The Ten Commandments

Puppies, pray for me, for I have sinned. Again. And again. And again. And again. 😈 But apparently that’s what good little Christian boys are meant to do. Sin. Confess. Repent. Repeat. I’d rather do something else. Question the fucking rules. Because little six-year-old Wolfie was pulled out of public school and put into a private Catholic school called St Joseph’s.

This was after I’d been sexually assaulted by an older girl at my previous school and developed what I now understand as hyper-aroused hearing. Every scrape of a chair. Every whisper. Every fucking noise. My ears heard everything. Holla at Loop earplugs, FYI. And while little Wolfie sat there being taught about sin, obedience, Heaven, Hell and what supposedly made someone “good,” something in him already questioned it.

There may have been Heaven on my mind. But there was Hell in my heart. So welcome to Friday confessional, pups. Get on your knees. Put your hands together. And pray. You’re gonna fucking need to. Subscribe FUCK THE RULES You shall have no other gods before me. Get fucked Cunt.

I’m am my own God. Therapy taught me that, everything exists in your head only, change the frequency, change the reality-you can quantum leap into a completely different version of your self with the tech I’ve used. God I’m my mind, does not exist. I became my own authority.

Not because therapy taught me that I’m literally God. Because therapy taught me how much of the world I experience is filtered through my own brain: my beliefs, memories, fears, expectations and patterns. Change those patterns and your experience of your life can change dramatically.

I’ve called some of those changes “quantum leaps.” You can call them therapy. Neuroplasticity. Growing the fuck up. Whatever. I stopped waiting for something outside me to save me. Apparently we’re already off to a terrible start. You shall not make or worship idols.

Too late. Have you seen Instagram? Celebrities. Influencers. Musicians. Actors. Porn stars. Fitness gods. Reality stars. Men with twelve abdominal muscles and suspiciously perfect lighting. We built the idols ourselves. Then gave them blue ticks. The more interesting commandment for 2026 might be: Stop worshipping people you don’t fucking know.

Including me. Woulf is a character. A persona. A collection of stories, scars, sex, confidence, bullshit, truth and things I stole from somewhere else. Take whatever helps you. Leave the rest. You shall not misuse the name of God. Jesus fucking Christ. There goes number three.

But I’m more interested in another name you misuse every fucking day. Your own. “I’m ugly.” “I’m embarrassing.” “I’m too old.” “I’m not confident enough.” “I could never do that.” “I’m not one of those people.” How many commandments have you followed while committing blasphemy against yourself?

Your brain loves repetition. Feed it the same story long enough and eventually you stop recognising it as a story. It becomes you. So maybe stop worrying about saying “God” wrong. And start paying attention to how you say your own fucking name. Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.

Okay, admittedly I used to think the Sabbath had something to do with Christmas. Santa Claus. Ho. Ho. Hoe, motherfucker. But the actual idea is considerably less festive: Set aside a day for God and rest. Which, bizarrely, might be one of the commandments I could actually use.

Not because God told me to. Because sometimes my nervous system needs me to sit the fuck down. Rest isn’t laziness. You don’t need to earn it. Maybe the Catholics accidentally had one useful idea. Don’t tell them I said that. Honour your father and your mother.

Or, as a kid can easily hear it: Do what you’re fucking told. Nahhhhhhh. Respect isn’t obedience. Growing up sometimes means realising your parents are human beings who inherited their own beliefs, fears, rules and fucked-up ideas from somebody else. You can love your parents.

You can honour what they gave you. And you can still say: That ends with me. Being somebody’s child doesn’t mean surrendering your adulthood. You shall not murder. Well, duh. Don’t murder people. That one can stay. Murder my bussy instead. Moving on. You shall not commit adultery.

Ohhhhhhhhhh. Now we’re getting somewhere. This is the one I have the biggest problem with. Because I don’t think morality lives inside monogamy. It lives inside consent. There are monogamous people lying to each other every night. There are open couples communicating exactly where they are, who they’re fucking and what the boundaries are.

Which relationship is behaving more ethically? Fuck how you want to fuck. Monogamous. Open. Poly. Kinky. Vanilla. Whatever. But communicate. Respect boundaries. Talk about sexual health. Reduce risk where you reasonably can. And get actual consent. Freedom without responsibility isn’t liberation.

It’s just being a cunt. Then fuck. The Woulf approves. And while you’re doing it? Stay in your body. Trust me. It works. You shall not steal. Well… We’re all stealing from each other anyway. Where the fuck do you think Woulf came from? He’s a mishmash of lived experience.

Stories. People I’ve met. Things I’ve heard. Things I’ve fucked up. Things people have said to me. Things I’ve said back. Truth. Exaggeration. Performance. Memory. And occasionally complete fucking nonsense. Everything begins somewhere. On Tuesday my husband told me to: “Calm down you come-down cocaine cunt.” I liked it.

So I’m claiming it as my own. Fuck ya. You shall not bear false witness against your neighbour. Essentially: Don’t lie about other people. Okay. This one gets considerably harder to make fun of. Because gossip is entertaining as fuck… until you’re the story.

There’s a difference between telling your version of what happened and inventing somebody else’s. Woulf tells stories. Sometimes I change details. Sometimes I exaggerate for comedy. Sometimes people become characters. But the lived experience underneath it belongs to me.

Tell your fucking story. Just don’t steal somebody else’s truth to make yours more interesting. You shall not covet. Don’t obsessively desire what somebody else has. Their money. Their house. Their body. Their husband. Their success. Their life. But… I wanna be actually kinda famous.

So what the fuck do we do with ambition? Because wanting something you’ve seen somebody else achieve isn’t automatically jealousy. Sometimes it’s evidence. Evidence that the thing exists. I see writers with audiences and think: I want that. I see people getting paid to be completely themselves and think: I want that too.

I don’t need their life. I want to build mine. That distinction matters. So what’s my point? Fuck these rules? Well… Mostly. Some of them are actually pretty fucking reasonable. Don’t murder people. Don’t destroy somebody with lies. Don’t take shit that isn’t yours.

Have a fucking day off occasionally. Not exactly controversial. But I’m suspicious of any moral system that teaches people to obey before teaching them to question. Because I spent enough of my life wondering whether the things that made me different also made me wrong.

My sexuality. My desires. My body. My confidence. My voice. The things I wanted to do with other men. The things I wanted them to do to me. Woulf exists to drag those things out of the confessional and into the fucking daylight. To break stigma around sex. Gay life. Kink.

Shame. Consent. Sexual health. And all the supposedly filthy little things I’m doing… that some of you are doing too. The difference? I’m stupid enough to write about them publicly. And apparently somebody thinks that’s worth putting on the radio.

Yep. The Woulf is going on air. But I’m not giving you all the details yet, puppy. Because it wouldn’t be authentically Woulf if I didn’t shock you, make you laugh… and then teach you something you weren’t expecting to learn. So here’s your teaser for next week: Did you know that, under New Zealand law, there’s a very specific reason I can write the sentence: Technically, you can’t rape me.

That one needs a content warning. And an entire story. On radio……you’re about to hear the Woulfs voice is all I can say for now. Dont ask questions. Good boy. See you next confession. Arwoooooooo 🐺

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