Look, you don't have to be Grunty McFuckring to appreciate how important to our culture* is the gay street press.

Until recently, in the absence of any institutionalised responsibility for recording the community progreass and social monuments, in many cases the gay street press will be the only surviving record of Our Stories. It's our War Memorial. If the War Memorial was dumped in gutters every Wednesday morning for whoever had the energy to bend over and pick it up for free.

But srsly folks, as a rapaciously commercial document aimed squarely at gay men's minds, the gay press is a reliable, if ugly mirror for us all to consider once in a while. CASE IN POINT: check out this ad, included in this week's chronicles:

It has recently come to my attention... that gayse love a bit of their Grindr. Grindr, of course, being the nifty lil' phone app that lets you know which paftas are in the nearby vicinity, and in fact exactly how far away they are. This is either a modern miracle or the end of days, depending on your view. Either way, srsly guise, any second now they'll be dispensing trade from a vending machine on the Tokyo subway, at which point I will learn fucking Japanese.

If you've seen the Talking Poofy live show anytime in the last mesozoic era, you might have seen our live demonstration of a similar product, about ready to roll out of the TP Research Labs (proudly supported by the Ponds Institute) - Groandr!

Groandr is similar to Grindr in as much as it does give you information on the homosezzuals around you, but rather than indicate how far away they are as Grindr does, Groandr indicates how tedious they are in real life. This can save you valuable time, money and trips on the cross-town bus at 4 in the morning.

Dear Computer Journal, has it really taken me nearly a month to bring myself to write the final chapter of Talking Poofy's world tour of tediously provincial Australian state capitals?* Or is it only now, listening back to the podcasted reports of our antics that I can remember what happened? In any case, for some reason I feel the need to complete the cycle, and write a final chapter to resolve everything that occurred.

I won't test your attention/slavish fanboy devotion by repeating what you can already hear on the podcast, so let me fill in some additional blanks for you:

What sticks in my mind most persistently about that day, apart from the stench of that awful sweet champagne that had so much sugar in it, it gave diabetes to the grass I poured it out onto, is the aftermath. The next day.

 Send Santa Grunty your Christmas letters!

Have you been a good boy? Send your Christmas requests to the Poofcast's major sponsor, Grunty McFuckring, and he'll respond to them on air. Who knows? Grunty's a resourceful man, he might be able to help! It's like the Make A Wish Foundation meets the Dungeon Warehouse.

Email your letters to poofcast@talkingpoofy.com.au before Saturday if you can.

Friday November 18, 11.30am.

I don't think I really gave you a full report of the show on Wednesday night: we did the show munted on serapax, some lesbians flipped us the bird from the audience, we got a guy up onstage who was so young he was still studying for his birth certificate and then on the way home, as Scott told me, he "gambled on a fart and lost". So: that's preview night out of the way!

Human kind has never known misery like our sorry selves the next morning. Seriously, we were getting messages of condolence from Fukushima. It was very difficult preparing for the show in the evening, just because the alcohol poisoning lingering in our systems made the pre-show champagne quite a disagreeable experience.

In the end the show was great in my opinion, I really liked it although I think the audience were a bit cooler than last night, which is fucking ridiculous I cannot imagine so much as cracking a smile at the grizzled turd of entertainment we squeezed out on Wednesday, but so be it, you can argue with popularity but you'd be wrong. 

Thursday November 17, 9.30am. Adelaide.

I think I am still a bit drunk from last night, our opening night here at the Feast Festival. "Still Drunk" is probably my least favourite result from the morning lottery that is waking up after a night on TP, even less welcome the "can't move/talk" double headliner I scored in Hobart last week. 

I woke up this morning and proceeded through the standard post-TP checklist: Am I face up? Tick. Do I recognise where I am? Is it where I was aiming for? Tick. Is there anything pooled near me? No? Tick. Right, let's take a look at memories: do you have any? Patchy, Captain. Mostly bright flashes. Okay, we'll just have to work around that. Now, move your head slightly, but suddenly. How did that feel? Absolutely painless?!? O dear, that's worst possible. You sir, are still a bit drunk.

Still Drunk means you have to go through the onset of your hangover without the cover of sleep. It's like unanesthetised surgery. But it's no good wishing I'd stopped at the fourth bottle now, just have to press on.

 Well here it is! The first ever Talking Poofy Sex Survey! Hmmm... has someone been a bit overwhelmed by the Census, p'raps?

But seriously folks, almost every letter we receive at Dear Talking Poofy includes the question, "is this normal?". So we've decided, fuckit, let's find out.

The Talking Poofy Sex Survey, is probing, insightful, anonymous and only ten questions long 'cos you have to pay for more than that. Click here and let the oversharing begin!

And of course, if a random assortment of multiple choice options won't do your opinions and experinces justice, feel free to email us with your story: poofcast@talkingpoofy.com.au, or leave a comment here.

Seeya, swingers!

Look, I could explain the specific chain of events that lead me to watching this video clip*, but if it's okay with you, I'd prefer to keep that between myself and the brainwashed henchmen at Google that sell that information to marketing consultancies. Thankyou.

 I imagine watching this video is much like a night out in gay Liverpool itself, you keep waiting for the good bit to kick in, thinking to yourself, "this can't possibly be it!", right until the bitter, bitter, so very bitter, end.

* highlights include, in reverse order:

Have fun.

Dear Gays,

I know that many of you were born in the nineties and other barely-feasible bullshit like that, so not all of you will understand the full implications of this sentence: lately, I've really been getting back into Hazell Dean.

Hazell Dean was an early success for '80s Hi NRG pop svengalis, Stock Aitken and Waterman (SAW). For the '90s kids who don't know who SAW were, imagine if the Black Eyed Peas had a child with Dennis Waterman. SAW's greatest triumph was going on to invent Kylie Minogue (not the whole thing, just the shit, permed bits.).

Before Kylie however, SAW were churning out a string of ruthlessly efficient, hexagonally-drummed, minor eurohits for H to the D, including such forgettable non-classics as Whatever I Do, Who's Leaving Who and Searchin' (Looking for Love).

Hazell Would singe the top 50 from time to time and made a substantial enough name for herself, but since her last big hit (1988 number 1 in South Africa, thankyou. Apartheid? Apartyheid!) she's rather faded away to a career that now largely consists of one sordid Scandanavian pride day appearance after another.

 Hey kids! It's time for some school holiday fun! 

Spot Scott!

Solve this puzzle: can you spot Scott in the following pictures? Careful, he's pretty tricky at hiding!