NRL 2010: Finals Week 3 – the Battle of Who Could Care Less

It has been a sad, quiet week in Canberra following their exit from the finals race last Friday night. Actually, it hasn’t been any different to any other week in Canberra, to be perfectly Francis.

Titans vs Roosters
It’s the CLASH OF THE TITANS… and the Roosters. If there are two teams who deserve to be in this position any less than these fuckers, I’d like to meet them (and then smash them all in the face with my crowbar). The Chooks have been praised (by themselves and their tattoo artists, mainly) for coming back from winning the wooden spoon last year to somehow be in the running to compete in the Grand Final in 2010. Instead of giving them credit for doing well this year, maybe someone should say, “Well what the fuck was last year all about, you spastics?”

The Titans had last weekend off, which to me never really seems like a good way to keep a winning formula and to carry momentum with you into the next round. Their entire team was under the dreaded injury cloud (“and for those north of the border, there is a small boat alert as an injury cloud moves your way, but should clear by early next week”), so it gave them a chance to crack out a few extra ice-packs. This means that this weekend's team will be filled with players who haven’t taken the field for the last five weeks and who are coming back from injury. If I was a Rooster (and I thank Vishnu that I’m not), I would be a fairly excited little coke-snorter about playing this game. My cash is going for the “upset” – Roosters to sneak home by 8.

St George vs Tigers
Here’s a fun game to play: between now and whenever the hell this game is on, every time you hear or read the word “chokers” in connection with the Dragons, take a drink. Your weekend will whizz by in a glorious blur.

The Dragons must be absolutely pissing in each others pockets with happiness that the Tigers somehow cheated their way to victory over the Raiders last weekend, officially clearing the path to premiership glory. I think it’s kind of sweet in a retarded, naïve way that the Tiges think they actually have a chance to win this game.

It’s tip to be square.

Mat Rogers attempts to beat Brett Stewart in the sexual misconduct stakes

(and yes, I know this is actually a sweet photo - I still fucking hate Rogers though)

Pop Quiz, Hotshot...

Back in my day, a week would rarely go by without hearing about kids falling off their roof because they were trying to “fly like Superman” or being admitted to hospital with missing eyes after making ninja weapons out of rusty corrugated iron, gaffa tape and a chainsaw blade. We would risk life and limb just for that one moment that our friends would say, “Fuck, Mister Evil Breakfast; I swear you actually turned into Spider-Man just then. Also, would you like some help to straighten out your spine?” I would spit out a mouthful of blood and respond, “I fucking am Spider-Man,” before passing out.

I haven’t heard anything even remotely like that for years; the worst hijinx that kids are getting up to these days is posting “YOUR FAT!!!11 LOLZ” on some fat kid’s Facebook page, throwing an online Pokemon ball at a ‘friend’ they’ve never met and then “pwning” some “newbs” on World of Warcraft in a universe that doesn’t exist.

In an attempt to bring back senseless violence and carefree danger to the masses, I am going to pick up where I left off since stabbing my neighbour with a sword (an old fence paling) at age 12 in a dramatic recreation of what would happen if He-Man and My Little Pony ever met. As an adult, I possess the means, the money and the alcohol to surpass the backyard ninjas and pirates (and He-Man if his power sword was indeed a splintery old piece of wood) of my youth - I can become any fucking hero I want to be.

I bring to you, dear readers, and drivers of Canberra: SPEED: The Reality Event. Speed was a 1994 movie starring Keanu Reeves (winner of the Mister Evil Breakfast Award For Being The Most Awesome Human Being Ever [MEBAFBTMAHBE]) and Sandra Bullock (Mister Evil Breakfast Award For Being Fairly Hot Even Though She’s A Bit Old And Has Had To Resort To Doing “Based On A True Story” Movies [MEBAFBFHETSABOAHHTRTDBOATSM]).

The basic premise of the film is that there’s a bus that can’t drop below 55 mph or it will explode and kill the guy from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

To play Speed, I was required to don a pair of awesome sunglasses, work out for a bit (not too long though, I got tired and bored pretty quickly) and hop into my car; a 2005 Ford Focus (for the uninitiated, it’s basically the same as a rally car - it has a similar engineering TAFE course) and hit the streets.

