/end communication

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Ahah! Sound the victory horns and roll out the red carpet; I’ve reached my final destination! Today marks the end of the line for me. 179 days later, bankingcommish comes to a close! For those of you who initially pledged money on the assumption that I’d never reach this point, I’ve got one thing to say to all of you…

“Nah naa na naaah naaah!”

Seriously though, no amount of money was really going to be enough for what ended up being basically a second job for me for the last 6 months. At some stages, I was spending more than 2-3 hours a night on posts due to insufferable writer’s block. It reminded me of the good old days when I was at university, leaving my assignments until the last minute and then scrambling to get them finished before deadline. Yes, it was like that, except for 6 months without a break. Suffice to say, it probably hasn’t been the best for my health, so my new year’s resolution will definitely entail not taking any further stupid bets that cause me to stay up to 12 midnight every night for half a year, drunk.

I feel it only fitting that the last post is written in my hometown of Devonport, a source of a huge amount of material for this blog. Devonport, a place where dangerously overweight couples lumber unsteadily, at an excruciatingly slow pace, into discount variety stores, hand in hand, creating foot-traffic-jams behind them. Devonport, a place where I just saw a bumper sticker that read, ‘If they are gunna call it tourist season, why the bloody hell can’t we shoot them then?’ Devonport, a place where there are more fried chicken take-away food outlets per standard city block than anywhere else in the world. Devonport, a place where a person is known by the type of vehicle they drive instead of the type of person they are e.g. “You know, Bazza, drives the yellow Gemini with the white racing stripe?”

Time to put myself back into a positive frame of mind for the New Year.

Before I go, some quick statistics:

Words written: Over 90,000 (more than an average thesis!)

Page Views: 13,642

Most viewed post: ‘South of the river’ (327 views)

Comments: 58

Countries reached (countries that have searched a term and landed on my site): 70

Most searched term to link to page: moustache (search term bankingcommish came in 3rd!)

Weirdest search term to link to BC page: ‘pissing cocks’

Funniest search term to link to a BC page: ‘foodie cunts’


Please ensure that, if you haven’t already paid (thank you to the number of you who already have), that you do so immediately. I waited 6 months for your money, don’t make me wait any longer…

Acc Name: Casey J Knight

Acc #:  1028 7998

BSB: 067 402

Amount: (Whatever you pledged)
Reference: Your name (and a crude word)


Thanks for reading. Goodbye.



Self-Indulgent Penultimate Post.

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I spent the majority of this morning sending a multitude of texts, tweets & Facebook messages rounding up pledge money for bankingcommish; the last thing I’m going to allow to happen is for all of this horseshit blog work to be for fucking naught, that’s for sure! So, this is an open letter to all of you; if you pledged me money 6 months ago, it’s time to pay up, fuckers!

A large component of this blog is comprised of me shit-canning basically everything and everyone to the point that my soul could potentially be forever broken. I must admit, it is with some sadness that I’ll finish my last post tomorrow, however, there are a number of things that I won’t miss, namely; the lack of sleep (always used to finish my posts at 11.55pm), having to cut short social events to rush home and write, trying to belt out 400 words on my iPhone on a tram, being ‘outed’ by my footy club, suffering chronic writer’s block that only 2 bottles of corner-shop Shiraz can alleviate… the list goes on.

Realistically, the sadness will only really arise from the change of routine I’ll now be undertaking; in the same way that kidnapping victims often fall in love with their abductors, bankingcommish has grown on me like a barnacle to the hull of an ocean liner. Truth be told, I’m fucking stoked to see the back of this! It’s like a gigantic weight being lifted off of me. Hell, I might even write about something I actually like for this post to celebrate the end of days, as it were, for the blog.



I bought a real piece of shit motorbike (an old ex-Tasmanian Police BMW K100) from a guy (who was clearly down on his luck, might I add) in one of the poorer suburbs of Hobart 14 months ago. It was big, ugly, had a homemade spray-job and was in really bad nick. It wasn’t even registered at the time. He wanted $1800 for it, I offered $1100, he said no, but then called back 2 days later and agreed to sell it. He was clearly in need of some fast cash and I was happy to oblige.



So, I had this bike, and it needed some work. I had an idea of what I wanted to do with it, but no real idea of how I was going to do it (or the requisite skills to be able to execute my initial plan). Then, I took a job in Melbourne and the bike stayed out the back of my mate’s house for several months while I figured out what the hell I was going to do with it. Eventually I towed it to my parent’s house in Devonport, where it stayed for several more months while I flew in every now and again to do a bit here and a bit there.

