WARNING! Contains explicit descriptions of sexual activity, though mostly humorous and often tongue-in-cheek (or tongue-in-cheeks?)
Come on a wild romp with young ex-Aussie rules footballer ‘Blue’ Mooney as he sets out to jet, sail and hitch-hike across the planet and into the knickers of every willing foreign female findable – especially if she’s French!
DISCERNING READERS SAY:
“The book’s a bloody ball-tearer!” … Sir Les Patterson.
“H.B. (Blue) Mooney belongs to that earthy, robust tradition of Henry Lawson, C.J. Dennis, Lennie Lower and Frank Hardy. He has a great ear for dialogue and revels in wordplay and Aussie vernacular. At a time when Australian writing is noted for its blandness and correctness, his work is a breath of fresh air. It is strong and gutsy, and often very funny – another quality which is sadly missing in much contemporary Australian literature.” John Hooker, former publisher (Penguin, William Collins), awarded writer emeritus by the Australia Council in 2000.
“H. B. (Blue) Mooney writes with a spring in his step. The narrative takes you out of the everyday into the lives that are funny, sometimes sad, and revealing. Characterised by wit, energy and sharp perception, his writing is wise and always entertaining.” … Carmel Bird, award-winning novelist, literary editor.
“H. B. (Blue) Mooney’s writing is colourful (to say the least), well paced, funny, lively, and often has sharp satirical insights. He is authentic, and unique, a writer who deserves your attention.” … John Flaus, Actor, poet, raconteur, oracle, former lecturer in Cinema and Communications at La Trobe university.
“H.B. (Blue) Mooney’s approach to writing is a breath of fresh air, even if the breeze occasionally changes direction to waft across the sewerage works or the balconies of nearby brothels. I read Dickloose and enjoyed it very much.”… John Clarke, satirist, writer, actor.
‘Dickloose’ Chapter headings
Losing grand final night 1975, Warrnambool’s Palais de Danse, then into Jen’s pants
Land of the Long White Cloud, and long dirty weekends
More piss-stops than on a boozy bus footy trip
Heathrow immigration, a welcoming grin (short-lived)
Kangaroo Valley, bed bugs/love bugs
To Glasgow, gateway to the Highlands and haggis
Northbound, intent on undersea yakka
On to Kishorn, destined for born-again celibacy
Eire, where smiles the third Irish eye
Glasgow, Hogmanay – get blootered, stay blootered
Return to Kishorn, redundant piss-horns
Springtime Paris, frogs’ legs and fuck-all else
Portugal – surf rescue, and eagerly woo-able pussy
Spain again – seasickness, and Lisbon souvenirs
As Hemingway maybe said; Nothing’s hornier than a fighting bull
No spare doll on Costa del Sol
Full-tilt troppo for St Tropez
Italy. A holy whore, and three Roman homers
Bulleting to Brindisi, copulating to Corfu
Fished-out Limeni, and fillet of fanny
To Athens, Adelaide of Greece’s south
An Aussie turkey aims for Istanbul
Barging thru Bulgaria, and a Yugo-shag
To Venice, trans Europe, and a dash for Denmark
Swiss soujourn, quickly given a miss
Germany – great Kraut hospitality and sensational baking
Full-sail for sinking sausage in Scandinavia
The unbearable scrotal tightness of being… froze fuckless in Finland
Northern auroras, roaring horns
Doggy-style with my great naughty Dane
To Russia with Lust, via Commie Deutschland and Poland
Into Iran, and a Persian on a Rug
No roots on a Turkey shoot-through
Syria – bit of agro, lotta dust
Cyprus, where Greeks play chicken with Turkey
Egypt. Cairo, kindnesses, and the Pharaohs’ curse – dysentery!
Tunisian piss-up, and a four-bagger who should’ve been passed-up
Islamic jazz bar, then on to the Kasbah
Mysterious Morocco, and a shonky fang wrangler
‘Lady of Spain I adore you, lift up your dress I’ll explore you…’
Pamplona – frothy pots, willing twots, and demasiado mucho mierda de toros