It's not sleazy...just very, very funny! 

 THE LARRIKIN'S HAT is a truly unbelievable read, and I've got the pics to prove it if you don't believe a word I've written. In writing this book I didn't have to exaggerate or embellish because the truth is always far stranger than fiction. 

This book doesn't dwell on political correctness, and documents hilariously the behind the scenes shenanigans of journalism as told by an (at times) unscrupulous reporter. As Australia’s premier sleazebag journo I only had to look around me for something sensational to write about because I was usually standing in the middle of it. My job as a tabloid journalist was to both shock and amaze my readers, and that was something I took very seriously.  

The general public couldn't get enough of adventure, absurdity and amazement, and if they couldn't live the fantasy themselves then they did the next best thing and read my articles.

IN PURSUIT OF
THE RIDICULOUS

What matters is not the story
but the story of the story.

Murray Sayle

…as for modern journalism͵ it is not my business to defend it. It justifies its own existence by the great Darwinian principle of the survival of the vulgarest. I have merely to do with literature. What is the difference between literature and journalism? Oh! Journalism is unreadable͵ and literature is not read. That is all.

Oscar Wilde

I'd like to be remembered for writing just one good ballsy book - my memoirs.

Jens Ward

Over the years I wrote outrageous͵ outlandish͵ shameless and titillating stories͵ and when I wasn't convincing people to go on record I was in damage control for the articles I'd already published.

My life and work overlapped with alarming regularity͵ and I only had to look around me for something sensational to write about because I was usually standing in the middle of it.

Between the farcical and foolhardy I managed to squeeze in a few informative and award-winning articles for magazines and newspapers as well. I've written this book for those of us who fly in the face of authority͵ and I make no apologies to those people who might find it racy and too rude other than to remind them not to shoot the messenger.

I interviewed fascinating people every day and overindulged myself along the way but I was under no illusion about what I was writing. I simply wrote what many people wanted to read. I had my ready-made market in all those people who craved instant gratification͵ and I was only too happy to provide that in spades. I was an entertainer taking my readers on an amusement ride with words. I rolled out barrels of laughs͵ and my audience lapped it up.

I have never written fiction͵ well͵ that's not entirely true but fact was far stranger and sold a million more copies. The bizarre was out there larger than life. My job was to turn over rocks and expose the underbelly of life that never usually saw the light of day.

For 10 truly amazing years I was given a roving commission to travel Australia sensationalizing͵ dramatising and trivializing every subject I wrote about. It was larrikin journalism at its best and nobody was more motivated than me because unlike my employers and workmates I lived and breathed every politically incorrect word I ever wrote.

I've never taken life too seriously but I'm very serious about whatever makes us happy. I didn't become a tabloid journalist by accident. I was born to it. I could never get enough good times into me so I felt privileged to have found a profession like journalism that catered for all my needs.

Every morning I caught the Manly Ferry to work and that 30 minute trip across magnificent Sydney Harbour was all the inspiration I needed for the day ahead. I was one of the last hacks who regularly consumed several schooners of beer and a couple of joints for lunch and still got the job done in the afternoon͵ albeit some of the time on autopilot. I was able to play at work͵ much like a politician on a fact-finding trip͵ and get paid for it. Unlike politicians I didn't have to pretend to be anything other than a sleazebag journo on the prowl͵ and being single with no commitments or responsibilities I was able to give it my total and undivided attention. The women in my life flowed as freely as the beer I drank.

I believe that good journalism͵ as in good policing and governance͵ can be attributed on the whole to informants and not to any great power of deduction. I didn't need an excuse to visit the pub and bars where my informants were ripe and ready so long as the complimentary drinks flowed thick and fast.

Crocodile Dundee star Paul Hogan commented that when Australia lost its larrikinism it lost its sense of national identity too. Hoges became a household name on the back of larrikinism and the world laughed along with us͵ but that all changed with the implementation of our multi-cultural immigration policy.

Hoges had been living in California for years after his cinematic successes͵ and was shocked at the transformation of Australia on his return.

Some new arrivals to our shores had difficulty understanding English let alone our peculiar sense of humour. Our policy makers considered larrikinism politically incorrect for the times so while one door opened the door to larrikinism slammed shut.

The Larrikin's Hat is a rollicking recount of larrikin journalism. When all is said and done today's newsprint fuels tomorrow's fire. I recommend it as essential reading for anyone thinking about a job in media and communications.

