Real stories from Australia's craziest family.

I Pledge My Allegiance to the Poo Jogger


Sunday , 10th June 2018


Finally, the day arrives when I sign a contract for my book Catch A Falling Star. It happens to be the same day #PooJogger is trending…


I scroll past photos of the stunned, middle-aged man, squatting with pants down, loo paper clutched at the ready – homo sapiens caught in photographer’s headlights.


Twitter is in a frenzy – “Catch me off the can!” one person writes, “Trickle down economics in action!” another comments.


I wonder what was going through this bloke’s head – taking an anonymous dump three nights a week out the front of the same unit block, a dog cocking his leg on his favourite lamp post.


When my brain talks it's always in a dark tone, steeped in cynicism. Before I can get too uppity, it wastes no time pointing out the parallels between book writing and the nefarious activities of the phantom excretor…


Yes - compiling 95,000 words, give or take, in a logical sequence has been like training for a marathon, the Poo Jogger and I have stuck to a strict, military-style schedule for years.


‘I’m just ducking out,’ I’ve said to my husband more times than I can count, ‘to do a bit of writing…’


On my writing jaunts, unloading the words has felt at times like passing an enormous motion. Sometimes the words have even brought tears to my eyes.


The parcels of text delivered from the fat colon of my subconscious – the creature in Alien secreting eggs in regular slimey deposits down into the misty depths of the spaceship, equally as mysterious… And now, by signing the publishing contract, my cache of eggs was gearing up to hatch!


Suddenly I was buzzing with a mix of excitement and terror (no wonder the Poo Jogger had gotten hooked on this shit) – it’s one thing to write fiction where you can pretend a character is not a part of you, quite another to write memoir.


I thought about the conversation I'd had with my publicity agent who had recently read my manuscript. He'd loved it he said, and like a typically needy creative, I'd been thrilled to hear those words. Now however, I thought over the rest of the conversation.


'People might say, “What a bitch”,' he said.


‘I'm cool with that,’ I said, ‘I can hack it.’


‘Aren’t you afraid?’ he asked, ‘Your father might leave everything to the Cat Society…’


‘Look,’ I said, ‘I haven’t painted myself in a good light, I haven’t painted anyone in a good light. The only person in the book who comes out looking pristine is Mum – which was always the case! That was one of the things that drove us crazy! Mum would waltz through life like a ditzy angel and Dad and I would be left rolling our eyes!’


I wondered when the books hatched though, when the words undeniably stamped on pages – would I feel equally as exposed as the Poo Jogger?


Only time would tell.



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