Stop! You're masturbating all wrong!

Just a second, brother. I really, really need that five cents.Australia's newspapers, and I'm looking at you Fairfax, have turned to shit. The SMH should rename itself New Weekly. A breath of fresh air from the spead cheeks of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears and some obscure sex death on the other side of the planet was a piece neatly explaining the declining birth rate: men are masturbating too often and too vigorously.

The premise was that with the rise of internet porn, men are simply jacking off too much and with 'too tight a grip', and when it came to actual sex the vagina could not bring a man to orgasm because it was not like the hand, and that many men had to pull out and 'finish themselves off' manually, and I quote.

Man, has that journalist had some bad sex recently. Vagina. Hand. Vagina. Hand. Shit, I can't figure this out.

I am a master of the one string bass and a major shareholder in Kleenex, and I have managed to father one child successfully despite the death grip, so shut your fucking flapping jaw and free the pages up for some more Miranda Devine. Jesus, if I used a feather and a Kenny G album I could have been saddled with twins.

Next item on the agenda, and thanks Hans for inviting me to have a little rant and rave.

There is an ad on TV at the moment here. A distinguished gentleman with gray hair, evidently the bartender, is polishing a glass in a darkened, empty bar. At the bar sits a young Japanese pop star, who is fondling a large camera. Fondling, I tell you. Stroking it. I just hope his grip isn't too tight or fuck knows, maybe his film won't develop.

Please, Jesus. Give me the right moment to make out with my camera. Her lens is so hot.Finally, in total seriousness, he raises the camera to his lips and gives it a kiss. Without looking up, the old foreign guy says: 'Is it a Nie-kon'? and popstar, hair carefully arranged says: 'Yes. It's my tleasure'.

Fuck I hate that ad.

I also broke my rib in an incident involving a stolen promotional flag, a game of basketball and many, many beers.

My coworker is a basketball freak and he convinced me to come play on his team one day when we had the afternoon off. We drank whiskey on the walk through the city to the gym (Ohhhh! Guy-m! I love you Homer S.) and shot a couple of baskets. I was exhausted after being struck on the the head after a failed lay-up, but we fell in with a young man who wore some kind of basketball glove.

Practice over, it was time for the real deal. I was placed in a team and off I went, running up and down the court, ducking and diving, yelling things like 'I'm open!' and 'Downtown!' I got two baskets and also I passed a couple of times. Sweat beaded on the brow, man, I was EXERCISING!

After 10 minutes the whistle blew and I collapsed on the wall, spent. The next team ran on to play their quarter of a game, and I wished I could sit with all my teammates but they didn't want to know me because they were... girls!

Yes, I was placed on the girls team. And I could only play one quarter. I languished on the sidelines for the rest of the game drinking whiskey from a Sports Water bottle.

No totally awesome Japanese flag was harmed in the making of this feature.The main trouble started when we went to a bar together afterwards to drink. We had a quick couple in a bolthole (and I mean that almost literally) then barged our way through the teeming masses to this other place. I don't remember too much about the decore except Yutaka and I were sitting alone around this large wagonwheel-style table. It's the biggest bar, I was assured, for workers in Umeda, the main fandangle suburb the eye of the tiger: Osaka.

We drank many beers, Yutaka paying for all. Terribly sorry, seem to have forgotten my empty wallet, meh meh. He's a good guy.

We were getting pasted when a couple of hot girls came in and sat down and on a dare I went and invited them to sit with us. You have to understand that this is not just a regular Tuesday for me: go out and get drunk and talk to strange women in a bar. At least, the strange women and the bar part.

So, amazingly, they came over and alls I wanted was to give Yutaka a crack at them. I mean, I have the white gold dripping off the old ring finger here fellows, but my buddy is fancy free.

It didn't turn out well. One of the birds hands me her number, Yutaka gets pissed off (I think I may have passed it over to him. In front of them. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God).

We left the bar hastily, and I found this short pole on the ground. Bear in mind this is central Osaka, fucking teeming with people and noise. I started whacking him on the ankle with it. Then, in the twinking of an eye, we had a major fracas. Yutaka grabbed a 15 foot flag promoting a ramen restaurant and started taking wild swings at me. I responded by swinging my bag, laughing hysterically and probably extremely annoyingly. It connected with his arm, the bottle of Jack thunking into his bone.

Colour, light, people running, laughter from all around... then bang bang bang, my ribs were being punched, I was lifted into the air and thrown to the ground. We scuffled about for a bit, then trudged onward to the train, which we missed, and Yutaka spotted me $30 for the cab ride home.

Still have the injuries, folks. And we're still best of friends. Aparently, when he did his judo throw, he smacked his head and awoke each morning with dizziness, so mild concussion! I myself was in absolute pain for about two weeks. I am on my walking frame now and slowly gaining mobility, so I reckon we should call it a draw.

That's about all for The Baron tonight.

Thanks for listening.