Struth. A bloke can’t get a word in edgeways around here. Yours truly has been just about busting a nut over any number of outrages, and here the eds are filling up with mag with all this namby pamby arts and culture guff.
My oath, but I’ve got a wild hair up the old cakehole this month. I’m about to go sideways, and it’s all thanks to a mob I call…

The bloody flakes. Let’s clear up the confusion from the get go. A flake is not a piker. A piker is actually better than a flake, ‘cos at least the piker comes out early and pikes openly, backing out of whatever’s going on. A flake is a whole different mongrel.

These useless nongs tell a fella they’re gonna do something, then tell him again, and again until it’s way too late to find someone else to do it, then they back out.
Mate. That really gets my goat. The worst kind of flake - the mega-flake, if you will - doesn’t even tell a digger they’re backing out. You gotta ring em up and then listen to a whole raft of pissant excuses.

Flakes of the world: All sausage, no sizzle.