You can find me at the crib. Your crib ...

Life out of a suitcase continues for yours truly after handing over the keys to the Murfuoso Mansion in Melbourne earlier this week and going north like 22 Jacks. His good mate from school, pictured here with JB on the night that five young lads had beers with Molly Meldrum and lived to tell the tale, picks up the slack from here out.

So after 10 days living it up like Ja Rule, I drove the Gilbomobile, which is more Ford Falcon station wagon than Goggomobile, to Carlton North where I'm a hop, skip and a jump from the number 96 tram on Nicholson Street. Houston, Texas - currently somewhere in Europe with his French lass - left a note to the Big Fella (that would be me) and a couple of momentos of his humour. The next six weeks will be fun, starting tonight with Geezer where tapas and hopefully some Spanish beer is on the menu.

It's also been a barrel of laughs catching up with Cousin Slugg, who heads back to London town at the end of the week. The old 403 crew (JB, the District Attorney - out of chambers - and Cousin Slugg) caught up for a few beers and pizza. Much delight basking in the glow of yesteryear in South Melbourne was had. Safe travels Slugg and catch you on the flipside.










And a week after The Other KL (who makes her pictorial debut on this here blog) and I decided to hang ourselves with my Geelong scarf after an insipid performance against St Kilda at Telstra Dome, the self-proclaimed Slugger and JB saw the Cats beat Sydney at KP last Saturday. There were jubilant scenes, but it's still a case of season over rover. Too little, too late.