So there I am, rushing through Hyde Park after work to the train station this evening, when I suddenly stop, ears alert, eyes darting back and forth and scanning the dark bushes beside me. There had been a groan. I know it. I heard it. It sounded like an animal in pain. Oh no! I hate hurting animals, being the bleeding heart, tree-hugging lefty that I am.

Gingerly, I push past through the bush, breathing heavily now because I suddenly realise that I am being really stupid because I have no idea what to expect and what if the animal jumps at me ’cause it’s hurt and frightened and there’s no time for me to pull out my phone to call for help and what if my face is shredded apart by said unknown animal and why is it so dark in this part of Hyde Park goddammit?

Peering behind the big old fig tree, I soon find out. It wasn’t an animal. It was two animals. They weren’t in pain. They were screwing each other. Doggy style. They were, in fact, humans. Two well-dressed, business looking idiots who obviously decided they could not wait any longer. Or perhaps it was a fetish and it was something that got them off. I don’t know how else to explain it. But you know… whatever floats their boat. Or gets them off, if they don’t have a boat.

The woman looks up, startled, and I see my startled reflection in her face. The man looks up, barely comprehending that there was now a third party, a ménage à trois of sorts, if you like. I think he was at the end of his own version of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. You know, the climatic volley of cannon fire and chiming bells. If you get my drift.

“Oh!Iamsosorrypleasedocarryondon’tletmeinterruptyousorrysorrysorry!” I dribble in a hurry as I stumble backwards, out of the bushes. And fled. Fled to the train station, trying my hardest not to laugh, past the Federal Court, past NSW Parliament House, past the State Library, before heading down Martin Place to catch the train.

Eventually, I get home and the first thing I do? Blog it. Dear readers, should you ever take a walk through Sydney’s Hyde Park, stop for NOTHING.

Unless, of course, your particular fetish is voyeurism. In which case, welcome to Sydney.

I’ve got to admit that I almost feel sorry for Andrew Bolt. Watching Gordon Ramsay on television a few weeks ago he fell in love. There was something about Gordon Ramsay — a man’s man with conservative values and masculine pride — that made Bolta’s heart beat a little faster.

I like particularly the standards Ramsay upholds and which drive him to fury when transgressed.

Ramsay, you see, thinks hard work honours man. Slackers drive him spare: “You might as well just f… off.”

He thinks if a job is to be done, it’s best done well. Sloppiness is an insult to a worker’s dignity. A moral crime.

He thinks if you’re taking a man’s wage, you owe him a day’s labour. Those who bludge on their boss are called “cheats” and the worst, like the manager of Dillons, are out the door.

He thinks reason beats irrational sentiment. If orange paintings of what seems global warming turn off customers, then too bad if the owner loves them to sentimental tears; they must go to save the restaurant.

He thinks some authority is better than none when you want things run well. Three managers in one chaotic restaurant get pared to one, despite the tears, because collectives and group fuzzies just don’t work.

Yet he also believes in loyalty and teams - the little platoons of society that are the bedrock of a community.

But just like a lot of desperate crushes this love was not to be. Imagine Andy’s feeling of rejection when he discovered that Ramsay wasn’t quite the man he believed him to be (with a bit of groupthink thrown in for good measure.)

My faith in Gordon Ramsay’s good sense has been shaken. Tim Blair exposes another eco-hypocrite - a global warming prophet in a Ferrari, and with a disturbing taste for banning other people’s little pleasures.

Having your heart broken is no joke. My thoughts are with you, Andrew.