I replaced the fuel tank, replaced the fuel pump, ran new coolant hoses, installed a new coolant reservoir, removed the fairing, attached a new headlight, had the remaining fairing re-sprayed, re-attached the radiator, fixed the intermittent idle, the list goes on. Real, grown-man stuff, the type of experience that’s hard to come by sitting in an office 9 – 5 every week. All in all, it was a moderately expensive and incredibly time consuming (14 month) process (predominantly due to the tyranny of distance), but I now have a bike that I’m genuinely happy to ride.

I took the completed bike for my first ‘proper’ (longer than 15 minute) ride today with one of my mates, through some winding back-roads in regional North-West Tasmania. I’ve got to say, I beamed with pride as I hurtled past ambivalent cows on the twisting roads outside Sheffield, knowing that I’d put a shitload of effort into making something old and haggard perform as was intended back in June 1986 when it came off the assembly line in Munich.

Now, here’s hoping the wheels don’t fall off. That would be a bit of an ‘egg on the face’ moment.

/end communication

Mean to retards.

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Is it any wonder why retail is dying in Australia when the levels of service that one would expect when buying things for approximately 200% more than you can obtain them for online is completely fucked? One of my mates went into a bike shop this afternoon to purchase a new hydraulic gear lever for his downhill mountain bike (I’m actually writing this to you from a downhill bike track outside of Forth (Paloona Dam to be precise)) and got some of the most completely fucked service I’ve ever witnessed (I was with him at the time).

The shop attendant had just finished servicing what was clearly a mentally handicapped man, then made the off-the-cuff remark to his workmates, “Your mate was here, I’m surprised you couldn’t smell him”, followed by, “Aww, isn’t he precious?”

What a patronising cunt… Is belittling a simpleton meant to impress us?

He then tried to make my mate buy something that was completely unsuited to his bike, and then criticized my mate openly for saying that he didn’t want to buy it. He completed his tirade by saying, “Why do you even need a rear brake mate? You’re going downhill mate, no need for brakes then, hey cob?” (despite rear brakes being absolutely mandatory for downhill MTB) and finished by telling my mate that he wouldn’t be able to take the rear brakes off his other bike and put them onto the bike in question (he successfully did what this retail douche told him he couldn’t do five minutes later when we got home).

What a fucking hero…

One of the things I absolutely despise about having to enter a retail outlet to buy something is the shop attendant attempting to sell me something that I don’t want, don’t need and didn’t ask for. It always used to happen to me when I was playing golf; I’d go in needing something (like a new shaft for my driver, because it seemed to break at least twice a year at one stage) and the golf pro would try and sell me a brand of shaft completely unsuited to my game. This happened to me two or three different times with different clubs. Clearly, it was because the margin he made on that particular brand of shaft was significantly higher than the brand I favoured. I didn’t buy his recommendation, and the net result of him recommending something to me that I didn’t want was that my opinion of him was forever compromised. He lost a significant amount of my business.

Another classic example is when you’re shopping in stores like Roger David where I’d assume the staff are paid on a commission basis; this assumption is based on some of the experiences I’ve had in their stores, whereby the store attendant would say I looked really good in outfits that I clearly looked fucking awful in.

“Aww, babez, that looks sooooooo good on you, you should totally get that with those jeans.”

And of course, the shopgirl is impossibly hot and despite you knowing exactly what she’s doing, some part of your subconsciousness wants (needs!) to pander to her nightclub make-up and too-short skirt, so you buy a whole bunch of shit you don’t like and will never wear ever again, only because you like the attention and the compliments she’s throwing at you, however disingenuous they might be. I mean, you know that it’s horseshit, but you’re out the door with a bag full of skinny ties & cowboy boots before you’ve got time to blink twice.

Anyway, I don’t want to see another fucking news story about Australian retailers doing it hard. Here’s a fucking tip for you – teach your staff to be courteous, ensure that they know where shit is and make sure you have some idea of what the items in your store cost online, and price accordingly. I don’t mind paying an extra 10% for something to be able to buy it in a store instead of online, but I refuse to pay $800 for something I can have shipped from the UK for $289.00.

Also, don’t be mean to retards.

/end communication

French Regret.

