Funniest 500 2026 Prize Winners
Claudia Collins (First Place), Steve Gray (Second Place – Absent), Catherine Bell (Third Place)
The Funniest 500 is a new competition for members of Geelong Writers. Entry is free. This year, writers were invited to submit prose or poetry of up to 500 words in response to the theme “Hang on Tight!”. The entries were read blind by Hilary Guest, Colin Urquhart and Sharon Smith, who compiled the shortlist. Thank you, Hilary, Colin and Sharon! Martin Smith kindly accepted the difficult task of determining the funniest of these submissions, and the place winners. Thank you, Martin!
For those writers who didn’t make the shortlist this year, we appreciate the time and effort put into your submission and we encourage you to keep writing! There are more competitions and opportunities to acknowledged your hard work in the future.
Terms of the competition are:
- Write to the theme: Hang on Tight!
- Limit your work to 500 words. Use 12pt Garamond
- Entries can be fiction or non-fiction, any genre
- Give your work an original title (not included in the word count)
- Your name should not appear anywhere on your work as the pieces will be judged anonymously
- Entrants must be paid members of Geelong Writers
- Limit of one entry per member
- Our house style is Australian Standard: singular quotations and Australian spelling
- Have fun and be funny!
ADJUDICATOR COMMENTS
Humour is in the eyes of the reader. One person’s comedy can be another person’s tragedy, so I acknowledge that when it came to judging the Finest 500 shortlist, my judgement, though guided by the set criteria, was subjective. Writing humour is not easy, particularly when restricted to 500 words. Stories of humour can often plunge into anecdote and/or vulgarity, yet the stories shortlisted rose above those limitations to be funny, well-written and addressed the prompt. Indeed, the allocation of prizes could have gone to any of them.
Based on the judging criteria, I have judged the prize winners as follows:
First Prize
A Misadventure of a Pair of Flares by Claudia Collins
This story is about a fashion crisis; indeed, the horrors of haute couture. Its telling is very funny and self-deprecating throughout, yet it has a subtext that speaks to female vulnerability and unconscious bias in our modern world. The story’s last scene is unexpected and has a punchline that is, in my opinion, the best line of the stories shortlisted. Congratulations, Claudia.
Second Prize
Day One, Let’s Teach by Steve Gray
This story is about the vicious cycle of surviving in the jungle. The modern secondary classroom, that is. Its opening sentence packs a punch, and it maintains its humour throughout the story. It has some wonderful similes and one-liners. The response to the prompt was excellent. Congratulations, Steve.
Third Prize
Nowhere to Hide by Catherine Bell
This story is a cautionary tale about the perils of mixing alcohol, leisure and bath oil. Like all good short stories of humour, it captures a sliver of life in a hilarious and memorable way. The clever transition from tranquillity to chaos, and the resulting consequences of over-indulgence (both wine and oil), made it a fun read. Congratulations, Catherine.
Highly Commended
Father Figure by Chloe Paige
This story is a wonderful and funny take on generational change, idolisation and reality not quite living up to expectation. For 500 words, it is rich in the duality of its themes. Its humour is nuanced and it addresses the prompt in a subtle way. I really enjoyed this story, and I’ll admit that of all the shortlisted stories, this one has lingered in my memory the most. Congratulations, Chloe.
My thanks to Hilary, Colin and Sharon for providing such a challenging shortlist. And thanks to Geelong Writers for allowing me to judge what I hope will be an annual and ongoing writing competition for its members.
Keep on laughing!
Martin Smith
martinsmithstories.com
All 10 shortlisted works are published below. A chapbook can be purchased through our Publications page. Please enjoy!
FIRST PLACE
A Misadventure of a Pair of Flares
Claudia Collins
My op-shop find, a pair of black velvet flares with a draw-string waist that you tie into a bow at the front, was just the thing for my Saturday night performance with our band. I teamed them with a hot pink top and a fringed black velvet vest. The gig went off without a hitch. ‘Can I pull out now?’ I asked the sound engineer. He nodded and I yanked out the guitar lead. Without realising it, I also pulled the drawstring of my new flares. There was a rustle of fabric as they slithered south, pooling around my ankles. Luckily, a guitar hides a multitude of sins!
The other musos were busy packing up. No one noticed as I bent down to reef my pants back up. No one except for our drummer. He couldn’t miss it! Still seated at the drums directly behind me, Kevin gave a loud chortle at the sight of my little black G-string and my bare white bottom. Still laughing, he beat the drum with a quick boom-boom in appreciation. Red-faced, I packed my guitar into its case and left the stage.
