In the car the other day, with the radio tuned to an unfamiliar station, I happened upon a song about some miserable sap (probably a leftist) whose girlfriend had given him the arse. My ears pricked up immediately, because I’d never heard this theme expounded in popular music before.

The chorus went a little something like this:

So tell me
Why should I let you go
Give me twenty good reasons
I need to know

Twenty. Presumably this means if the ex only managed to come up with 19 bulletproof reasons for hating this fellow’s guts, he’d politely decline her request to be free of him and continue stalking her.

Sounds perfectly reasonable to me. Surely anyone who’d write a song about not being able to accept that a relationship is over is bound to be a top bloke and a good catch. Hell, the missus just probably never truly appreciated how much he adored her and how lucky she was — the ungrateful, aloof cow!

But then, today, I googled the lyrics of the chorus and discovered the song was by the hilariously named Thirsty Merc:

Suddenly I understood that one good reason was all the justification she’d ever need:

Rai, my dear, you have a moustache that looks as though you’ve dropped your dessert spoon at the Coogee Bay Hotel and thought: “You know what? To hell with it. I’m just going to eat this complimentary gelato with my face.”

As such, I find the very thought of touching you repugnant and would sooner engage in sexual congress with a frightened echidna than spend another minute in your company.

Now please, get out of my hydrangeas. And take that fucking guitar with you.

Perfect headline, isn’t it? Politics, shit and sweets, all rolled up in one irresistible package, promising a tale that couldn’t possibly disappoint.

And it doesn’t.

The short version of the story, just in case any Andrew Bolt readers have stumbled by (we all know you imbeciles don’t bother reading links), is that a woman kicked up a fuss over seating at a pub function and was allegedly given a free bowl of poo-smeared ice cream as a “placatory gesture”.

I worked in the hospitality industry for many years and saw some horrendous things (and heard of worse) … but this despicable act would take the chocolates, so to speak.

Anyway, here’s the bit that really impressed me:

Ms Whyte said she realised something was amiss when she brought a spoonful to her lips and “the stench went through my nostrils”.

“I retched and spat it out into the napkin,” she told News Ltd.

Notice the missing sentence between those two? I imagine it went something like this:

“SO I TOOK A BITE ANYWAY…”

Fair. Fucking. Dinkum. What would have to have been on this woman’s ice cream to dissuade her from putting a spoonful into her gob?