Yesterday, while searching through childhood photos in an earnest attempt to gauge the cranium size of her unborn child by closely examining all head shots of our ancestors, my sister stumbled upon a manuscript that has shaken my identity to its very core.
Always the villian, it seems our dear old mother has been compiling a ongoing dossier of her offspring since our respective births. Amongst countless photographic evidence of her two children naked and covered in jelly (or as is the case of many in my file, milk chocolate), there were toys, all things art-n-crafts and most importantly, autobiographical confessions I had long repressed and hoped were destroyed or at least lost forever. Unfortunately, they were not. Like the savvy card player, I suspect our dear old ma' has been saving this pocket ace for the day we ship her off to Shady Acres. She's sneaky as they come and twice as cunning. Yet, by publishing some of my early work here and now, hopefully I will defuse her from destroying my career when it finally progresses from online forums to the New York Times.
It would seem that some time shortly after arriving in this sun burnt country, I produced a short novella that I hope was written in an dire attempt to make new friends out of the array of tanned, blond children in Mrs. Hooper's Grade 3 class, those who seemed so amused by the pale, red-headed kid who spoke like a character off EastEnders and called shoes "trainers" and gumboots "wellies" and that most private of private parts, "willy"; I have to believe this was the reason for this transcript, I have to believe that this earliest of my works was nothing more than fiction disguised as fact for the sole reason of making friends. I have to believe this.
Perhaps one day, when my first novel changes the face of modern literature and forces a fanatic of my work to shoot me in Times Square, this sole copy of my first book will be reproduced by Random House and seen in a different light; but alas, for now, it's remains a melancholic collection of lies bound by red cardboard and covered in clear contact.
Kind Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I give you "Football is the second best"...
Always the villian, it seems our dear old mother has been compiling a ongoing dossier of her offspring since our respective births. Amongst countless photographic evidence of her two children naked and covered in jelly (or as is the case of many in my file, milk chocolate), there were toys, all things art-n-crafts and most importantly, autobiographical confessions I had long repressed and hoped were destroyed or at least lost forever. Unfortunately, they were not. Like the savvy card player, I suspect our dear old ma' has been saving this pocket ace for the day we ship her off to Shady Acres. She's sneaky as they come and twice as cunning. Yet, by publishing some of my early work here and now, hopefully I will defuse her from destroying my career when it finally progresses from online forums to the New York Times.
It would seem that some time shortly after arriving in this sun burnt country, I produced a short novella that I hope was written in an dire attempt to make new friends out of the array of tanned, blond children in Mrs. Hooper's Grade 3 class, those who seemed so amused by the pale, red-headed kid who spoke like a character off EastEnders and called shoes "trainers" and gumboots "wellies" and that most private of private parts, "willy"; I have to believe this was the reason for this transcript, I have to believe that this earliest of my works was nothing more than fiction disguised as fact for the sole reason of making friends. I have to believe this.
Perhaps one day, when my first novel changes the face of modern literature and forces a fanatic of my work to shoot me in Times Square, this sole copy of my first book will be reproduced by Random House and seen in a different light; but alas, for now, it's remains a melancholic collection of lies bound by red cardboard and covered in clear contact.
Kind Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I give you "Football is the second best"...
Page One: Written and IllustratedBy Mark Hewitt
Page Two: "I am going to the football.I like football."
To this day, I have never been to a sanctioned football game by the AFL.
Page Three: "I barrack for Melbourneand the Tigers and Essendon."
So I draw people to look like Japanese throwing stars, what of it?
Page Four: "The Tigers are nice andLike I said, I've never been to game.
Page Five: "Mrs. Hooper barracks forRichmond and the Tigers. I like
Mrs. Hooper."
While I'm now aware that these are two in the same, I think what's more concerning in this illustration is the unanswered plea from the only girl on the one dimensional field who is being attacked by the red and blue players.
Page Six: : "The cats are stupid.They are not nice. I like the Tigers."
I have no idea what's going on here.
Page Seven: "I like footballbut it is not the best."
I think a psychologist might suggest the character on the right is me running with open arms to my father on the left, who's indifference is marked by his facelessness and rejected by his "No, No" reply.
Page Eight: "when I go to Queensland,it will be the best."
I have spaghetti arms.
"The End"The double page here is interesting, but the ability to translate the gibberish on the left has long since left me.
It should be noted that I have nothing in particular against AFL. I tried to play it once and I know many people who love the game that I would consider all close friends, but for me, balls are and have always been round and anything else is just silly; but the revelation that I ascertain to liking not one team, but three, forces me to question that perhaps I am a fan, and to further question everything else I ever thought about my childhood that I considered true.
In any scenario, I'm placing a bid on the first Steve Karnahan jersey I can find on Ebay.
It should be noted that I have nothing in particular against AFL. I tried to play it once and I know many people who love the game that I would consider all close friends, but for me, balls are and have always been round and anything else is just silly; but the revelation that I ascertain to liking not one team, but three, forces me to question that perhaps I am a fan, and to further question everything else I ever thought about my childhood that I considered true.
In any scenario, I'm placing a bid on the first Steve Karnahan jersey I can find on Ebay.
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