It’s not often that you are sitting quietly on the couch watching the news, then find yourself confronted by a streaker wearing nothing but Doc Martins and a smile.
Well, not every night, anyway.
So there I was, arm hooked up to the machine, watching my plasma swirl away into a bag while the morning news dribbled across the screen like a bad fever dream. And what were they showing? A "riot" in Melbourne, allegedly. The sort of riot where the real thugs wear body armour, carry pepper spray and look like they just walked off the set of RoboCop. The people they were beating? A ragtag crew of teenagers and old hippies—probably fresh out of a drum circle, still smelling of patchouli. But sure, let's call it a riot. Now, here's where it really gets good. I mentioned this spectacle to a few people later, thinking maybe they'd share my outrage or, at the very least, give a damn. But no. What did I get instead? A smirk, a chuckle, and—oh, the pièce de résistance—"You should really just let it go." Let it go? Yeah, let me uncork a nice, overpriced cup of coffee, sit back with my legs crossed, and soak in the latest reality TV trash. Why bother caring when ...
Comments
I just hope that Henry doesn't rebel against you as a teenager after finding out that u posted a butt-naked pic of him on the global platform.
One year we went to the Boxing Day test - the highlight of the day was the streaker.
I think Henry will have to choose more appropriate footwear in future if he has any chance of outrunning the streaker tacklers.
My kids always preferred being nude--me too, when I was a kid!
Weddings are nightmares.
And I still recall Helen D'Amico very fondly.
I regret to say that the news programs I watch feature ladies who never wear jackets.
Nudist colonies can live without me, I think.
Nice shot !
If necessary, I will paste a tasteful nude of myself as a gesture of goodwill to him.