Papa's got a brand new bag

Lingering gout means I'm not exactly on the good foot. But like funky James, I'm back.

You know, moving it, doing it, like a sex machine.

Yes, after my failed experiment at the coalmine of The Cheetah, I re-entered the world of nine to five again this week. Long live the Westralian resources boom, I say.

Too embarassed to admit I had gout, I told my new colleagues I was hopping around on a sock because I dropped a concrete slab on my foot while landscaping.

Yesterday I scored some tickets to Fremantle's three-day beer festival. The tix entitle bearer to ten free beer samples per day. So gout should again be on the menu next week. That landscaping's sure tough on the feet.