As a journalist͵ I went from using cumbersome manual typewriters to electric machines͵ and then onto computer terminals. The print media stopped using photographic film when everything went digital. But the transition didn't stop there. The real game changer was when the whole building was declared a smoke free zone. No longer were we able to puff away madly at our desks͵ and contemplate our next para over a cuppa. Our brains couldn't function without our regular nicotine fix in the workplace so everybody was ducking out of the building for a ciggy every half hour. Our lifts were constantly breaking down because they couldn't cope as smokers scrambled to get out of the building at every opportunity to light up͵ and the mechanical problems just added to our pent-up frustrations. But the smoke free zone only applied to us plebs. I never once saw our chain smoking boss͵ media magnate Kerry Packer͵ sharing the kerb with us.

This book is an historical account of newsprint journalism as we used to know it because the internet is now our primary source of information and news gathering. Absolutely anything we want to see or read is instantaneously available at the touch of a screen. Most reporters aren't given assignments on terra firma anymore. It's far cheaper to assign someone a desk͵ a computer and give them free rein to explore cyberspace looking for anything they can use as news. Many journalists today develop a severe case of piles instead of getting out from behind their screens͵ and getting amongst it like I did.

The Larrikin's Hat is a celebration of life because there is a little bit of the unconventional in all of us. We take ourselves far too seriously. We need to lighten up͵ and seize the day.

The Larrikin's Hat is too naughty for words͵ so I got the pics to prove it.

Footnote: The meaning of the term larrikin's hat has been lost over time͵ so I had to reinvent it. A larrikin's hat is Australian rhyming slang used to describe a male getting so excited over someone or something that he gets an erection or fat. A larrikin is a likeable rogue while an erect penis resembles a hat hence the term larrikin's hat. Case in point͵ "I couldn't help getting a larrikin's hat every time I saw that stunner driving her Lamborghini Veneno Roadster."

THE LARRIKIN'S HAT

Confessions of a Sleazebag Journalist
by Jens Ward

When a dog bites a man that is not news but when a man bites a dog that is news.

Charles A. Dana

What is in a name but merely letters on a page͵ a stain or what vowels and consonants simply maintain. A name is just a name. It is the words which follow that give it so much acclaim.

 Jens Ward

AUSSIES loved sporting events. They loved the action at the ground and they loved their beer. Throw a pair of big unbridled breasts into the mix and you got the makings of a riot and a great photographic opportunity.

My motivation for doing this story͵ and many others like it͵ was that sometimes I couldn't wait for news to happen so I just had to create it myself instead. Journalism for me was about looking for a news angle and a photographic opportunity and then beating it with a very large stick before massaging it with a rolling pin so it could be spread out like a large family sized pizza over several pages for the reader to devour.

The cricket fans were primed for a top-notch tussle between the Aussies and the Indians at the Sydney Cricket Ground. The beer was flowing freely in the outer and the Aussies were smacking the ball all over the paddock.

Up in the exclusive members stand I was flashing our tickets to security while Annie bowled them over with her beaut bod.

I had three tickets - one for me͵ one for my photographer and one for Annie a good sort with a fine bod who just loved getting her gear off.

My plan? To get shots of Annie flaunting her best bits to the crowd and watch the mayhem unfold from the relative safety of the members' enclosure.

This was uncharted water even for a sleazebag journo like myself who made his living writing rousing and evocative stories for Australia's leading men's magazine.

We had to get in and get out very quickly before security or even worse the coppers threw us out of the ground. We didn't make it past the front gate. The ground umpires didn't have to take it upstairs to the third umpire for a final decision. She was given out on the spot.

Security stopped us at the entrance to the members' stand when they saw what Annie was wearing͵ just tattered denim hot pants and not much else on top.

"We've got dress regulations in here͵ you know͵" grunted the attendant as he cast his eyes down to her tanned rounded rump falling out of her tight little shorts.

 "I'll change them͵" Annie said.

"You won't get in with that top on either͵" he said.

"OK͵ I'll take the lot off."

We bundled Annie into the public area before she could carry out her threat. It was like throwing a bloody carcass to the wolves. Here we go͵ I thought.