I wore them again for a solo performance at a local bar. The bar was warm and welcoming, and the owner was very generous with the drinks rider. When the show was over, I picked up my guitar case and wandered out the door. My guitar case was heavy and possibly contributed to my off-kilter walk home. On arrival, I put the case on the ground near the front door. I had difficulty inserting the key in the lock. Closing one eye seemed to help.
I managed to open the door after dropping the keys once or twice. While sliding my hand down the inside of the architrave to find the light switch, I heard the chirp-chirp sound of a bird. The neighbour’s cat has caught a poor little bird, I thought.
‘Don’t worry, little birdie, I’ll rescue you!’ I slurred and slowly approached the cat. She dropped her prey, which was not a bird but a dirty great big river rat! The rat shot up the leg of my flares. I pulled the drawstring and ripped them off. The rat hung on for dear life! Having the presence of mind not to run inside, I took off across the road, screaming and whip-cracking the pants like a rodeo rider. Halfway across the road the rat let go and ran back towards my house. I kept running and screaming.
I ran six doors down to my friend Margaret’s house and banged on her door. She opened the door a crack and peered out at me standing in my undies, still clutching the flares in my hand.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been attacked by a rat,’ I replied.
‘They’re all rats,’ she drawled. Shutting the door on me, she returned to her bed.
‘These flares must be cursed,’ I muttered on the walk back home. ‘It’s back to the op-shop for them!’
SECOND PLACE
Day One, Let’s Teach
Steve Gray
If my first day as the new English teacher at Bogan’s Creek High was a horse, you’d have shot it by morning tea time.
I rocked up at 8:00 am, feeling like a million bucks in a fresh Kmart tie, only to realise I’d left my brain in the toaster. I was juggling a stack of books big enough to give a mountain goat vertigo when I hit a stray patch of floor-wax. I didn’t just slip; I performed a fully blown interpretive dance. My books went airborne like a flock of startled cockies and scattered across the corridor. As I was down on all fours scrambling for my dignity, the principal walked past.
‘Rough start, mate?’ he asked, dry as a dead dingo’s you-know-what.
‘Just testing the friction coefficients, sir,’ I wheezed.
Then came the Great Classroom Quest. Bogan’s Creek High is built like a rabbit warren designed by a bloke who’d had six too many beers at lunch. I spent ages wandering G-Block; sweat under my arms felt like ink on blotting paper. I eventually burst into Room 4B, panting like a lizard on a hot tin roof, only to realise I was at the start of a Year 10 Woodwork class. The teacher, a man who looked like he’d been carved out of an old stump, just stared, raised one eyebrow and smiled.
‘Looking for Year 7 Poetry?’ He mused. ‘That’s two buildings over. Keep left at the smell of burnt toast.’
By the time I found my actual class, I was a shambles. I tried to do the ‘cool teacher’ roll call. Big mistake. I looked at the list and my brain short-circuited. I called out ‘Jay-den’ as ‘J-Done,’ and ‘Siobhan’ came out sounding like ‘Shov-on.’ But the real kicker was poor ‘D’Artagnan.’ I squinted, panicked, and called out, ‘Is … uh … Dart-Vader here?’ The class erupted. A kid in the back with a mullet that deserved its own postcode, just shook his head. ‘It’s Dar-tan-yun, sir.’
Lunchtime was supposed to be my sanctuary. I sat in the staffroom, ready to demolish a leftover spaghetti bolognese. I unzipped my bag, and, in a feat of physics that defied the laws of nature, my lunchbox lid gave way. My lunch didn’t just spill; it ejected. A red wave of pasta and sauce slathered across the communal table, narrowly missing the deputy principal’s white blouse. It looked like a crime scene involving a very messy Italian mobster. I just sat there, holding a single, lonely meatball with my plastic fork.
‘Want a piece of my Vegemite sandwich, champ?’ the cleaner asked as he passed me some paper towel.
The final blow? The 3:30 pm bell. I trudged to the car park, only to find my Corolla looking like a sad pancake. The rear left tyre was flatter than a squashed toad.
I just stood there, tie askew, smelling like canned tomatoes and failure, and thought: Only 199 school days to go.
