Sitting Wondering How I Got Here

I’m currently sitting at the emergency department, which sounds worse than it is. My left hip joint is in agony!!! Not enough to stop me blogging but I’ve had it now for a week and sometimes blogging is the furthest thing from my mind!

Plus they’ve given me drugs! Yay!

How Much More Are People Supposed to Take?

What the hell is going on? I’m looking at the reports from France and wondering how many more people have to march through the streets before governments understand that being able to afford your life is a fairly basic fucking expectation.

The protests over living costs and public services have descended into violence in places. Shops damaged, buildings burning, people hurt. And somewhere underneath the smoke are people who wanted to say something perfectly reasonable: we cannot keep doing this. We cannot keep paying more and having less.

I understand that anger. Here in Australia, you can do the sensible things, watch your spending, cut back, shop carefully, and still feel as though you’re going backwards. Groceries, electricity, insurance, housing. Every bill arrives wanting a bigger piece of money that was already accounted for. What exactly are we supposed to cut next? Eating? Heating? Having a bloody roof? Because our wages sure as hell aren't keeping up with the cost of living!!

And please spare me another lecture about budgeting. A budget tells you where the money goes. It doesn’t magically produce enough of it. There is something deeply insulting about telling people to manage their money better when they’re already standing in a supermarket putting things back.

Then Trump weighs in, blaming immigration. How convenient to have a ready-made target whenever something goes wrong. I’d like to hear rather more about how people are supposed to afford food, fuel and somewhere to live. A scapegoat won’t pay the electricity bill.

I don’t support burning somebody’s business or destroying public buildings. Some poor bastard loses their livelihood, workers lose shifts, and the repair bill lands somewhere. But condemning the destruction cannot be the entire response. The people marching peacefully still deserve an answer when the streets have been swept.

That’s what bothers me. The cameras will move on. The speeches will finish. People will go home to the same unpaid bills and the same dread of the next one.

We are asking for an ordinary life with a little breathing room. Enough to cover the essentials without feeling sick every time an envelope arrives. Perhaps even enough left to enjoy being alive.

If governments cannot understand why that matters, they need to spend less time explaining the economy to us and more time listening to the people trying to survive in it.

Scammers Have Made Answering the Phone a Bloody Risk

What a miserable fucking achievement: creating a world where someone rings to say they’re helping you, and your first thought has to be, “Are you trying to rob me?”

I nearly fell for it. A man with an English accent rang claiming to be from my bank. My account had been compromised, he said. My money was at risk. It was imperative that I move it immediately. He kept pushing the urgency, and when someone tells you your savings are in danger, it’s surprisingly easy to get caught up in doing whatever supposedly needs to be done. 

The sounds behind them sound like a big bank. People rushing, conversations, phones ringing...

Except there was a little niggling voice in my head. Something wasn’t right, I wasn't quite sure. That doubt saved me.

But what about the people who don’t get that warning? Or who do, but the bloke on the phone sounds so convincing that they push it aside? He knows how to answer their questions. He sounds calm while they’re panicking. He’s supposedly the person who can stop something terrible happening. You can see how easily someone could follow his instructions and hand their savings straight to the bastard thief.

And then comes the inevitable commentary. “I would never fall for that.” Congratulations on your imaginary performance in a situation you weren’t actually in. It’s easy to spot the trap when someone has already pointed it out. Quite different when you’re frightened and someone is talking you through an urgent “solution”. As it worked out, I transferred money into my partner's account until I worked out what was what.

The scum have little care what that money represents. Years of working. Going without. A buffer against the next bill, the next emergency, the next thing life throws at you. They’ll take the lot and leave someone sitting at their kitchen table wondering how the hell they’re going to manage. Then they’ll ring the next person.

That’s what makes me so angry. The theft, obviously, but also what they’ve done to everyday trust. We’re suspicious of phone calls, messages, emails - even offers of help. We have to keep shutting out outside voices because we can’t be sure who is speaking or what they want. And when it all goes to hell in a handbasket, the big banks don't want to know you. They couldn't care less. Even though they see you drawing big chunks of money. It's not their fault. It's criminal the way they behave.

I’m grateful for that little niggling voice. But nobody should have to rely on a flicker of doubt to protect everything they’ve worked for. And anyone who has lost money deserves some bloody compassion. The shame belongs to the calculating pricks who stole it.

The more I hear of it, the more I'm hoping for a beekeeper to come into the world...

Dear Publishing Scammers: Fuck Off!

There is a special place in hell for people who prey on other people's dreams. And I sincerely hope it has terrible Wi-Fi, no air conditioning and a permanent shortage of toilet paper.

Yesterday, my partner received an email from someone claiming to be Daisy Hutton, Vice President and Publisher at Hachette Nashville. Yes, THAT Hachette. One of the biggest publishing groups in the world.