The idea was to get Annie's funbags͵ the spectators and the players on the pitch all in the one frame. Sounds easy enough but the truth was we caused a near riot when she whipped off her top revealing all to the crowd and to our camera. Police and security came running from everywhere but we scampered off into the crowd to find another location in the stadium for the shoot. It was adrenaline-pumping stuff. The police were hot on our tail and I knew we had to get more shots pronto before they collared us. The 42͵000-strong crowd roared when Annie appeared briefly showing off her big tits on the ground's big screen. The crowd worked itself into a frenzy wherever we went. They even did a Mexican wave for us. Annie was happy so long as we paid the fine to drop all her clothes there and then and run starkers onto the ground. In this game I tried not to push my luck too far.

Inevitably͵ the police caught up with us. They cornered us when we ducked into a block of toilets to escape. They accused us of inciting a riot but I could see by the look on their faces that they enjoyed Annie's show just as much as the crowd did. The photographer snapped pictures of Annie and me being questioned by police and a wink from him told me he'd got the shots. I apologised profusely to the police and promised to send them copies of the magazine which I did. It was always good in this game to keep on side with coppers. Most law enforcers loved the magazine and consequently they always gave me some good inside information. More than 60 punters were either arrested or ejected from the ground for behaving badly that day after seeing Annie running around the SCG semi-naked. HOWZAT? ANNIE OPENS FOR AUSTRALIA including the photos of our arrest were spread over four pages in the magazine while Annie received just $250 for the shoot. She would have done it for nothing.

We were all shaking with excitement after that harrowing experience so no one complained when I suggested we have a stiff drink or two on the company account.

Women are in the enviable position of depriving men of what they really wanted so there will always be a place in society for smut to appease us neglected blokes.

"I want my man to be silly in the bedroom and smart (financially) out of it͵" a girlfriend once said to me before we had sex. And I wasn't arguing with her͵ and risk being put off tap.

Now at this point in my story you might be asking yourself is this bloke for real? Was he deprived as a child? Did he have a normal and healthy upbringing? Was he ever molested in any way? I have to say during my formative years I never developed any sociopathic tendencies despite my father͵ a doctor͵ overdosing on drugs he prescribed for himself. He was also a heavy drinker and had a gambling habit.

One of my father's tricks was to inject water into his thigh to show me and my mates that needles didn't hurt and some must have taken him at his word because a couple of them died later from drug overdoses.

I was eight years old when he disappeared so I have no real recollection of him other than he kept to himself mostly and I usually got what I wanted from him despite my mother's protestations. My mother cried when I returned home from the barber shop one day sporting a shaved head after my father agreed to it. It wasn't a marriage made in heaven from all reports and I guess I saw things as a child that I wasn't supposed to see. My mother gave me the name Jens but my father called me George while my friends nicknamed me Chickenhead so I guess I had an identity problem right from the very start. I developed a stutter which wasn't ideal for anyone thinking about a job in journalism.

My father took me to see renowned psychologist Enid Phyllis Wilson at the Australian Institute of Industrial Psychology. The name alone was enough to frighten any seven year old into stony silence. Wilson won the Frank Albert prizes for both psychology and anthropology and gained first class honours and the university medal in psychology at the University of Sydney. She was an accomplished carillonist which said a lot about her. Wilson asked me a lot of questions while I played with a train set on her office floor. I understood fully what she was saying to me but I wasn't answering simply because I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of her with my speech impediment.

Her report about me wasn't glowing. Wilson wrote͵ "Jens just reaches an average level on the general scale for his age group. He has less facility with words than numbers." Well whoop dee doo͵ Wilson. I fared pretty well in school but I always considered the outdoors my real classroom.

From my earliest memories I always wanted to be an actor. I had the physicality and the presence of mind but unfortunately not the voice. I found my voice in poetry and abstract art͵ and journalism appealed to me because every day was like rocking up to a paid audition. 

I couldn't wait to get home some days from school͵ and pick up from where I left off in any book I was reading. I had a voracious appetite for adventure͵ intrigue and drama and books fertilised my already vivid imagination so creating sensational news headlines came easily to me in later life.

I was in high school when an English teacher made me stand up in class and read a passage from King Lear. Shakespeare was difficult enough for anyone to read let alone someone who stuttered. Reading out loud to an audience was about as difficult as anything got for me. I'd rather take corporal punishment any day so over the years I developed a tolerance for pain͵ and the cane. I felt pretty pleased with myself as I stumbled my way through the first scene but my classmates weren't having any part of any public humiliation. In my defence they howled in protest and one student rose to his feet and gave the teacher a Nazi salute. The classroom erupted in utter pandemonium. Several of us͵ including me͵ were ordered out of the classroom. The end result was that the teacher didn't take any disciplinary action and she never made me stand up again and read in class. She didn't have to. She did me a huge favour because after the hullabaloo I was always putting my hand up to read while my classmates just groaned.