THIRD PLACE
Nowhere to Hide
Catherine Bell
Not a stitch on me. Too weak to move. Can’t do a thing about it.
Sunset’s pink glow floods in through the bathroom windows. Hot water hisses and gushes from the taps. The bathtub fills. Steam drifts like clouds, forming halos around flickering, fragrant candles on the windowsill.
‘A birthday treat, a twilight soak,’ I say.
I upend a bottle of bath oil into the bath, a birthday present from the grandchildren. A satiny slick soon settles on the surface.
I slip into the warm oily water and bubble under. My skin feels soft and blubbery like that of a seal. A half-finished bottle of Tim Adam’s Pinot Gris is waiting by the side of the bath.
‘Another birthday wine,’ I smile, filling my glass again.
Elvis keeps me company as my ageing, arthritic body luxuriates in the warmth.
Well, it’s one for the money, two for the show,
Three to get ready, now go, cat, go.
I turn the volume a notch up and croon along. Our voices bounce off the bathroom walls. Another glass of wine. My head is spinning.
Well, you can knock me down, step on my face
Slander my name all over the place …
Eventually, the water cools and the light fades. I drain the last of the wine, noticing how my fingers and toes are puckering like wrinkly old prunes.
‘Time to get out,’ I say, grabbing the sides of the bath.
But it’s impossible to stand up. There’s no traction. The bathtub is oily, as is the water, as is my body. I slither and slide like riding a slippery dip at a sideshow. I try sitting sideways, crouching on all fours, holding both sides of the bath and pushing up. Each time, I flop back down, and waves of water slosh over the floor.
My body is weary now, devoid of strength. I pull out the plug and empty the bath.
Shivering and shaking,
Turning blue,
Covered with goosebumps like a plucked cockatoo.
Elvis is reading the room.
We’re caught in a trap,
I can’t walk out.
With shaking fingers, I punch triple zero into my iPhone.
‘Fire, ambulance or police?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, slurring my words. ‘I. Am. Stuck. In. The. Bath.’
‘Contacting the local CFA, madam. Hang on tight. Stay where you are.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I reply, gritting my teeth.
Wailing sirens, screeching brakes, the door bursts open. Bright yellow jackets crowd the room.
Turning their backs. Wiggling their bottoms. Swivelling their hips. Serenading the shivering mess curled up in the bath.
Are you lonesome tonight?
Is your heart filled with pain, shall I come back again?
Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?
I can’t show my face in town now. Not after the plumber, electrician and publican have seen me naked and inebriated in the bath.
That’s the thing about small towns like mine. There’s always someone to help. But there’s nowhere to hide.
HIGHLY COMMENDED
Father Figure
Chloe Paige
Healthy Harold has seen better days.
That’s all Active Annie can think as she meets the sentient giraffe puppet reclining on the frayed couch in the back of the Life Ed van inconveniently parked on the school’s netball court.
But Annie’s keeping her thoughts to herself because this is the Healthy Harold. An icon! Even if his ears are clearly restitched and his yellow fabric is now a colour resembling the whisky he nurses, this is still her idol. Annie was raised on Harold’s healthy lifestyle teachings. He’s basically the dad she never had.
Harold clears his throat, and Annie realises she’s gaping at him. Holy moly, Annie! Get it together! She’s blowing her dream job on her first day. She’s an actress, for goodness’ sake—a professional. And she’s going to be a darn good role model for these kids!
Annie! Focus!
Annie sticks out her youthful koala puppet paw. ‘Da—I mean, Mr Harold, I’m your biggest fan. My name’s—’
‘You’re my replacement, huh?’ The giraffe puppet grunts and looks her over, puffing on his crochet cigarette. Grey yarn spills from its tip and pools on the couch.
‘Course they’d hire a koala,’ he continues dryly. ‘How Australian.’
‘Oh, HR thought—I mean—’ Annie stifles a chuckle. ‘I promise I’m koalafied for the job, sir.’
Silence. Years of acting classes flash before her eyes. She can’t improv out of a bad pun.
Harold sips his whisky. The knitted ice cubes swirl around the glass of golden-brown cotton. ‘Listen, Eucalyptus. Kids are a different breed these days. Don’t bother with the jokes. You’ve got about ten seconds before their attention’s gone, so keep the material moving. The Tic Tac has buggered their concentration.’
‘Um. Do you mean TikTok?’
‘Whatever. Just don’t forget to talk about vaping. Otherwise, you’ll have folks up your arse for weeks. Trust me, the fewer hands involved, the better.’
