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About Newcastle

Now, imagine the monk’s master in that flick, watchin this crap unfold. “You’ve tied a stone to your soul,” he’d say, all cryptic-like. And he’s right! Yer not just payin for a romp—you’re buyin a ticket to self-sabotage city. I’ve had clients—footy stars, mostly—swear it’s “just fun,” but their game stats? Trash after. Focus gone, stamina shot. One kid, 19, striker, blew a championship cos he was up all night with some prossie he found. Surprised? Nah, I saw it comin a mile off.

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Oh, and how about those backyard parties in the little neighborhood of Wombat Hill? They're wild, noisy, and beautifully so. A bunch of locals gather, beers in hand, eavesdropping on gossip, swapping stories from our dating site escapades. Insane, right? Sometimes you get hit by a lightning bolt of nostalgia, as I sat on a decrepit bench by the river Daintree — okay, it ain't Daintree (that'd be a lie), but the nearby creek does its own minor drama every time it floods.

Jindabyne remembers historic flooding of old town