My mates were always putting words in my mouth and I guessed they just wanted to help me finish my sentence so we could get down to the park before dark to play touch footy.

There were two types of journalists. There were those who believed the articles they wrote made a difference͵ maybe even winning them an award or two͵ and then there were others like me who wanted to make the reader die laughing͵ sizzle with excitement or throw up in disgust.

It was my job as a tabloid journalist to both shock and amaze my readership and that was a responsibility I took very seriously. I wanted my articles to literally jump off the page like the Aussie pig hunter whose bloody and bleeding mongrel dogs stood between him and a 150kg bastard boar gone ballistic. Feral pigs become vicious swine͵ especially with mongrel dogs biting their balls͵ and they'd go any bastard stupid enough to stand out in the open with a camera and silly tape recorder so our courageous news team scampered up a tree to take the shots of our brave bushman's brush with death from the safety of the branches.

We were daring͵ diabolical and downright dirty but we were real͵ we were Aussie and we told it how it was.

Yep͵ we gave punters what they wanted to read and I got to live out fantasies people only bullshitted about. Sometimes I gave myself an uppercut just to remind myself what a truly lucky bastard I really was but most of the time I got ironed out by the booze. But hey͵ I woke up with the photos and sometimes the girl and between the garble on the tape I usually got the story as well.

This was my story about a men's mag sandwiched on the fourth (sleaze) floor of an 11-storey Sydney publishing house between other͵ more reputable͵ magazine titles. Now that the publishing giant had gone public everybody loved our mag͵ especially the shareholders͵ because of the huge circulation (fourth in the country behind three women's mags) and because the smutty advertising was a veritable goldmine of revenue. Everybody wanted the advertising bucks but we were the only publication where smut sat happily on the pages. Our pages literally dripped with listings about the latest men's sex aids like the next generation of pump action masturbators called Robo Suck. At $85 it was cheaper than half-an-hour with the love goddess above the laundromat and then there was the latex lady which cost $495 including postage from the US or for just a couple of bucks the budget conscious punter could pick up a copy of our publication and turn to the centre spread for a bit of light hand relief.

We broke big stories like the Mongrel Mob murder in New Zealand͵ Aboriginal deaths in custody͵ and NUDE PARASAILORS BUZZ MANLY FERRY. And sometimes we created national news headlines ourselves by organising dwarf throwing contests on the Gold Coast. Dwarfs were doing cartwheels because they were getting paid for being runts while publicans were delirious because everybody was getting drunk and our readers were getting their money's worth of earth-shattering stories. But there was always one who didn't enjoy the fun we created. The sport of dwarf throwing was dumped after pressure was put on politicians by the mainstream media who denounced it as demeaning to little fellas. The general media portrayed us as exploiters not saviours of the work force. For several weeks debate raged on talkback radio and in the letters pages of the metropolitan newspapers about the dwarf sport while the sorry state of the economy was once again put on the backburner.

We were the pariahs of our profession and the mainstream media loved us for it because we took some of the heat off them. We drummed up more publicity by organising a demo of little people chanting Dwarfs Have Rights Too but it didn't fool the censors͵ those champions of righteousness͵ who upheld their ban on dwarf throwing contests. It was no great loss because we just turned our attention to another story about freaks in the street. 

We were taken off the newsstands for several weeks after we published a photo of a girl wearing a dog's collar. Nothing wrong with that͵ I say͵ except we showed her on the cover͵ naked͵ on all fours and on a leash. Everybody got upset over nothing. The censor claimed we were objectifying females but we never heard a whimper from the model. We were subsequently classified Category 1͵ like Hustler͵ and forced to seal editions in plastic bags in Tasmania while newsagents in South Australia and Western Australia were ordered to place copies behind the counter in case the public went crazy at the sight of our magazine lying out in the open. Our sales figures slumped as a result of people having to ask for a copy of the magazine at the newsstands. The age of political correctness and the internet were upon us so we had to try that little bit harder on our wow factor to woo our audience.