The van wobbles from today’s first batch of human kids barrelling inside. Their chatter slices straight through the thin wall separating them. Straight into Annie’s nerves.
‘Break a leg, Drop Bear,’ Harold murmurs, pointing his cigarette at the black curtain Annie’s supposed to step through. ‘Smack your head on the way out. Kids love that shit.’
Annie wrings her paws. Nods. She can do this. Harold’s only here to give feedback. She knows the script. Annie was hired for her talent. Definitely not because HR wanted a native puppet, and that Fit Fred was too carnivorous, but he was just being a dingo and—
Focus, Annie!
Harold sighs, dropping his cigarette in his whisky. ‘Watch and learn, kid.’
He stands and headbutts the wall. ‘Oi! Let’s go! One last show!’
Harold slips through the curtain. The kids cheer. Spotlights pour through the gap in the curtain and Annie rushes forward to watch.
For a moment, Annie’s a freshly stitched joey again, watching a legend at work. He moves effortlessly. He clutches their attention. It’s art. It’s poetry. It’s Healthy Harold.
‘Bravo,’ Annie whispers. ‘Bravo.’
SHORTLISTED
The Wind Beneath My Orthopaedics
Glen Donaldson
Ethelbert “Ethel” Higgins was not a woman of half-measures. At eighty-two, she had already survived three husbands, the Great Depression and the introduction of the kale smoothie. But nothing prepared her son, Arthur, for the moment the credits rolled on the 1996 cinematic masterpiece, Escape from L.A.
As Kurt Russell’s Snake Plissken glided over a dystopian California, Ethel’s eyes didn’t just sparkle; they ignited. She turned to Arthur, her knitting needles clicking like a countdown clock.
‘Arthur,’ she rasped, ‘if that man with the greasy hair and the eye patch can soar over a volcanic wasteland, I can certainly manage a light drift over the Poconos.’
‘Mom, that was a stunt double,’ Arthur pleaded. ‘And a green screen. And arguably the worst CGI of the nineties.’
Ethel wasn’t listening. She was already online, Googling “glider rentals near me” and “leather eye patches (bulk)”.
Three days later, Ethel stood at the edge of a jagged cliff, strapped into a contraption that looked like a giant nylon moth. Her instructor, a sun-bleached youth named Sky—who clearly hadn’t lived long enough to develop a sense of self-preservation—looked nervous. Ethel, meanwhile, was wearing a sleeveless leather vest she’d liberated from a thrift store and a pair of wraparound Oakley sunglasses.
‘Now, Mrs Higgins,’ Sky began, ‘when I say run, you run.’
‘I don’t run, Sky. I march toward destiny,’ Ethel corrected.
The wind picked up. Sky shouted, ‘Clear!’ and Ethel took three surprisingly athletic strides before the Earth simply gave up on her. For a moment, there was silence. Then, there was the scream. It wasn’t a scream of terror, but a war cry that sounded suspiciously like she was trying to gargle gravel.
‘I’m doing it, Arthur!’ she roared into the wind. ‘I’m escaping L.A.!’
She wasn’t in L.A. She was over a suburban golf course in New Jersey, but to Ethel, the water hazard was a pit of molten lava and the man in the plaid polo on the fourth green was a hostile insurgent.
Determined to channel her inner Snake, Ethel attempted a “tactical manoeuvre”. This consisted of her frantically kicking her legs as if she were riding an invisible bicycle. The glider dipped violently.
‘Whoa there, Bessie!’ she yelled at the wing.
As she drifted lower, she realized her landing strip was the local botanical gardens’ annual “Tea and Tulips” festival. Most pilots aim for a soft patch of grass; Ethel aimed for the gazebo. She came in hot, her floral-print orthopaedic sneakers narrowly missing a tiered tray of cucumber sandwiches.
She skidded across the lawn, the giant wing collapsing over a group of stunned socialites like a polyester shroud. After a moment of muffled swearing, Ethel’s head popped through a tear in the fabric. Her glasses were crooked, and she had a petunia tucked behind her ear.
She looked at the horrified crowd, adjusted her leather vest and whispered, ‘The name’s Plissken.’
