That was also good. As previously discussed, I watched The Pixies from the side of the stage. Sarah was my wing-man for the day and she frowned somewhat when I explained to her that I would be leaving her alone in the moshpit to go side-stage, but I think she dealt with it well. I came back and she told me that she had some nice alone time but that she was glad I was back.

These bands were amazing for the following reasons:

Mumford and Sons. They played so well. There was new material. They were tight. The crowd was so into it. They were just killing it. Their sound was amazing. I don’t know what he’s doing with Laura Marling. I like Laura Marling, but Ted could do better. She’s boring. I told many people this. I feel a bit bad about it now. I think I dwindled her crowd-size by 20. I met a couple in the bar near where Laura Marling played and the girl said she was good and the boy said she was boring.

The Strokes. Had to follow Flo and the Mo. That wasn’t easy because she is awesome and has wings and was amaze, but they are The Strokes. They could follow Jesus’s first and/or second coming. I pushed my way to the front and was able to collect some Casablancas sweat for you. It’s in a vial and appears to glow in the dark and also have special powers.

Alberta Cross. Small crowd = up front = loud = just shining musical brilliance. Ditto Earnest Ellis, he mentioned something about marrying you if you were there, but I said you weren’t and that you had to go to away and he seemed to understand. I think he married someone else instead. He was quite popular.

Fat Freddy’s Drop. I thought they just played dub but they made some great housey stuff as well. The trombone player stripped. It was very good in an entertaining way. Apparently he does that all the time, but I’m going to pretend it was a special one-off for us.

Passion Pit. I didn’t realise that was how he actually sang. I thought it was pretend. It was shimmery and lovely and loud. Between them and Mumford I think it may have been the best two musical hours of my life.

Richard Ashcroft apparetly had a hissy fit and walked off stage mid-song because not enough people were watching him and he was on at the same time as The Pixies and Empire of the Sun. I really liked Richard Ashcroft but I was one of the people who weren’t watching him because I was at The Pixies, so I’m disappointed I missed the hissy fit, but also glad I didn’t see him being a wanker because now I can pretend that he’s not a wanker.

Luke Steel was also a wanker. He had a big golden hat on and appeared to have come straight from an ancient Mayan firefighters dance party. They played the song I like first, which was awesome, because then I could watch The Pixies. Sarah also liked this.

The Pixies were slightly underwhelming because they are old, but still cool. Did I mention I watched them from the side of the stage.

Two Door Cinema Club were cool. Not too cool for school. Just cool. I liked them.

There were some really bad buckwheat crepes. I had a nutella and banana one and had to throw it out.

There was a giant silver sculpture which I tried to climb but there was a man inside it working on some mechanical things. He looked surprised to see me. It’s hard to explain.

Warmest regards,
Me

I’ve travelled a lot. Asia is one of my favourite places in the world, and even though I’m scared of volcanos, and don’t eat rice anymore, I was really looking forward to going back. Unfortunately, thanks to your inept call centres, I’ve spent more time this morning bouncing around between The Philippines and Australia than General Douglas Macarthur did in the entire Second World War. And unlike the Supreme Commander of Allied Forces in the Pacific, I’m vowing never to return.

Things started to go wrong a week ago when I tweeted for help.

@Telstra My Mobile Broadband account shows 6.1Gig usage over the last 4 months but the bill is waaaay higher. Something is wrong Help!

…was my cry. To be honest I wasn’t really expecting a response, but your Twitter profile does clearly say you were there to “provide Telstra customer support” during business hours so I figured what the hell.

I would have had more luck offering @aplusk a million dollars for a night with his wife.

A week later, and with no response, I decided to use the telephone. You are a telephone company after all. I figured if I talked to you on your terms, on your turf, in your natural habitat, you’d be more likely to be more helpful. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Granted, you’ve got a lot of departments but I figured phoning the number on my bill which was listed under both ‘Billing or service enquiries’ and ‘Fault reporting 24 hours’ would have been the right place to get help with my billing enquiry which related to a fault with your system. The first person I spoke to was a robot; she was about the most intelligent person I spoke to during the course of the conversation, and at least she understood what I was saying. The second person was a human, I forget his name but I suspect that within your employee rewards system he has won accolades for being the quickest palmer-offerer in the history of palm-offing. Jesus wasn’t this quick on Palm Sunday, and he had a donkey to do the leg work.

And that’s when my customer service experience really started to turn ugly. Actually, ugly is the wrong word. Ugly Betty is ugly, but she’s hot-ugly. I’d do her and I suspect that, should he find himself in the bathtub of the Cronulla Rydges Hotel one drunken evening with Ugly Betty and a few consenting adults, the first male Telstra worker I spoke to would do her too. Ugly is a term of endearment really. My customer service experience was distorted and inaudible. The second the line was transferred to the overseas faults department it became so fuzzy I swear Angus Young started using it for a lead guitar solo. Or maybe it was thunderstruck – there has been a lot of rain in Brisbane lately.

