The fair city of Wollongong will never be the same…

not after


has had his wicked way with it.

The semi-epic tale of THE NAKED VIKING is mostly concerned with a young lad named Condie. At the tale’s beginning, our Condie is a typical, unassuming, newly unemployed twenty-something misfit somewhat lacking in money, motivation and direction; by the tale’s end, Condie has somehow become the Naked Viking, lording over an astonishing social, philosophical, and rather naughty revolution as the leader and figurehead of the Global Nudity Movement… how that situation came to pass, however, Condie is not entirely sure upon.

So go on: join Condie, his friends and his enemies – and one or two antagonists who fall somewhere in between – as they desperately try to stay afloat in an increasingly bemusing and fleshy tide of global revolution. Will the Naked Viking be punished for the social upheaval he has caused, or will he reap the rewards? Will Antoine ever be cured of his unrequited love for the fiendishly beautiful Lucy, or will she lead him by the nads to a blissful demise? Will the Walrus ever expose the meerkats for the scheming pawns of evil that they are, or is he too busy trying to shag the CEO’s daughter? For the answers, you’re just going to have to buy the book.

(Answers not guaranteed.)

In Store Price: $24.00 
Online Price:   $23.00

Format: A5 Paperback
Number of pages: 268
Genre: fiction

Author: Mark Barwell 
Imprint: Poseidon
Publisher: Poseidon Books
Date Published:  2005
Language: English



Mark Barwell was born in Port Kembla, NSW, in 1981. He grew up in the salty seaside town of Kiama, and attended school in Wollongong. He relocated to Wollongong shortly after commencing a degree in Civil Engineering at the local University, where he made a point of having absolutely nothing to do whatsoever with the Creative Writing department. Aside from writing, Mark’s interests include cricket, drinking, muckraking, and impersonating an employee of the local City Council. Any rumours pertaining to Mark’s supposed major shareholding in a harem in Addis Ababa are spurious at best, though if pressed he can organise bookings for the discriminating gentleman.   


Upon a certain summer’s day on Castlereagh Street, a semi-major thoroughfare through the Central Business District of Sydney, Australia, an unusual event was unfolding. It was a stiflingly hot and sticky summer’s day – itself not an unusual event, not by any means. The buildings either side of the street stood tall and proud, with storey upon storey of glass, sandstone, granite and marble facades gleaming in the daylight – again, a long-established feature of the streetscape and not, in itself, in any way unusual. What was unusual about the scene was the teeming mass of people assembled upon the street, a seething throng of several thousand protestors united in a cheeky spirit of defiance and dissent; this in itself was a fairly unusual scene upon Castlereagh Street, but adding significantly to matters was the fact that each and every one of them was completely, totally and utterly naked. There was not a stitch of clothing to be found among them, they all knew it well, and what’s more: they were proud.

Arrayed a hundred metres further down the street before the throng of naked revellers was a large contingent of the local constabulary, a thousand-strong assembly of the boys – and girls – in blue. They stood, in defiance of the sweltering heat and the apparent trend towards reckless public nudity, in full uniform; indeed, those policemen facing off against the nudists in the front line were fully clad in riot gear, hefting sturdy plastic shields, helmets with visors, and nasty-looking batons. Contrasting the cheeky, rebellious, buoyant mood of the larger group of naked revellers, the police had a stern, grimly determined – if somewhat uncomfortable – air about them as they blocked the protestors’ path.

The footpaths on either side of the street were jam-packed with onlookers, members of the general public who had found themselves witness to this unusual and spectacular event. Moving amongst the crowds, several news crews were jockeying for position as each tried to get the best angle, armed with bulky news cameras, sound booms, and pointy elbows to clear their way; there were crews from all of the major national networks, and a few more from some prestigious international news networks as well. It was obvious that this was an event of considerable significance, unusual though it was, and though no-one was sure what was going to happen next, it could be said with certainty that it would be recorded for posterity from at least a dozen angles and broadcast to untold millions.

And trapped in the middle of it all – between the nudists, between the police, between the onlookers and between the news crews – there stood a man, one solitary man, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and nowhere to put his hands. He wore a pair of running shoes. He wore a balaclava. He wore a crude plastic Viking hat. And he wore nothing else.

This man was known to thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people, around Australia and around the world, as the Naked Viking: scourge of the fashion industry, bane of the law enforcement community, and the leader and champion of the Global Nudity Movement; and it was six thousand members of the same Global Nudity Movement that were grouped behind him, having answered the call to join him in his latest and most audacious demonstration. To a considerably smaller group of people, however, this man was known as Condie: a fairly typical, listless, unemployed layabout with perhaps a little too much time on his hands, and a seeming propensity for getting himself stuck smack in the middle of increasingly awkward, unusual, and potentially explosive situations.

And as he stood frozen, in a sort of half-defensive, half-panicked crouch of readiness, he assessed the situation: six thousand devoted, naked followers behind him; one thousand scary-looking, battle-ready policepersons in front of him; untold thousands of onlookers on the footpaths, in the buildings, and behind the cameras either side; and each and every last one of them could see his nads.

“Fuck’s sake,” Condie said to himself. “How do I get myself into shit like this?” And quickly, to avoid having to decide what he was going to do next, he let his mind flit backwards two months or so, to a different scene, on a different street, in a different city, and he remembered how all of this got started; which of his muck-raking, shit-stirring friends could – and would – be blamed for it; and the terribly violent retribution he had in store for all of them.



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