SHORTLISTED
A Day on the Farm
Chris Scheiner
I was relaxing with a lovely cold pinot gris under our glorious magnolia tree by the pool when disaster struck. My husband, James, had been cooling off with a cheeky skinny dip in the pool after a hot day on the harvester and was towelling himself dry when the pool pump emitted a sound like pebbles being churned in a blender. He raced over to the pump box, quickly turned the power off and then made the mistake of bending down on all fours to inspect the pump for damage at the exact same time Hannibal, our bad-tempered farm cat, was strolling by.
Confronted with James’ bare buttocks, Hannibal spied what he must have assumed was a new type of rodent dangling between the uplifted cheeks. Powerless to avert the impending disaster, I watched the train wreck, or more succinctly, the testicular wreck, unfold. In my defence, I was well into my second glass of wine …
With lethal accuracy, Hannibal launched himself at the perceived rodent like a guided missile, teeth and claws out. Unfortunately for James, it was a direct strike and Hannibal hung on tightly for a moment, suspended in mid-air like an obscene Christmas tree bauble.
James shrieked loud enough to empty the magnolia tree of a large flock of birds that had been sheltering within its cool canopy. He sounded astoundingly like a soprano belting out a line from the Queen of the Night aria from The Magic Flute. I almost peered behind the garden shrubbery looking for the rest of the operatic cast and came very close to crying out “Bravo!”. But I digress …
Simultaneously, two things happened. James reared up sideways, hit his head on a pipe and knocked himself out. Hannibal, tardily realising his error, flung himself away from the crime scene and scampered off towards the machinery shed. This at least saved me the unhappy task of having to pluck an angry cat from my husband’s nether region, but not before he’d left the area looking like a Jackson Pollock painting.
James began to stir just as I was trying to work out exactly what I would say to the emergency services. “My husband has been involved in an incident on our farm. He has bites and scratches to his scrotum and a head wound” somehow didn’t sound quite right. Thankfully, James soon regained consciousness and appeared relatively unhurt, apart from a nasty bump on his forehead and some superficial lacerations to his groin.
In a perverse act of revenge, James insisted on taking him for his appointment when it was time for Hannibal to be desexed, so I think there may still be some residual psychological issues that need resolving.
Hannibal went on to live a long and charmed life with us, and our sheds were always free of rodents thanks to his superior hunting skills. But he never saw, much less had the opportunity to hunt, another Bare-buttocks Dangler.
SHORTLISTED
A Circus Act
Adam Stone
Benny usually enjoyed staying with his grandma during the school holidays. She was a rotund and sweet woman. Her sister, Great Auntie Bessie, also lived there. She was also rotund, but not as sweet. She had a moustache, and young Benny tried to avoid kissing her for fear of having his cheek cut to ribbons by the stubble above her lip. The best-case scenario was a rash that looked like his cheek had been used to wax a surfboard.
Aunt Bessie often got her phrases mixed up. One was, The wings beneath my wind. Benny’s dad said that Aunt Bessie didn’t need any extra help with her wind.
Another of her common phrases was, A bird in hand is worth two bushes.
‘One bird, one bush,’ Benny’s dad said, and his mum said, ‘Stop it, Peter!’ and playfully slapped his shoulder.
Aunt Bessie was oblivious.
Benny usually slept on a camp bed in the lounge room; however, one holiday, it was on loan, and he was asked to sleep with Aunt Bessie in her high bed.
‘Don’t look,’ said Aunt Bessie, as she stood in the corner to change into her nightgown. Of course, Benny snuck a look, and was so bewildered by what he saw that he lost his balance on the edge of the bed. As he teetered, he hung on for dear life but ultimately fell to what he feared, in that nanosecond, a certain death.
As Benny fell from the great height of the high bed, he realised he had not placed the potty completely under the bed after using it and felt like the acrobat he saw at Silvers Circus the previous summer, in the empty paddock next to Bunnings, in Leopold. The acrobat dived from a high wire into a bucket of water. Well, he didn’t actually make it into the bucket. He had three attempts, and the best he did was knock the bucket over with an outstretched hand.
Benny’s Dad said, ‘What did you expect? It’s just another clown in Leopold!’
Like that clown, Benny was hoping he would miss the bucket, or rather, the potty. He didn’t completely land in it, but his rashed cheek managed to catch the side of the potty, and the contents spilt over onto his face. Aunt Bessie stood over him, half-undressed, and with her teeth removed, her gums were a-flappin’ as she laughed hysterically. Her spittle was raining in from all angles, and Benny began to gag on his own urine. Worst of all, he realised Aunt Bessie was pointing at his crotch, and he looked down his urine-soaked pyjama top to see the head of his pencil-thin noodle sticking out from the fly in his pyjama bottoms. His great-aunt hacked a laugh so loud (was there some satisfaction in that laugh?) that it got the Dalmatian next door excited, which, in the duplex, felt like the dog was in the wall, also mocking poor Benny.