55 miles per hour is 88.51 kilometres per hour, by the way. That’s pretty quick to maintain, and on the day that I decided to play Speed: The Reality Game, I still had some shit to do; I wasn’t going to let a bomb get in the way of me hitting up McDonalds, going for a beer and picking up some ill-thought out Ebay purchase from the Post Office.

Stupidly, I hit the magic 55mph coming out of my driveway, so I really put myself under some pressure from the get-go – could I somehow get through the Maccas drive-thru, order a large Big Mac meal, 6 nuggets and a hot apple pie whilst maintaining close to 90kmh? Turns out I couldn’t, but I was honestly let down by the fucktards at the McDonalds window, who not only technically blew me up, but also lost the lives of the passengers in the car in front of me, one behind, and at least one person in the restaurant. To top things off, they didn’t even give me my fries. In all fairness, I was yelling “I’ve got a bomb! I’ve got a bomb!” into the speaker box, which probably scared the Maccas workers a little and may have caused some unnecessary panic.

Driving whilst eating a Big Mac (and texting a few mates) at 90kmh turned out to be harder than I thought, and I “exploded” another few times on my way to the pub. I almost had a newfound respect for Sandra Bullock until I remembered that she made Miss Congeniality 2 and quickly changed my mind; in fact, I wish she had exploded in my car with me, or at the very least held my little tub of McDonalds sauce so I could dunk my McNuggets.

After a quick pint (it was three), I was ready to hit the road again, in a much better frame of mind to navigate the streets at close to 100 clicks. My game plan from here on in was to maintain speed at all time, lest I lose the last third of my McDonalds Coke to a fiery death. Leaving the pub immediately presented me with an issue as I came across a red light, so I did the right thing by the world and put my head down and sped through it. It was nice to hear other motorists cheering me on with honking horns and raising their middle finger in the universal sign for “You’re number one!” as I careered through the busy intersection. I maintained speed for another 10 minutes or so until I became bored with driving straight down the highway (keep in mind I didn’t have Sandra Bullock in her prime to keep me company) so I headed back into the suburbs to spice things up a bit.

Short story even shorter, I ended up “dousing” the “bomb” in someone’s backyard swimming pool (via three fences and after running over a dog) about four minutes later. I was hoping to inspire a new wave of children to copy some violent movies and fill the hospital emergency ward with injuries involving match-bombs and home-made nunchuks. But as the media caught wind of the events of the day, they thwarted my plans and ensured that the only injuries the youth of today will receive will be getting their chubby fingers caught in the middle of video game discs.

NRL Tipping: Finals week 2

And then there were six. Goodbye Manly, goodbye Warriors. Thanks for making up the numbers this year, please pick up your lollybag on the way out. Buh-bye now.

Raiders vs Tigers
RAIDERS RAIDERS WOOO! This game should be an absolute fucking nut buster (I’m planning on busting three) and will no doubt have the people of the nation’s capital suffering heart attacks, sweaty palms and busted nuts. The Tiges have either been asked to invent reasons why they might not play (injuries, births, Bieber fever) or they are going to have to ask their mascot to take up position in the second row.

Whatever the case may be, the Raiders will roll another big cat on their way to the Granny. Mark my words. Mark them.

Roosters vs Penrith
It honestly doesn’t matter who wins this game, because they’ll lose next week anyway. For what it is worth, my money’s resting on the Chooks to get up, despite them being incredibly rubbish in last week’s hard-fought (read: lucky) win against the Tigersers. They missed a billion tackles and gave up almost 2000 metres, yet somehow came away with the points. Like the Tiges, the Panthers don’t have the strike power to make them pay for their turnstile defence, and somehow, somehow, the Bok Bok Boks (that’s a chicken noise, for anyone playing along at home) will live to fight another day.

It's not quite rugby league, but it's good enough for me

If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my tips.

Seriously

Dear Channel 10,

I would just like to congratulate you on continuing your outstanding level of excellence in terms of news and programming quality. I would never have known that 2010 marked the tenth anniversary of the 2000 Olympics without your sensational coverage of some kind of bizarre celebration of a sporting event that had around eight hours of vision showing Cathy Freeman waiting to light a giant candle. The four people who cared enough to turn up to see it created a great “atmosphere” in which John Paul Young (seriously?) was able to “rock out” to.

