The Bug sexist? Racist? Homophobic? Oh, phhhleeeeaasssse!

I must admit I was so excited when I heard that I was going to write a story I could call my own that I almost forgot to ask the editor what exactly was the assignment I was going to cover for the paper.
I practically had to pinch I self before I realised that I was being given a chance to follow in the footsteps of the one columnist I believe I admire most of all and the one I think I could one day emulate - the Courier-Mail's Frances WhItIng.
"Ah, there you are, girlie," my editor said, quickly striking the minimise button on his PC when I appeared at the door in answer to his summons.
"You've been doing such a smash-up job on the paper's gig guide for the past five years, I think it's time to put those stupid, worthless uni journalism studies to good use.
"Sit yourself down here and I'll give you a quick briefing."
I declined his offer and sat instead in the spare chair on the other side of the desk.
He flung an e-mail in my direction. "We've managed the trifecta," he explained. "Some lezzo dykes out at the uni have complained to their student union, reckoning we're sexist, racist and homophobic."
I nodded. I think that was the safest thing to do under the circumstances. Take it slowly. Learn the ropes.
"Now I reckon it's all bullshit," the editor continued. "But we like to dish it out here at The Bug so it's important that we can cop it sweet as well."
He took my angled head as a sign of uncertainty, perhaps even confusion. It's not. It's just the way my head is.
He gesticulated. "You know what I mean .....if the shoe fits, boot someone up the arse with it."
In the discussion that followed, I learned that I was to go out and interview The Bug's most famous writers and columnists. I was being given free rein to probe these sexist, racist and homophobic allegations. And if I, as the woman I know I am, came to the conclusion that, yes, The Bug was all those things, then I should have no qualms about writing it up exactly that way.
"We will publish your story fair or foul," the editor declared. "By the way, I need the story by tomorrow morning."
I knew it wasn't wise but I couldn't help protesting that there was no way I was going to be able to track down all those people in one afternoon. Basher Brown. Morrie Bezzle. Doctor Dick. They were all notoriously hard to find and were seen very rarely in the newsroom.
I'd even noticed as I made my way through the office that even the usually reliable and dear old Rufus Badinage was not at his impeccably tidy desk as usual.
"You're in luck," the editor said. "All the boys are in an editorial conference at the moment, so you'll be able to grab them all in one hit."
I declined his offer for a late meal that night and shook his hand. "I know I won't let you down, Sir," I said, waiting until I had turned abruptly before allowing a huge triumphant smile to spread across my lovely face.

Although it was rather dingy, the Cat Walk Club was relatively empty as I made my way past the red velour counter just inside the entrance, so I quickly spotted the boys in the far corner of the room, waved and joined them after grabbing a $6 VB.
Basher was instantly recognisable, not so much by the sight of his "Mark Geyer for PM" T-shirt but the smell of it. I don't think I have ever seen him wear anything else; it's one of the reasons we always sit upwind in The Bug canteen if at all possible.
Then there was dear old Rufus, in his ubiquitous tatty grey cardigan. He stood up and pulled out the spare chair for me.
The others only nodded briefly before turning back to watch a large-breasted young woman take a bath in a giant-sized champagne glass.
"Is that pink champagne I see before me or just pink bits?" Basher shouted across to her, waving a $50 note in the air as lure.
I shouldn't have said anything but his comments - the general ambiance of the place - got to me.
"How on earth could mature, grown men like you be seen in a place like this?" I demanded.
To be fair, The Bash looked visibly hurt. "Sante Fe Gold's closed today." The others nodded agreement before draining their VBs.
"Rufus, you old fart, it's your shout."
It was the first time I'd noticed Morrie Bezzle, who was in half-shadow to my left. As my eyes focused, I noticed a pretty young thing was giving him a lap dance.
"Hi, Georgia," I said brightly. " How did you go in that radio journalism assignment?"
"Not bad. You?"
"So so. The job at McDonald's obviously didn't work out?"
"Lousy pay. I make $50 an hour here and all I've got to do is flash my tits and wiggle my arse on top of these old fossils."
"Hey, watch it," Morrie said indignantly. "We've got feelings, too, you know."
"And I'm feeling it now," Georgia responded, swivelling off Morrie and slotting the offered tenner into her G string.
By then a topless bar attendant had wandered across to take our orders.
"Same again, chaps?" asked Rufus. Everyone nodded. "That's five VBs and a small glass of sherry, please."
"Hi, Chaz."
"Hi, Allison."
"Want a cup of coffee after we're both finished here?"
"Sure."
"Great. I'll grab Mandy, Sandy and Liz Beth as soon as our shifts end."
After we'd made healthy inroads into our fresh round, I nodded to the stethoscope on the table near the one empty chair. "Where's Doctor Dick?"
"He's in the dunnies helping some guy out with a much-needed prescription," The Bash said. "Probably be back later."
"Boys," I began, placing my notebook on the table to emphasise the seriousness of the situtation, "the paper's in big shit. It's been accused of being racist, homophobic and sexist and the editor's sent me here to get your views on that."
"Racist!" bellowed The Bash. "That's absolute crap. How much did you give that ebony sheila at the end of her balloon-bursting routine, Morrie?"
"A lobster, Bash. Same as you."
"Exactly. No more and no less than the white sheilas all got."
"Rufus?"
"Shiny shilling, as always."
"Well, that puts that accusation to rest," said Morrie, waving a hundred dollar note - he called it a grey nurse - into the darkness.
The Bash scratched away at his four-day old stubble. "They might have us on the homophobic bit though. I fucking hate going fucking home. Always have."
Rufus sipped at his cherry. "No, Bash. It means people who don't like or fear people who are gay."
"Well that's bullshit too," said Morrie, helping my flatmate Nola onto his lap.
"I've sold insurance policies to pillow-biters all me life. It makes no difference to me. Gay money's my kinda money."
"Spot on," echoed The Bash. "If blokes want to drill for vegemite, that's no business of mine."
"In the 50s," offered Rufus, "it was rumoured that one of the lower-level civil servants in the Treasury Department was a woolly-woofter and no-one made any attempt whatsoever to have him transferred out of Canberra."
The boys seemed pretty happy with their responses. I guessed rightly the interview had come to an end: they were totally absorbed in a jelly-wrestling display between a school girl, a nurse and a five-metre diamond-backed python.
After coffee with my uni friends, I'd go back to The Bug office and put these baseless accusations not to the sword but something much mightier - the pen of an investigative reporter/firebrand columnist.
I refer, of course, to I.