Oh, the shame!
SHORTLISTED
How Do You Solve a Problem Like Baron Von Trapp? Strong Silent Type, or Sexist Pig?
Fiona Lynch
It would be hard to resist a woman who sings sweetly about strudel, noodles and schnitzel. Especially when she can whip curtains into playsuits for children. But this raises two fundamental questions—what exactly did Maria see in Baron von Trapp, and when the children climbed sycamores, did the brocade chafe?
While subverting Nazis is definitely a pro, his online dating profile would have plenty of cons—unemployed single dad with seven children seeks woman to raise and educate his family—previous military experience essential, ex-nuns preferred. Pegged on a continuum from surly to emotionally bankrupt, why was the Baron considered such a catch? As a retired naval captain, surely Georg’s best days were behind him.
It’s in the outtakes that we see what lured Maria. After almost-seventeen Liesl skimmed the benches in the gazebo, the Baron beckoned his sodden daughter for a fireside chat. Off the scale for sensing and intuition in a recent Myers-Briggs test, the Baron felt buoyed to share his perspective about Rolf Gruber. Peppered with telegram-boys-won’t-cut-it messaging, he painted Rolf’s character, or lack thereof—dodgy, duplicitous, and a little too blonde.
While the Baron understood the allure of a velvet-skinned rogue, he needed to school naïve Liesl. With a heading Takes One to Know One, he used a whiteboard to draw a Venn diagram. At the intersection of all women and bad-boy paramours, there was only one man. Von Trapp esquire. Sadly, like a tampered Mercedes, Leisl and Rolf were a non-starter, and she was overcome.
Sitting on the So-Long-Farewell stairs, Maria studies this tender moment, eyes welling more than the gazebo guttering. Her head reels, heart thrums, and to steady herself, she clutches the baluster tighter than a crampon in a hiking boot. Brow dipped, her fingers slide up and down a spindle, and it’s obvious what she’s thinking—this is a patrician who knows women better than they know themselves. She sighs. Good teeth. Great posture. Tall. On the inside. A man with stamina and spirit. A Seabiscuit among nags. And she wants a piece of that.
Logs hiss and crackle, and the muffled shriek of Gretl being suffocated by older children wafts down. Liesl spoons her father’s monogrammed slippers. And then the moment Maria is truly open to love, the instant she knows he is her favourite thing—Georg leans down to pat his daughter’s russet locks, then reaches for an instrument to ease her sonorous sobs. Not the foghorn of service days, nor his trusty tin whistle. As every woman knows, nothing says ‘marry me’ like a man singing a fake national anthem on a K-Mart guitar.
SHORTLISTED
Hanging Out, Port Macquarie
Jim Fyfe
Ever been dumped by a wave so hard that you’re not sure which way is up? Your eyes are so full of salt, sand and water that seeing is impossible. Everything is a blur of spray, kids on boogie boards, teenage girls screaming and old people clutching each other, getting in your way as you try to get a secure footing against the waves and undertow.
Falling on your face a second time in knee-deep water with your boardshorts around your ankles is just plain stupid. You ask yourself, how far was I walking in knee-deep water? And, where are those shorts now? Google won’t help you there!!
The schoolie chorus ‘we’re going home in the back of a Divvie van’ has faded from memory, but next day the excellent surf is begging to be revisited.
Nothing gets you closer to nature than pitting yourself against the force of a wave. That spurt of energy to keep pace with the wall, that feeling of being sucked up to the top, and, as it reaches critical height, to be catapulted out ahead of the swell as it breaks. Head out of the white water, dipping a shoulder to angle across the wave, shoulders hunched, arms back channelling the water smoothly; it all works to minimise drag. A somersault to land on your feet in the shallows to finish with a flourish and feel extra good about communing with the elements of life. Woo-hoo!!
I prefer the comfy trunk-style undies that Pat Rafter advertises. But I suspect Pat never road-tested his in the surf. That broad elastic band gets a bit tired, it starts to pucker a bit, and you know they’re a bit passed it, but they’ve never fallen off under jeans!