I would also like to thank you for not showing The Simpsons and instead deciding to concentrate on repeated highlights of the “anniversary celebration” including an interview with two volunteers from the Sydney Olympics. I then sat riveted to the screen as the guy who used to host Sports Tonight described a fireworks display for all the viewers. You should have warned me that fireworks were involved though; it scared the shit out of my ceramic cat collection.

Next year will be the first anniversary of the 2010 Soccer World Cup and I hope that this milestone is recognised for its part in bringing the world together.

I would also like to commend your journalists for never shying away from the big news stories, especially international events. I rely on your news bulletins and updates to stay on top of current affairs, and without your constant “Top Story Recaps” I would never have known that Oprah Winfrey and a horde of rich, screaming American women were coming to Australia. I shall practice turning two syllable words into complete sentences, elongating the ends of words and raising my voice for no apparent reason for her arrival. Oh sorry, for HE-ER ARRIVAAAAAAAL.



The best part about your news coverage though, Channel 10, is the far reaches that your journalists will go to in order to provide us with vision. In a rare story last night that wasn’t about Oprah Winfrey’s visit “down under,” I saw that George Michael (“George MICHAAAAAAAEL”) crashed his car into a shop while smoking a crack-pipe or something. As the story unfolded, highlights of George’s career were revealed to us, from the obligatory “Wake me up before you go-go” video to his appearance on an episode of “Extras” starring Rick-ky GERVAAAAAIIIIIIIIIS. Apparently the news budget doesn’t allow for file footage of a guest appearance on a free-to-air television series, so credit must go to the genius who decided to show YouTube clips of George Michael instead. I’m super impressed that you decided to use the grainy, obviously-videoed-from-a-TV-using-a-bad-mobile-phone-camera-then-uploaded-to-the-internet version, too.

Carry on the good work! I look forward to you flogging the shit out of Modern Family (I can see that you already have the first series billed as “classic” episodes, while we are just entering season two). All the best with squeezing every last drop out of MasterChef – I particularly enjoyed watching Junior MasterChef; I’m sure all of the kids involved in that cash cow have bright futures with the cooking careers that their parents are in no way pushing them into. I know I had my whole life planned out when I was 12, too.

Kind regards,


Mister Evil Breakfast

PS. Have you ever thought about doing a police drama?

NRL Finals Week 1: La la la

IT’S FINALS WEEK AND I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED RIGHT NOW I CAN’T FIND THE CAPS LOCK KEY.

Oh wait, there it is.

Titans vs Warriors
It’s the CLASH OF THE TITANS… and the Warriors. This is a fucking cracker to pick – two teams that I know very little about except that I hate the Titans’ Mat Rogers, the greasy fucker, and I have no ill-will towards the Warriors at all. In fact, I quite like them.

But this isn’t a popularity contest, apparently; there’s some kind of rugby league game involved. I have the sneaking suspicion that the Warriors will play the better football, but the Titans are going to end our Kiwi cousins’ season this weekend. Kumate kumate.

Tigers vs Roosters
This match-up sees two massive show ponies come together as Benji “Remember my flick pass of 2005?” Marshall and Todd “…yeah it’s a real… uh… you know… uh… dream come… you know… true for me… to uh… you know…” Carney lock horns. These guys are actually two of the game’s true drawcards who play fairly different brands of footy. Where Benji will use a bit of razzle dazzle and fancy footwork to find gaps in the defense, Carney will look for the unmarked player, the cross-field kick, the short flat pass and the massive quantities of ecstasy and cocaine to get the job done.

Dally M player of the year Todd Carney is possibly still chasing space shuttles as we speak (possibly looking for signs of a personality – mission failed), which bodes quite well for the Tigers lads who will be thinking about more than another sponsorship deal. After a good ninety-eight hours of to-ing and fro-ing between these teams, I’m putting my faith in Benji’s Magpie-Tiger hybrid to get me home. Go fuck yourself, Carney, you fucking fuck. Your tattoos are shit, too.

Panthers vs Raiders
The mighty fucking Raiders travel to Pussy Town for another walk in the park after catching some sun on the Brisbane banks last weekend. The Panthers will be confident after last week’s big win over the team coming last, so well done to them. Their recovery session consisted of robbing a home for blind orphans and making fun of Julia Gillard for having red hair.

No one can stop the Raiders this year. Nobody.


