'THE MEANING OF EXISTENCE (AND OTHER SHORT STORIES)' is available for purchase! Just follow the link for an on-line shopping experience that will surely blow your mind.  Upon request, Stuart will sign your copy, either with his name or that of somebody else selected by you.  The book was launched on 28 November 2011 at the Wheeler Centre and is now orbiting the third sun of Jupiter.   In doing so, it has become the first collection of short stories to reach a major cellestial body since Max Walker's 'How to Puzzle a Python' was smuggled on board the Soyuz TM-4 Mir Space Station by one of the cosmonauts.  Also, the first chapter of Stuart's upcoming novel 'GOODSIR' is available in a newly released anthology.  It can be downloaded for free from Amazon by using the following address: http://www.amazon.com/Writing-Novel-Anthology-2012-ebook/dp/B009YNMPPW  Frankly, it would be cheap at half the price.

The Art of Selling Things

Clearly, anything is now possible. News that Jimmy Barnes has been awarded his own ice cream flavour has completely knocked me sideways and caused me to question everything I once believed. The decision to give Jimmy his own variety is, of course, highly inappropriate for a number of reasons, not least of which the fact that the ice cream in question is a Peters’ ‘Drumstick’ and, to the very best of my knowledge, Jimmy couldn’t do a para-diddle if his life depended on it. Don’t get me wrong; Jimmy is great and deserves to be honoured. I’m just not sure that an ice cream – as tasty and delicious as it may be – is quite the way to do it.

The Sorry Tale of an Arty Latte

There’s no doubt that if Michelangelo were alive today, he wouldn’t be flushing his time down the artistic lavatory by perching on a rickety ladder that would give the folks at WorkCover a conniption and splashing a tub of Taubman’s satin gloss on the roof of the Sistine Chapel. No way. If Michelangelo were alive now he’d be a barista. Worse still, he’d be dressed head to toe in black, have his hair in a man bun with a pencil wedged as tightly as William Tell’s arrow in the apple and would be expressing himself through coffee foam.

Tales of Rock and Roll Excess Baggage

It take it all back; every last word. For years I have poured scorn on anything that looked like a boy band. I have derided their musical output and questioned their artistic integrity. I have dished out piping hot spoonfuls of opprobrium. I ridiculed the way they dressed, danced and the dreadful songs they sang. Not anymore. I have officially seen the light. For I am now convinced that these confected groups are the repositories of the true rock and roll spirit. This change of heart is not the result of a song or even a particularly challenging dance manoeuvre but is all thanks to one man, or boy, if you prefer. Namely, one James McElvar.

I Fought the Lawn (And the Lawn Won)

It’s on. The battle lines have not so much be drawn as they have sprung up, as one of the oldest rivalries to plague this big old round Earth of ours reignites. Conflict on so vast a scale cannot help but shape the course of human history. There will be casualties, without doubt, but ultimately good will prevail over evil. I speak, of course, of mankind versus nature. By that I don’t mean some kind of fauna-troubling Bear Grylls-style gastronomic assault. Rather, I’m talking about one man’s heroic battle against his lawn.

International Economics Explained: Greece is the word

Spare a thought for Greece. Sadly, it seems there’s a very real chance they may soon be tapped on the shoulder and politely asked to gather their things before exiting the Eurozone. It prompts the question, where are they supposed to go? There are plenty of zones out there, not all of them suitable for a sovereign nation. It’ll be no good if, after leaving the Eurozone, Greece enters the Twilight Zone. Worse still would be if they got stuck with professional beardo Kenny Loggins on his ‘Highway to the Dangerzone’. That’s about as appealing as the thought of a jump-suited Maverick man-spreading in the cockpit of an Air Force fighter jet, mumbling under his breath about ‘the need for speed’. Thanks but no thanks.

Heavy Metal and the Art of Happiness

It’s official: listening to heavy metal music makes you happy. Upon hearing the news I raced home and destroyed every album in the house by Angus and Julia Stone, Jack Johnson and every other surfing hippie that isn’t Jack Johnson but sounds exactly like him. I’ll admit that, for a moment, I felt fantastic. However, none of these albums were mine and their destruction – even if in the name of science – was somewhat controversial and so my sense of euphoria was short lived. Until now, I’d always thought the reason those guys in Metallica were so happy was because they’d just had a money fight in which they’d tossed wads of cash at each other, but it turns out it’s the music rather than the financial recompense that’s the cause of all this joy.

The Great Public Holiday Fiasco

This madness must end. Once upon a time, public holidays meant something. Now they’re being handed out with all the sense of occasion and grandeur as third prize in a pub-raffle. Why, just the other week, we were forced to sit at home to wait out another one of these time-wasters. Don’t get me wrong; I like Bohemian Rhapsody as much as the next person, but telling everyone they can take the day off work to commemorate it seems a trifle over the top.

Rebel Wilson Without A Cause

How dare you. Frankly, you should take all the money you’ve earned from those big Hollywood movies and buy yourself a large quantity of shame because it’s clear that you have none at present. Now that your lies have been exposed, I find myself questioning every truth I once held dear. Is the sky really blue? Are puppies truly adorable or is it just a ruse to mask an evil heart of darkness? Does Taylor Swift exist or was she invented by the Toshiba Corporation and originally given away in a box of cereal? I can’t believe in anything anymore. Thanks a lot Rebel Wilson.

Great Boy-Band Bust-Ups of History

All good things and the World Cup Cricket Tournament must, eventually, come to an end. In much the same way, it is inevitable that a pre-fabricated boy band must ultimately start to unravel with the speed of a homemade jumper. So it was that Craig bailed out on Bros, Robbie forsook Take That and now Zayn has decided to part company with One Direction. These things are never easy and almost always messy. And whilst news of Zayn’s departure apparently caused Twitter to pretty much soil itself, I can only say for myself that I greeted it with not so much a gnashing of teeth as a gentle shrug of the shoulders and a careless, ‘Meh’. Until, of course, I realised how it might impact my life for the better. That is, if I was quick enough.

Dogs Are the Best People

It was bound to happen eventually. Frankly, it’s amazing that I managed to last this long without someone putting the hard word on me. It’s not as though I’ve been avoiding the subject. More that circumstances have rendered the question if not wholly impractical then, at the very least, hardly worth considering. But now that we’re moving to a house that has a yard, it’s a question that demands an answer and can no longer be avoided. Put simply: what kind of dog would I like?