The email was impressive. It mentioned his employment history, qualifications, technical writing experience, creative fiction and Master of Arts in Creative Writing. It was personal, complimentary and beautifully written. The sort of email that makes a writer think, Bloody hell, someone's finally noticed my work!

And my partner deserves to be noticed. He's a genuinely talented writer who has spent years developing his craft.

Before he replied, he ran it past me... Fortunately, he has me. And I have ChatGPT, which is becoming exceptionally good at detecting bullshit.

One Extra Letter. One Enormous Fucking Lie.

The email came from daisy.hutton@hhbgusa.com. Hachette's genuine domain is @hbgusa.com. See that extra H? That's the scam. One miserable little letter.

The particularly sneaky part is that Daisy Hutton is a real publishing executive. These bastards weren't inventing someone. They were impersonating an actual person with an impressive position.

Naturally, I wanted to know how they knew so much about my partner. His career, his writing, his qualifications. It was almost creepy. Then we checked LinkedIn. Bingo.

All that information was sitting there. My suspicion is that these scammers are harvesting professional profiles and using AI to manufacture convincing, personalised emails.

What took my partner decades to achieve probably took some little shithead thirty seconds to turn into a potential con. So Where's the Money? That's the clever part. They didn't ask for any.

First comes the flattery. Then the conversation. Then perhaps the exciting possibility of a publishing contract. And eventually, the inevitable fee for manuscript assessment, editing, administration or some other invented necessity.

Hachette itself warns about scammers impersonating its executives and demanding money from hopeful authors.

And this isn't an isolated incident. Another Australian writer reportedly received a similarly personalised email impersonating a different Hachette executive, using the exact same fraudulent domain.

Same bullshit. Different victim.

We even examined the original email's technical information. It had been sent through Google's mail infrastructure and passed its authentication checks. The scammers had apparently gone to the trouble of setting up a functioning email service for their fake domain.

That's how convincing these operations can be.

And Here's What Really Pisses Me Off.

It's not the technology or the fake email address.

It's the cruelty.

Writers spend years creating something they hope somebody will appreciate. They endure rejection, disappointment and uncertainty. And then along comes an email suggesting that someone important has finally recognised their talent.

For a moment, my partner had every reason to feel excited. I felt excited for him! I was already planning our trip to America!!!

And I fucking hate that these arseholes exploited that.

His talent is real. His achievements are real. His writing is real.

The opportunity wasn't.

So, to every writer out there, check the sender's actual email address. Verify unsolicited offers directly with the publisher. And never assume that because someone knows your professional history, they're legitimate.

As for the people responsible, here's a thought. If you're clever enough to research authors, impersonate publishing executives and create convincing fraudulent emails, perhaps consider getting an actual fucking job.

Although that would require something you clearly don't possess.

A conscience.

And to whoever sent that email to my partner: you picked the wrong bloody household. You didn't get his money. You didn't get his manuscript. You didn't even get a reply. But you did get a blog post. 

Pity; I wanted to go The Beekeeper on them! Fucking bastards. I can see me now... going Jason Stathem. Everything exploding.

Zip It Up And Catch The Damned Plane.

Fitness influencer Caitlin Lyndon says a Virgin Australia employee asked her to zip her jacket over her sports bra before boarding. She believes she was singled out because of her fake breast size, saying her similarly dressed companion wasn’t stopped. Virgin says it has apologised for her experience. Pity, I liked the experience of reading about it! lol

My first response? Zip it up and get on the bloody plane. You already have the jacket. Nobody is asking you to fashion a modesty garment out of a boarding pass and three luggage tags, Ms Magiver! Pull the zip, find your seat, and join the rest of us in wondering whether our knees will survive the journey.

Personally, I’m tired of the Instagram aesthetic being treated as something the rest of us should applaud. The posing, the presentation, the endless expectation of an audience. And they are fucking ugly. Fake! 

Wear what you like, but I’m allowed to find the whole performance exhausting. I’m travelling to Melbourne. My ticket didn’t include compulsory enthusiasm for somebody else’s look.

There is, however, a detail that deserves an answer. If two passengers wore equivalent outfits and only one was stopped, the airline should explain the distinction. The reporting also says its dress requirements don’t expressly prohibit sports bras. Clear rules, applied consistently, would help everyone.

We seem to have developed a dreadful habit of taking every unpleasant interaction and inflating it until it fills the internet. Must be light on for news. A stranger can be abrupt. A staff member can make a poor decision. You can feel embarrassed. All of those things deserve some perspective before we summon the entire nation to adjudicate a jacket.

I’d like airlines to spend their energy explaining delays, answering customers and getting luggage to the same city as its owner. I’d also like passengers to remember that shared spaces involve other people, most of whom are tired, uncomfortable and desperately hoping boarding will finish. They're not there to look at or comment on you tits. Sheesh.

By all means, challenge an inconsistent rule. But forgive me if I decline to join the outrage committee.

I’ve got a plane to catch, and considerably bigger things to give a fuck about.