Dragons vs Manly
Now, I’m not going to say that Manly suck – I’ll leave that to everyone else. I’m just going to say that they might as well not even bother turning up for this game. And judging from who they’ve got playing this weekend, it seems that they aren’t. With a million people out on suspension (see you in 2028, Matai, you fucking slack prick), another thousand on the injured list and the rest being from Manly, this could be the most embarrassing moment in the Sea Eagles proud history since John Hopoate touched people up on the field and Brett Stewart did it off.

Expect Saints coach, Wayne “I smiled once in 1984, now fuck off” Bennett, to be able to take 12 men off the field for the duration of the second half and still win by 60.


I will tip for you at night-time; I will tip you in four places.

Sometimes there’s such a thing as “too much charisma”

We can find the perfect blend

It has been a crazy time in Neighbours of late, with dodgy business dealings, blackmail, confessions, break-ups, hook-ups, a wedding and an attempted murder all thrown into the mix. And let's not forget the "brave" storyline about a young gay man who came out to his friends at school, received support for being gay and then left the Neighboursverse forever, lest he ruin the perfect Caucasian (except for the Indian doctor), heterosexual garden of Eden that is Ramsay Street.

The truth about Steph’s baby finally came out after Paul Robinson bugged Steph’s phone, recorded a conversation between her and Dan (Libby’s ex-husband) about her accidental pregnancy and then played that recording during a fundraising event for the radio station that he owns. The shit was flung and Libby and Steph became sworn enemies for at least three episodes.

Libby has since hooked up with Steph’s old boyfriend, Lucas, who also just happens to be Libby’s ex-husband’s brother who she was previously shagging on the side. She has also had to deal with her ugly son Ben suddenly moving schools to some kind of “gifted child” academy after doing an online IQ test, submitting the score, being offered a scholarship, accepting and being shipped off there within the hour. Strangely, that school was in “the country,” and “the country” is usually where the privileged children are all bundled off to, right? Right. This all came about after ugly Ben got into trouble for staring out the window during class because his teacher’s lessons were ‘boring’. Welcome to school, ugly Ben. Get used to it. I’m just glad you’re not uglifying the opening credits anymore.

Ringo and Donna tied the knot in a “beautiful” “wedding” that wasn’t at all “tacky” or “hastily cobbled together” and followed the correct Neighbours rules of (a) going to Lassiters and (b) then to Charlie’s Bar for the reception. The only thing missing was Harold’s takeaway shop, which was taken care of by people constantly leaving the wedding to duck in for a quick milkshake and slice of cake. Either there was no food being served at the wedding, or Harold’s is lacing their food with crack. My money is on the fact that no food was being served, as it was a wedding put on by Ringo, who hasn’t had a job since that one day he spent as a brickie’s apprentice.



As is every married Neighbours couple’s dream, R&D returned from their honeymoon and moved straight back in with Ringo’s adopted family, Karl, Susan, Zeke and Libby. It’s just what every newlywed couple craves, really. Well that, and you know, a job would be good.



But the mainstay of Erinsborough lately has been the fall and fall and attempted murder of Paul Robinson. I get lost in the details, but Paul was skimming off one of his millions of businesses to pay for something else blah blah blah construction accident blah blah blah slept with an old American woman blah blah blah dodgy dodgy blah until he ended up being pushed off the balcony at his hotel.

As he lies in hospital with feeding tubes, machines that go ‘ping’ and one of those contraptions that breathes for you (which is kept on hand for any of Ramsay Street’s residents), his son, Rob Farnham (previously “sometimes Scottish son of Paul Robinson”), his ex-girlfriend Natasha and general do-gooder Summer are putting their heads together (aka “multiplying zeroes”) in trying to work out who knocked Robinson over the edge. Ignore the fact that the police have interviewed the entire town and have realised that everyone has a reason to kill Paul, the brains trust should be able to piece together the night of the crime and find the perpetrator. So far they have accused… well… everyone, including each other. By process of elimination, they will get to the bottom of this case… never, and we will follow them every step of the way.

Such a shameful waste of innocent fairy lights

NRL Round 26: It's the Finals Countdown

Holy crap, we’ve made it to the final game of the season. Thank you linesmen, thank you ballboys. With finals spots up for grabs this weekend, every league fan the world over should be sitting in a pool of their own glistening, sticky saliva. Me, well I’m just waiting for Canberra Milk to reintroduce Raiders Lime back into the market, a ploy that hasn’t been seen since the early 90s. Green milk? Fuck yes.