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Alright, here it is. I’ve purposely held out on macarons, but now, with only a few days left until the end of this endeavour, it’s time to let loose with both barrels on what I consider to be one of the worst anchors on the collective Australian boat of progress.

If ever there was a sure sign that we, as Australians, live in a society unnecessarily financially comfortable enough for members of the community to incessantly fawn over utterly banal confectionery with the sort of fervour usually reserved for evangelical religious ceremonies, look no further than the cult of the macaron. Created in France several centuries ago, Australian audiences were introduced to these ‘sweet treats’ by patissier Adriano Zumbo through one of my least favourite Australian TV shows, Masterchef. Since then, there’s been no turning back for the new darling of the Australian pastry scene.

Nowadays, it’s very difficult to get through a working week without some cunt putting up a photo of a macaron on Instagram or Facebook; generally, they’re wrapped in natty little boxes with bows on them as if all food is packaged this way. Generally, the comments section will be peppered with comments about how ‘cute’ or ‘delish’ they look, as if people actually talk like this in real life. It honestly makes me want to go fucking Postal. Several months ago, on the weekend, I walked past a what appeared to be a shop completely dedicated to the creation/sale of macarons in Hardware Lane in Melbourne and there were people LINING UP OUT THE FUCKING DOOR!

Pointless Confectionery.

Pointless Confectionery.

I stared for a moment in disbelief through the artfully decorated shopfront window as the shop attendant (dressed as if she was out of a 1950’s American cigarette commercial) daintily placed individual macarons in colour-coordinated boxes and handed them to eagerly expectant store patrons as if she was handing newborn orphaned children to barren mid-30s couples.

I really don’t understand the attraction in any case; for mine, macarons are largely a tasteless, air-filled, sugar-laden joke that looks like a vagina tilted on its side. (Please think of this analogy next time you’re tongue-deep in one…)

Finally, stop referring to them as ‘macaroons’ for fucks sake; in Australia a macaroon is a coconut-based ‘treat’ (I fucking hate using the word treat too, it’s such a middle-upper-class horseshit word  that people throw around as if their entire lives weren’t already a never-ending cavalcade of first-world decadence), and is wholly different to the meringue-based macaron. If you’re going to insist on pretending you’re cultured by scoffing down tasteless throwbacks to French cuisine, at least pronounce & spell their fucking name correctly, you useless cunts.

Separately – no Australian gives a single fuck about Keith Urban.

/end communication

Ho Ho Ho’s!

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Well, here it is, another Christmas has come and (nearly) gone. Merry Christmas to all of you! – I hope your days were filled with copious amounts of ham, champagne, veiled insults to distant relatives and the receipt of generic bulk text messages from acquaintances you don’t even like, wishing you a ‘Merry Xmas’.  Seriously, what a waste of fucking time; that’s about as genuine as a stripper telling a guy, “I really like you, you’re not like those other guys…” at 4am in the morning after having another pineapple stuffedinto her well-travelled G-string.


I was having a conversation about Christmas gifts today when I was advised that someone had purchased an iPad for their three-year old daughter. THEIR THREE-YEAR OLD DAUGHTER! For fucks sake, that’s absolutely ridiculous. I’m sure their justification for purchasing such a ludicrous gift would be as follows…

“But there are so many great apps that are specifically designed for children on there. They’re really educational! You should see (insert shit name here) playing on it; he/she is already so advanced. With iPads being introduced to more & more schools, it makes total sense for (shit name) to be using them as soon as possible. I bet (insert shit name again) will be more of an expert than me by the time he/she is 8 or 9. Kids and their technology these days, hey! Crazy…”

What the fuck is wrong with normal childhood gifts? Give me a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles figurine or a fucking slingshot over some lame learning game where you’ve got to put cows in a field, or some other ‘educational’ horseshit. Fuck, give your child your car keys – that’ll keep them entertained for hours and you won’t have the issue of them trying to swipe their finger across a picture book like it’s an iPad (this is actually happening… totally fucked!)

What does this child get for their 10th birthday? A dedicated, hardwired high-volume share-trading platform? Mechanical engineering textbooks? Personal lectures in nuclear fission from visiting Russian professors? It’s so completely unnecessary. My eyes are fucked from looking at a computer screen all day and I’m 26. Imagine some poor kid (with a shit name) who’s been subjected to AMOLED screens since fucking birth! The horror!

