More anon

Right, GrogsGamut. Anonymous blogger and twunterer, said a bunch of pretty-much-on-the-money stuff about the recent election, including that News Ltd and the associated meeja scrum were up to fuck all and just there for the beer. In completely unrelated news he was outed as a public servant (including name, rank and serial number) by some B-grade hack from the Australian because unmasking his identity was apparently 'in the public interest'. This is patent bollocks, as the entire inter-google has concurred, apart from the odd other MSM journo who also finds Twunter and Bloggage equally terrifying ref. their own relevance and job prospects as Massola the blabby little git from Unky Rupert's Deathstar. It's such patent bollocks in fact that one finds oneself in disconcerting agreeance with the much and rightly maligned Catherine Deveny. I don't like Deveny. Hated her cretinous Anzac Day smearing of your grandad and mine as racist fucks who only enlisted in order to shoot Japs and Krauts. Even wrote her a pantomime villain cameo in ITWPT, hatin' on the stylez of our dishevelled drunken heroes. But this, her call on the GrogsGamut story, I can't really find fault with.

So yeah, take it as read that James Massola is a petty little gobsite and can fuck right off, and the Rupert-era MSM are a bunch of evil self-serving dog-whistling pricks with a very mistaken view of their own importance ref. gatekeeperdom of news and information in the 21st Century. Moving on. Why did arts bureaucrat Greg 'GrogsGamut' Jericho ever think he was going to get to stay anonymous, given that no bastard who ever plays the Anonymous Public Figure card ever gets to stay that way? There's the obvious, fatuous examples, like the Stig. And the Stig before him. And even crap Aussie Stig from the crap Aussie version. But seriously, you think back and come up with any significant 'anonymous' figure - from political writers to TV show test drivers - who hasn't been outed. Watergate's Deep Throat is probably the one who lasted the longest. It's a particular affliction of writers, particularly girl writers who like to write about a bit of the old rumpy - from the writer of infamous infidelity bible The Bride Stripped Bare to the postdoc researcher whose part-time PhD student job formed the basis of book and TV series Secret Life Of A Call Girl (and no, she wasn't as hot as Billie Piper.) Noone gets to stays anonymous. Market forces, and/or the egos of disgruntled stepped-upon tossers looking to square ledgers or cash in on someone else's notoriety, means there's significant net impetus behind unmasking your Stigs and your Brooke Magnantis. The dream of Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent style double-life untouchable anonymity - the ability to do as you please in your secret life and still carry on as per in your day job - is as much a cornerstone of the cliched superhero fantasy as the actual superpowers. Except the superpowers are probably more feasible in real life.

And yet most people on teh interwebz, in particular the Twuntoblogowankosphere, are still flying stealth missions, to a greater or lesser extent. For most, this is about trying to create distance between real and online lives, given the opinions expressed are not necessarily those of one's friends, families or employers. For some, it's probably an ego thing, all about craving the notoriety that comes with being the man in the faux-anonymous black hat. For me... I've learned that nothing you say on here, just like nothing you say in real life, comes without the risk of it bouncing back in your face in the form of a footlong shitlong sub sandwich to chow down on. Say nothing you wouldn't stand beside in person with a grin on your face and your work uniform on. For me, it's just easier to write from distance, from behind a character. The jokes are funnier. And the points you're making often get listened to more, as Stephen Colbert found in Washington recently. And writing personal stuff on here always felt self-indulgent - basically, Dr Yobbo was never meant to be the story of Dr Yobbo's World of Bollocks.

And certainly Dr Yobbo's bollocks were never meant to be the story of Dr Yobbo's World of Bollocks. Might have to make a minor exception though. As some of you will be aware I've been diagnosed with a case of the Lance Armstrongs and will shortly have to go in for some strategic lightening. Sort of like a Dr Yobbo Superleggera. On the plus side I'm a shoe-in for the Tour de France in a couple of years, if not running some form of dodgy Fourth Reich with a bunch of equally gonadally challenged cronies. Your Correspondent drops this casually into conversation not to be a sympathy whore, or to excuse some fucking terrible jokes (and there will be more, I pledge), but with one clear underlying point: lads, check your boys. NOW. Well, OK, wait until you get home, the number 412 bus to Toowong might not be the most appropriate location for self-examination... but soon. Cancer of the bollocks is a young man's disease. And it is stupidly survivable, something like 98% if you don't fuck about and make sure you get it sorted early, so there's no excuses. It really is trivial to sort, compared to serious fuck-off-scary Capital-Fucking-C Cancer that needs chemo and radiation and invasive surgery to deal with. So much so it's almost embarrassing to self-identify as a 'cancer sufferer' when superhuman types like Big Bad Al, Mayhem and my old mate Matt had to take the bastard on and kick it in the teeth (and in some cases are still required to put the boot in at press time.) Me, I'm stupidly healthy, I'm covered by health insurance I didn't have until I took my current job six months ago, excellent people have my back from family to friends to workmates, and I stand less chance of dying from this than by being crushed and electrocuted crash-tackling the TV trying to make Phil Phucking Gould shut the fuck up about the fucking Rooters on Nine's Grand Final coverage.

Much as I like 'em, I've still got the Dragons pencilled in for self-inflicted tracheal constriction, for the record. But just watch the Baby Bunnies go in the under 20s. Sidestepping everything except the irony of a minor premiership winning Souths team, precisely none of whom were born the last time the first-grade team did likewise.

The Doctor is OUT. (But is happy to hang around with his pseudo-dodgy-medical-hat on and field questions about ball cancer if anyone has. And remember, as the Fun Lovin' Criminals might have put it: Check 'em. Check 'em. Check 'em if you got 'em. If you ain't got 'em... then it's possibly a statement of limited relevance other than with respect to the males of significance in your life, in which case... check 'em.)