Titans vs Tigers
It’s the CLASH OF THE TITANS… and the Tigers, and is shaping up as a genuine noodle-scratcher to tip. Both teams have booked their place in the finals, both teams surprised everyone by doing that, and both teams have me yelling abuse from my couch until I am hoarse. This one deserves to end in a draw, but seeing as that hasn’t happened since 1972, my head says Titans, my gut says Tigers, and my left knee (“Ol’ Clicky”) is still supporting the Hunter Mariners. Stupid Clicky.

Broncos vs Raiders
RAAAAIDERS! RAAAAAAIDERS!! WOOOOO WOOWoooWOOOooo! RAAAAaaIDERS! LAALA LA GREEN MAACHINE! WOOOO!
Darern “if I’m not here, forget about it” Lockyer has decided not to risk injury again this week and once more sits out on the sideline. Wally “Wally Wally Wally” Wallace needs a shoulder reconstruction but his dedication to the team is so high that he’s going to play. A fully-fit Wallace doesn’t really bother anyone, so having him with half an arm and Dave Shillington up in his face all game probably scares people even less. Thanks for the security escort into the finals, Brissy. We appreciate that. WOOOOO RAAAAAIDERS!

Eels vs Warriors
Warriors. Next!

Panthers vs Sharks
Despite the Sharkies coming good (round 24 is probably not the time to try and launch a finals surge though, and last place really isn’t the ideal springboard), Penrith SHOULD win this one comfortably. But knowing them, they won’t turn up to play and be smashed all over the park. Defense will be a dirty word in this game.

Cowboys vs Roosters
Apparently Todd Carney is front-runner for the Dally M award (the highest accolade you can achieve in the NRL). Just imagine how well he’d be going if he wasn’t constantly smacked out of his head? The Cowboys really haven’t done much this year except look forward to next season. Thanks for coming, Cowbs. Add another loss to your tally for me. Cheers.

Storm vs Knights
Melbourne have opened the gates and are charging punters $1 to get in to watch this one. If only the bar would charge $1 beers as well, I’d probably consider making the journey. Melbourne will abso-fucking-lutely destroy the Knights without even breaking sweat. This game is going to get embarrassing for the Newcastle lads.

Manly vs Bulldogs
Expect some no-nonsense, hard-hitting, action-packed, fast-paced football… but not from either of these guys. Check out the little leaguers at half-time; I love those kids. Manly will win this one in a scrappy, ugly game that will go for about 60 minutes longer than it needs to.

Dragons vs Rabbitohs
By the time this game kicks off, the Rabbits will know whether or not they can qualify for a finals spot, which will determine how well they play. But that won’t matter, because they’ll be beaten by the Dragons regardless. So just tip them. Thanks for 2010, Souths, see you next year. PS. I love you, Sam Burgess.


U Can’t Tip This

The condition that could affect 50% of the world

Australian quasi-celebrity Matthew Newton made news this week by allegedly beaten seven shades of shenanigans out of his model girlfriend Rachael Taylor whilst holidaying in Rome – ‘holidaying’ is an Italian word for “being an unemployed actor and nailing a hot chick in a foreign country.” This has turned Australian audiences against the son of TV legend and long-time death-knell for Australian television productions, Bert Newton, and forced Bert, most of Bert's head and handbag wife Patti, back onto our television screens to defend their - sorry, his - good name. Just think what life would be like without the Newtons on TV – some other head on a stick would have to host the all-too entertaining clip show ‘20 to 1’ - maybe the bloke who was the puppeteer for Agro; I reckon if he’s not in jail for molesting every chick he’s ever met, he’d be pretty good at it. I’m not putting any money on that, though.

As Bert and Patti revealed on their very touching, sincere and carefully scripted interview on A Current Affair, Matt has “a mental illness” and needs “treatment” for his “condition.” I believe that Matt has in fact been diagnosed with a massive case of the “fuckwits,” which he inherited from his parents. While it isn’t entirely curable, it can be controlled through not taking copious amounts of meth while sucking on a bottle of vodka.