Parents – if you buy iPads, buy them for yourselves. Don’t say that you’re purchasing a tablet for your kids’ education when the only reason you really want a tablet is to stream hard-core pornography while sitting on the toilet in your en-suite, weeping.

“How did it come to this?” (sob)

Note – ‘pineapple’ – slang for an Australian 50 dollar note. A ‘crayfish’ is a 20.  

/end communication

The end is nigh.

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Less than a week until the end of bankingcommish! Celebrations have already began, and I’m an absolute shell of a man right now. I’ve managed to get back to my house to sleep for the last 3 nights, just not in my bed. Last night I fell asleep in a chair in my parent’s living room with a half-eaten toasted ham sandwich in my hand (how good is Christmas ham? It’s fucking epic, that’s how good it is!) I woke up at 7.30 this morning and the sandwich was still in my hand. What an absolute trainwreck… You know you’re in a pretty busted physical state when the only thing that you absolutely KNOW is going to make you feel better is to start drinking again…

So, here we go.

I just caught a television commercial for that awful cooking show, ‘My Kitchen Rules’ in a commercial break for Today Tonight (which was on in the background while I ate dinner – I don’t deliberately watch that shit, I was just too lazy to walk the 5 metres to the other side of the room to get a remote and improve my situation). As if watching that absolute shit shack of a TV show isn’t bad enough, the network has to plug their new foodwank competition where teams from different states are pitted against each other in some sort of weird alternate reality where blokes cry like 16 year-old girls who’ve just been decimated by ‘their crush’ and people are significantly more abrasive and rude to each other whilst speaking in a faux past/present tense reserved only for competitive cooking shows. The thought of watching that show makes me want to throw myself feet first into an industrial food processor while ‘Monster Mash’ by Bobby Picket plays ironically in the background.

The guys they’ve got from Tassie look like two of the biggest douchebags of all time too; it’s a father and son team that have clearly been advised by the production company to play on the fact that they look very similar by wearing the same clothes & the same thick-rimmed glasses. It’s meant to be a light-hearted ‘like father, like son’ situation, but all it ends up doing is making the son look like a less impressive, slightly sickly-looking, sycophantic version of his father. I’m sure mainland Australians will look at it and think, “What a bunch of inbred fucking twats…”, further solidifying our reputation as a backwater dump full of mindless dickheads…

Whilst on the topic of food & ‘foodies’, if you as an individual take a photo of your food and write, “Nom Nom Nom” in the comments section, like Liam Neeson in ‘Taken’, I WILL find you…

I have a very specific set of skills…

I can also dance… a little.

/end communication

Riding in cars with boys.

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I fell asleep in my clothes last night on a two seater couch in my living room in Devonport. I woke up this morning on top of my bed, fully clothed, cooking (I can’t sleep in here, my bedroom catches the morning Sun and I wake up feeling like a dehydrated fucking apricot). My headache this morning was so bad that it felt like I had a woodpecker inside of my skull trying to bash its way to freedom. Just awful…

I have absolutely no recollection of anything that occurred last night either, which makes me somewhat worried considering I was out for a very long time and spoke to a number of people I hadn’t seen in a very long time. I can only imagine what they’d be saying about their brief encounter with me…“Did you see Casey? Jesus, he looked a little worse for wear. When I was talking to him, it was as if he’d mentally checked out and his body was just taking up room, waiting for his soul to return.” My soul didn’t return either, and I just ended up swaying drunkenly from one conversation to another like a kite in a strong breeze, adding no value to any of them. It was actually pretty brilliant.

We walked home (as successfully catching a cab in Devonport at 3am in the morning is about as rare an event as a lunar eclipse) and stopped off at a 24-hour service station to buy some awful food (I bought a bag of mixed lollies – because I’m clearly a fucking 8 year old… no Ghost Drops though, I was shattered) and made a passing comment to the staff behind the counter that it was impossible to get a cab home and we’d be traipsing the rest of the way home on foot.

The next thing you know, one of the shop attendants says, “Come on then boys, let’s go, I’ll give you a lift, where are you going?” (For $10, which is ridiculously cheap). It turns out that he runs a sort of private taxi service (unsure if this is legal or not, I thought you had to have a taxi licence to ferry people around) and he even had his own business cards with SET prices (I wish all cabs were like that) dependant on which suburb the individual concerned wants to go to. Four minutes later we were home.

I’ve never been more excited to get into the back of a strange man’s van in all of my life…

/end communication

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