Unfortunately, the quality of the line wasn’t the worst part of the call. Just like an after hours employee sex-romp, my Telstra experience also ended up involving rather a lot of people. Six to be precise; not counting the robot. After the first chap put me through to the faults department, they put me through to Bigpond; Bigpond put me through to online support, online support put me back through to Bigpond and then Bigpond said it wasn’t their department and said I’d have to call the Billing and service enquiries number found on my bill. By this stage I was artfully dodging ear-splitting reception crackles which were being fired like bowling balls into my cochlea, but I managed to convince the Bigpond employee in downtown Manilla that this was in fact the number I had originally dialled. They apologised and put me through to a voice which sounded vaguely Australian.

And when I say ‘vaguely Australian’, I mean the voice did sound like it was coming from an Australian call centre, but that it was so vague and distant I might as well have been talking to the ghost of General Douglas Macarthur. I asked if he might possibly call me back, handed over my mobile phone number and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Eons came and went. The Presidency of the United States changed hands a number of times and peace was declared in the Middle East, but no call came.

Dear Telstra, I’d send you another tweet for help, but according to your software I’ve now used 6.98GB of data transfers and I’m scared that another 140 characters will push me over the edge and I don’t want another $357 bill on my $89 plan. Do me a favour please, call me on my mobile phone number and sort this out. I know you have it. It is with Optus though, and I do live almost 2km from the Brisbane CBD, so I probably won’t have any reception.

Love always,
Matt

Dear Rice,

You’re cheaper than pasta, tastier than bread and when you find yourself in the company of a little avocado salsa and some beans, you go even better with sour cream than a baked potato. Until yesterday I thought you were infallible. You were the food equivalent of the friend who is always there at the end of the night to wait in line for a taxi while everyone else passed out on a footpath. You knew the quickest way home, you knew where the spare key was, you knew who I wasn’t allowed to drunken text at 3am and you never tagged me on Facebook unless I was looking particularly hot.

The humblest of all carbohydrates, no matter what the cuisine you were always content to lie there on the plate and let everyone else have the glory. Your starchy whiteness made you the star. You were the bed that brought coconut milk and chilli together, but like an exclusive Hollywood madam you kept silent, letting dashing ingredients have their way above you without so much as a snap, crackle or pop.

No matter what mood I was in, no matter what was in the fridge, you could be relied upon. If you saw me come home with limes we’d drink a bottle of wine together and make risotto. There was nothing you loved more than seaweed, raw fish and wasabi; a flavour combination no other staple could stomach. If ever you sensed I was losing interest in the relationship you’d stretch yourself into kinky noodles and spice things up with a little laksa. On special occasions you’d put on that see-through Vietnamese number, invite some prawns over and let me dip you in sweet chilli sauce. My God, but those were the days. I thought you were the Queen of all carbohydrates. But you let me down. Big time.

The fact that you got along with just about everyone should have been warning enough. You’d partied your way through every continent on the planet, and like a horny Scandanavian backpacker, I should have realised you’d bring more than a bikini and a pair of cargo pants along for the ride. When I came home late one night and you didn’t mention Bacillus cereus had shacked up in my pantry with you, things were never going to be the same. I know I’d been away for a couple of weeks and you had nothing on your shelf for company other than broken cannelloni tubes and Home Brand iodised table salt, but getting intimate with some beta haemolytic bacteria was a low blow.

Despite drinking dank diuretics in Vietnam and feasting on foul fish tacos in the backblocks of Baja, I’d never had serious food poisoning before. In fact, in 29 years on the planet I’d never even been seriously sick by myself. In my darkest, illest hours, there had always been a mum, or a girlfriend, or at least a concerned band member somewhere nearby to pat my head and tell me it was going to be OK. Kicking me in the guts when I was alone the other night was just plain cruel. Sure, I got to learn a bit about myself as the dizzying fever took hold, in fact I even fancied that like Alfred Russel Wallace the hallucinations might lead my mind to spring forth some dazzling new, undiscovered scientific theory, leaving me with a footnote in history. I spewed forth some dazzling and previously undiscovered matter, that’s for certain. But all I was left with was dysentery and a feeling like I was hiding a missing piece of Evander Hollyfield’s ear in my stomach and he was trying to punch it out of me. It still hurts to laugh. Not that I feel amused.

I’ve got other options you know. You never liked cous cous, but we spent some time together recently in Perth and I think there might be something there. Unlike you, cous cous is all fluffy and warm, almost cuddly, and it doesn’t take forever to get ready. I’ve always liked that about cous cous. Pasta is a blast too. And pasta goes really well with garlic and red wine. I always hated it how you and red wine never got along. Red wine is such an important part of my palette, I can’t believe you didn’t make more of an effort to get to know each other.