Being a fuckwit can be hard, especially for a fuckwit of Matt Newton’s proportions. As mum Patti offered to the cameras earlier this week, “Matt has never been one to take anti-depressants or behaviour-modifying drugs. He is too creative to allow his mind to be dulled.” Well, we wouldn’t want to put a curb on Matt’s creativity as he expresses himself by reciting lines that someone else has written while someone else tells him how to say them. Least of all should we worry about the career of Matt’s now ex-girlfriend and unwilling sparring partner, Rachael Taylor, whose job consists of looking pretty. Looking pretty isn’t the most challenging of all jobs, but is made slightly harder after you’ve been punched in the face and had your head smashed against a marble floor.

Being a fuckwit can be hard

Matty’s career has gone from strength to strength since appearing as “Fuckwit Kid” in the Aussie movie Looking for Alibrandi and a string of roles in failed TV shows such as ‘Fuckwit Surgeon’ on The Surgeon and ‘Fuckwit Guy’ on Right Here, Right Now followed, before playing himself (‘Fuckwit’) on Stupid, Stupid Man. His latest role was in the “stirring” Channel 9 blockbuster series Underbelly where he played a naked buttock who liked to paint. For his performance as New Zealand drug lord Terry Clarke’s arse, Matt Newton received Logie awards for “Most Incorrect Accents Used For One Character” and “Actor Most Overshadowed by Sally from Home and Away.”

Incidentally, I have nominated Bert and Patti for next year’s Logies in the ‘Best Dramatic Role’ category after performing quite well as ‘Concerned Parents’ in their ACA interview.

Bert and Patti Newton prepared for their role by meeting real-life Concerned Parents

“Matt has always had a violent temper, even as a young kid,” said Bert and Patti as they wandered down memory lane in an effort to work out the exact moment that Matt graduated from being a dickhead to being a fuckwit. Strangely, Matt’s violent temper has never shown itself to giant Maori bouncers at Sydney nightclubs, football players, or for that matter, anyone with a set of testicles and traces of testosterone flowing through their body.

Currently, Matt is sitting somewhere nice and warm in a drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre, waiting for the media storm to die down and the out-of-court settlement cheque to Rachael Taylor to clear before he graces our television screens once more and somehow gets away with beating the shit out of a woman.

Get well soon, fuckwit.

MEBCAM presents: Canberra's hidden struggle

In a recent survey that I just made up, asked no one about and invented the results for, twenty-million Australians were asked the question What are your first thoughts when you hear the word ‘Canberra’? and a whopping 78%... no, let’s make it 87% of them responded with:

* Fireworks
* Porn
* Pot

Back in the good old days, Canberra was the NeverNever Land of Australia – your wildest dreams could come true, as long as they involved small tubes filled with gunpowder, hardcore pornographic films, and smoking marijuana.

Unfortunately, these three items were deemed to be attracting the wrong sorts of people to the nation’s capital, and Canberra became inundated with what the locals called ‘fuckwits’ who abused the rules and started getting too stoned and blowing off their boners with penny bungers. A campaign to “Save the Fuckwits” was born and laws were passed so that you had to have a license to buy fireworks, the porn you could buy was the same that you could get for free on the internet or buy in any other city in the world, and you couldn’t grow as much weed as you wanted to.

This has left Canberra a shadow of its former self, which wasn’t even much of a shadow to start with, to be perfectly honest, and especially not in winter, which is really when you need your porn, pot and crackers, and is also the season that takes up around 90% of the Canberra year.


The fuckwits kept on coming in plague proportions though, and settled in the extreme southern and northern suburbs of Canberra. Many stores in Charnwood reported entire orders of flannelet shirts and black jeans being purchased or stolen within minutes of delivery. With bottles of Jack and old AC/DC tapes fuelling their new-found freedom, the fuckwits continued to buy their porn, pot and fireworks in bulk, and as new generations of fuckwit began turning up to wag school and join Centrelink queues with missing fingers, a bong in their back pocket and a raging hard-on, new, harsh laws were announced.


Canberrans are now left to wander the streets in a semi-sober state, our “Firecracker Night” is possibly the only one in the world where firecrackers are actually outlawed, and our porn stores now double as cafes and legitimate massage parlours. If you are visiting Canberra in the near future, please bring an ounce, a couple of Roman Candles and a giant dildo, and donate them to a Canberra family in need. This kind of suffering just shouldn’t happen in this day and age.