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.

The NSW government, copping a flogging for setting up ‘pope police’, says the World Youth Day organisers wanted anti-annoyance laws; the organisers say they wanted no such thing. Australians are richer than ever – but apparently we’re depressed because of it. The cops are called on Ben Fordham, after he takes a break from schmoozing with underworld thugs to chase down a parliamentary thug. A vigilante newspaper in (you guessed it) Queensland may be charged with stalking because it’s hounding a released pedophile. Starbucks will shed 600 stores and 12,000 jobs, as people finally realise their coffee is shit. And having reached his 90th birthday, Nelson Mandela is finally off the US terrorist watch list (obviously at 89 he was still capable of sabotage, assassination and maelstrom).

What a busy news day. The world seems to be going mad … I blame teachers, global warming nutters and Gough Whitlam.

I’ve been working late shifts these past couple of weeks, which means having to take taxis home in the wee hours of the morning.

Two nights ago I was driven home by a lovely bloke from a less-travelled part of India, in which I happen to have spent some time. We traded stories about his charming city, the fine cuisine of South India, and spoke of the challenges he’s faced in leaving his wife and new-born son while chasing a better life for them all in Australia — where, sadly, he’s made few friends in the six months he’s been here.

All in all it was a dandy chat, and he introduced himself formally before I got out at my house, shaking my hand (twice) and wishing me all the best. I, of course, wished him more of the same.

Imagine my surprise, then, when last night — at the same cab rank — the same taxi driver emerged from the shadows of the city laneway, intercepting me on the way to the first cab on the rank (not his) and saying: “Oh, my goodness, what a coincidence! Come, come, I think I remember where you live.”

It was 1.30am and he looked more than a little dishevelled. And I swear I didn’t imagine his surreptitious glance at his watch as he shepherded me towards his taxi.

The first few minutes of the ride were a bit quiet, until the driver let loose in a torrent what he’d obviously been mulling over for the best part of 24 hours:

“You remember last night how you said you wanted to visit India again, well if you do would you do my family the honour of staying with us, we will provide everything and you will want for nothing and my wife will cook all of your favourite foods like idli and sambar and chutney and vadai, you remember saying you liked them last night, yes, well please, please, would you stay, it would be the greatest honour!”

Stalking: treading the fine line between sweet and creepy since 1982.