Rice, I think it’s time we spent some time apart. In fact, after what you did to me, and after all I’ve been through, I don’t know if I can ever love you again. It’ll be hard knowing that I’m going to see you in all my favourite places, putting smiles on random people’s faces, but I’ll get over that.

It’s been fun rice, but it’s over.

Matt

I launched this new blog/website about two hours ago, so you will no doubt have found it by now because I know that since I put you on limited profile on Facebook you like to Google me and check my Twitter account to see what I’m up to. Firstly, welcome. This is a blog, it’s where I write things down and they won’t be about marketing so they won’t bore you as much as the other blog. In fact, it’s going to be semi-personal, so I’ll probably talk about things I don’t tell you about on our monthly phone call. I may even allude to drinking, and possibly having sex from time to time, which is going to freak you out, so sorry about that. Also, I’m going to swear sometimes. I probably won’t say anything worse than the F-word, but you should be pre-warned because I can’t make any promises.

I’ll write you a proper letter here soon, because you are a pretty awesome mum and I’d like to tell the world about you and how you don’t like me swearing, but I thought I’d just get this in first before you find this site and figure out how to use the comments section.

Lots of love, hope dad’s blood pressure is OK, say hi to Dave for me
Matt xx

Shove your ████ing internet censor up your ████ing ████.

Love, (the X-rated kind),
Matt

I can appreciate that a home must be maintained and that there are times when it is absolutely necessary to swathe through large slabs of concrete with a power saw. I can only presume your decision to undertake such scheduled home maintenance at 7am this morning was your calculated move in the game of ‘Things that go bump on a Saturday night’ and played in response to my attempt to kick in my back door at 4am last Sunday morning. Being now my move, I would like to remind you that I have a number of rock and roll bands at my disposal, an after-show party scheduled in six days, and am currently experiencing my own personal post-punk revivalism, a phase I will be expressing sonically and with gusto.

I love you dearly,
Matt

8:04:29PM  Matt: so I locked myself out of the house this morning/last night
8:04:52PM  Matt: got home at 9am and tried to kick the door down before crying on the porch
8:04:54PM  bang: ohh that’s the first time you would have really missed having a gf in brisbane
8:05:01PM  Matt: nice little life experience there
8:05:03PM  bang: faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaark
8:05:07PM  bang: haha
8:05:09PM  bang: how was it?
8:05:33PM  Matt: yeah, I left the house without the keys, had to sleep at the party cause I had nowhere to go, had to walk home cause I had no money
8:05:42PM  Matt: it was a low point
8:06:00PM  Matt: jesus christ though, my low points aren’t that low
8:06:21PM  Matt: I wish I’d seen myself on film though, trying to kick the back door in!
8:06:24PM  bang: low points make the high points even higher though brother
8:06:28PM  bang: haha
8:06:28PM  Matt: and then giving up and laying on the ground crying!
8:06:33PM  Matt: lol
8:07:27PM  Matt: and the door banG. The fucking door
8:07:29PM  Matt: hard bastard
8:07:40PM  Matt: have you ever tried to kick a door in?
8:07:44PM  Matt: like, a proper door
8:07:51PM  Matt: with deadlocks and shit?
8:08:03PM  Matt: almost broke my foot
8:08:14PM  Matt: the boots held up though
8:08:16PM  Matt: I was proud of them
8:08:24PM  bang: hahaha
8:08:27PM  bang: that’s perfect
8:08:31PM  Matt: the door now looks like my foot though, only in reverse
8:08:39PM  Matt: kind of a hole there
8:08:50PM  bang: did the neighbours not do anything?
8:09:00PM  Matt: a baby started crying
8:09:20PM  Matt: I presume the rest of them presumed it was me and I had just come home after a big night and had locked myself out of the house
8:09:30PM  Matt: or I was doing some sneaky woodwork
8:09:36PM  bang: the rational response.
8:09:38PM  Matt: knocking up a table or something
8:09:48PM  bang: hahaha
8:10:02PM  bang: building a vege patch
8:10:17PM  Matt: I was thinking about doing that
8:10:22PM  Matt: I planted some mint in the front yard
8:10:24PM  Matt: nothing
8:10:31PM  Matt: fucker died in two days
8:10:44PM  Matt: I had all these mojitos planned
8:10:45PM  bang: yeah that would be sick to grow your own shit
8:11:00PM  Matt: time for another mojito now methinks
8:11:12PM  Matt: Sarah’s flatmate has the sickest basil
8:11:22PM  bang: how was that by the way?
8:11:24PM  Matt: everyone’s growing basil these days
8:11:26PM  Matt: what?
8:11:31PM  Matt: tasty
8:11:32PM  bang: sarahs shindig
8:11:34PM  Matt: oh