I Never Liked Tania Zaetta Anyway

A few weeks ago the Australian Commercial Radio Awards were held. A person with a wankerish streak would call it “radio’s night of nights”. I have a wankerish streak, so that’s what I’m calling it.

It was radio’s night of nights!

All the radio stars hoping to win a coveted trophy attended, dressed for success; and all the provincial radio employees hoping to meet a metropolitan program director and be given a better job also attended, dressed for… a B&S ball (provincial radio = provincial pay packet and a provincial town – formal wear is hard to come by).

Despite me being neither of these things (and not even nominated for an award, a fact I have clearly made my peace with as evidenced by the mentioning of it not two paragraphs in), I also attended. I had many friends who were nominated for awards (but not me, not that I mind no that’s not a facial tic why do you ask?), and it’s always a fun night out.

A night like this is the one time a year when I will actually wear a suit. Now, I’m not fond of suits. Women say all men look good in suits, I call bullshit on that. Skinny men with no shoulders look good in suits, all squared out and smooth. Men with giant guts look good in suits, proportioned out by the boxy jacket. Men who can afford a tailor look good in suits, as they accentuate the hunky and cover the chunky.

I, meanwhile, have a decent set of shoulders, but no other discernible shape, and a disposable income well below tailor-affording status. So when I wear a suit, I look like:

- a pinstripe brick. 
- a refrigerator with lapels.
- the TARDIS (well, if the suit is blue).

Suffice it to say the idea of wearing a suit does NOT make me comfortable.

Unsurprisingly, I was not the only person in our office attending the awards feeling uncomfortable about the way they were going to look that night – there were four of us. (I was, however, the only person still bitter about not being nominated. But I’m totally over that now, obviously. Did the room just start spinning?) The four of us decided we would tackle the problem head on, and do the only thing that made sense:

We decided to do a crazy, potentially life threatening detox.

The detox was this: ten days spent living on nothing but a concoction of maple syrup, lemon juice, cayenne pepper and water. What follows is a journal I kept of my time on this detox, known as ‘The Master Cleanse’:

Day One

7:50am. I have acquired all the ingredients to start. All I have to do is squeeze the lemons, and measure out the maple syrup and cayenne pepper into my water bottle.

7:52am. Fuck this, I’m going to McDonalds for a coffee.

The End.