This ride was going very well. But then the need for drag-free running came into play. I lost forward momentum, like towing a sea-anchor, now engulfed in white water, pushing me to the bottom, end over end while hanging on grimly to my shorts.
The comfort benefits of double-ply cotton are appreciated when dry, but the surge of water through my shorts got the better of the undies waistband making them balloon out behind me with a force to rival the one that stops fighter jets landing on an aircraft carrier.
I hit the sandbar with the wave dragging me through the crowd, my undies collecting sand like a Bobcat bucket. Imagine how hard it is to stand with a ten kilo white sandbag hanging out the leg of your shorts!
If I undid the shorts to retrieve the undies, I risked losing everything and being back to where I was yesterday. Searching for a sharp shell to cut the undies adrift I heard a young voice yell ‘Daddy, it’s that nudie man again!!’.
The police escort to the plane was good. The bruising from boogie board-wielding fathers is going down. Think I’ll drop a note to Pat Rafter about his undies.
SHORTLISTED
Intraoperative Seizures With Rapid-Onset Midfacial Flushing: A Case Report
Thomas Brasher
‘Midline incision complete. Intern–’
‘Yes, Doctor?’
I eyed my intern: messy hair, pyjama-like scrubs, too eager. Soon it’ll be her turn. ‘It’s Professor Lighton. I didn’t spend twenty years in surgery to be demoted to doctor.’
‘Yes, Doc—Professor.’
‘Very well. Hold the retractors here. Pull, and hang on tight. There’s no place for heavy-handedness in this operation, got it?’ She nodded. ‘Let’s proceed.’
The case was complicated: multiple foreign bodies. Approaching the first—
JOLT!
‘Doctor Bibbs, our patient is not fully anaesthetised.’
The anaesthetist woke up, frowned, and hit the machine. And again. Some people just aren’t built for delicate work. With the third whack, the patient settled.
‘Thanks.’ I reached back in—
‘Are you sure you want to try that again?’ asked the scrub nurse. ‘You can’t just dive in and hope for the best. I could do better with one hand on suction.’
‘This procedure requires steady hands; the precision of a surg … well, me.’
I proceed carefully. There it is! ‘Voilà! A furcula! Common name?’
My intern lit up. ‘A wishbone! Sam should watch what he eats.’
‘Remind me to bill him for dietary advice.’ One down, three to go. ‘Now for the posterior object, I’ll have to manually extract from behind the liver. Intern! Pull tighter.’
My hands reached in and found two curved rods. I extracted them carefully. ‘Two supernumerary lumbar ribs.’ Curious.
Then it hit me—the smell every surgeon fears: a perf. But I’d been careful; nowhere near the bowel. Unless …
‘Alright, who flatulated?’
Silence. Puzzled looks.
‘Let rip? Farted?’
‘Really, John?’ The scrub nurse stood, eyebrow raised, arms crossed.
‘Really. That smell means one of two things: a bowel perforation, or someone has conducted a colorectal pressure-release procedure. Who was it?’
My intern shook her head.
The scrub nurse glared.
The anaesthetist averted his gaze and turned to his machine.
‘Doctor Bibbs, I hope this isn’t another Code Brown.’
The anaesthetist’s eyes remained fixed on the machine.
I returned to my patient. The last object. ‘Now for the soft-tissue density in the rectovesical pouch. Forceps!’ My intern obliged. ‘This is the type of manoeuvre they don’t teach anymore.’
‘Yeah, they stopped teaching that in ’64.’
I scanned the theatre: no culprit. Resuming, I guided the forceps in. The breadbasket. Almost there—
‘Arrrgh! Surgeon’s cramp!’
‘I can grab it!’ cried my intern.
‘I’ve got it!’ A butterfly-shaped blur flew past my head. ‘Hang on t—’
Too late. My intern released the retractors.
The patient seized, his nose flushing an alarming shade of crimson.
Silence.
‘Doctor Bibbs?’ I asked cautiously.
The anaesthetist looked at me, the slice of bread in my forceps, the patient, his machine, and finally the floor. He shook his head.
‘We’ve lost him,’ I gasped. ‘Get the defib!’
‘That won’t work, Professor Lighton,’ teased the scrub nurse. ‘His heart is on the trolley, broken and waiting to be implanted. That operation needs steadier hands.’ She passed forceps to my intern.
‘My turn now, Daddy!’ she said, beaming.
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