I CATCH THE school bus home most days, kids kangarooing from seat to seat. Hard for a little bloke like me to get a word in sideways. So, I’ve learnt how to fade. As Dad says, you’re better at feeding the chickens than slaughtering the calf, Ian. Not that it makes heaps of sense, but I get it: I’m a wimp with a capital W. I let the world race at me… And I’m okay with that, mostly. Got no beef, get no beef. That sorta business. But with Sarah Kennedy – ah, Sarah Kennedy, eldest of the Kennedy kids, forever twirling that pink chewing gum around her shooter finger like a piano string strung around my heart – this whole no-name underwear shtick comes undone.

Sarah Kennedy. Shiny as the inset to a Dolly mag, I reckon she’s gonna be on the cover of FHM one day. When Sarah Kennedy talks, mark my words, I listen – and then I get thinking, say something funny say something funny say something funny. Laughter,Mum says, is the gateway. Dad reckons that’s a load of spunk: women like conquerors. Either way, I’m the punchline not the orator. Sarah Kennedy’s not just out of my league, she started a league where the concept of an Ian Spittle isn’t even recognised in their founding charter.