ABC News Breakfast reporter Tony Armstrong made an x-rated yet ultimately endearing gaffe when he uttered “bulging dick” live on air this morning.
Yep, you didn’t read that incorrectly, the sports presenter accidentally dropped the phrase “bulging dick” instead of “bulging disk” while discussing Aussie cricket captain Tim Paine.
“Tim Paine is set to undergo neck surgery but medical staff remain confident the veteran will be fit for the Ashes. Paine has a bulging dick,” Armstrong said before correcting himself.
Unsurprisingly, Armstrong’s co-hosts Lisa Millar and Michael Rowland were unable to contain themselves after hearing such an expected term during their G-rated time slot.
While Millar burst into laughter, Rowland asked Armstrong to clarify what he said at the end of the report.
“A bulging what?” Rowland said.
“Disc, I said disc,” Armstrong replied.
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“That’s what I thought you said,” Rowland joked.
The show then cut to weather presenter Nate Byrne, who cried: “Why me? Why me? Don’t bring me into this. Is my mic working?”
The slip-up was shared to Twitter by fellow ABC news presenter Joe O’Brien who wrote:
“Bringin’ the raunch to Breakfast TV. Just when you thought you couldn’t love @Tonaaayy_ any more than you do.”
As if the whole story couldn’t get any more entertaining, Paine himself ended up replying to another snippet of the clip with “True story actually.”
All in all, it seems that sometimes all you need to brighten your day is an incidental dick joke. Thank you for your service, Tony.
In partnership with Grill Mates and Stubb's BBQ Sauce.
There’s something unmistakably raw about William Crighton. It’s there in his voice—deep, cracked, like bark peeling from a eucalypt—and in the stories he tells, steeped in red dirt, rolling hills, and river ghosts. But beyond the music, there’s another side to Crighton that’s just as grounded in the Australian bush: cooking.
To him, the fire pit and the fretboard aren’t all that different. “I approach music similar to how I approach cooking ,” he says, “which is, I don't know too much, and going back to that childhood curiosity and wonder.”
Bush Songs and Backyard Smoke
Crighton’s music is often shaped by time spent in nature—walking through scrubland, sitting by creeks, or staring into campfire flames. His songs are rooted in place, and so is his food. He’s not about complicated recipes or kitchen gadgets; his ideal cooking set-up is a cast iron grill over coals, a sharp knife, and the open sky.
“There’s something about the bush that strips things back to what matters,” he says. “It’s the same with cooking. When you’re out there, it’s just you, the fire, and whatever you’ve got on hand. That’s where the magic is.”
And while Crighton’s approach is humble, it’s far from bland. A believer in bold, honest flavour, he’s quick to call out two essentials in his campfire toolkit: Grill Mates seasoning and Stubb’s BBQ Sauce.
“I’m not a chef, but I know what tastes good,” he laughs. “Grill Mates have that smoky hit that just works with anything—lamb chops, kangaroo, even a grilled zucchini. And Stubb’s? That stuff’s got soul.”
Smoke and Soul
For Crighton, cooking is more than just survival—it’s ceremony. Whether he’s on tour or out bush with his family, there’s a rhythm to it. Gather wood. Light the fire. Let it burn down. Season the meat. Cook it slow. Sit, talk, eat, listen. It’s the same process as writing a song, he says. “You don’t rush it. You let it build. You taste as you go.”
That sense of time, patience, and presence defines both his music and his meals. There’s no room for distractions when you're working with fire and feeling your way through a song. It’s tactile. Sensory. Honest.
“A little bit of not knowing, that's where the best s*** comes,” he says. “Too much heat, too much spice, too many words—it’ll burn out or fall flat. But when you hit it just right? It’s unforgettable.”
Music, Meat, and Meaning
Ask Crighton about the perfect cook-up, and he won’t talk about sous-vide machines or reverse searing. He’ll talk about standing barefoot in the dust, his guitar nearby, kids running around, a bit of Stubb’s soaking into a thick ribeye as the sun drops low.
It’s not just about what’s on the plate—it’s who you’re sharing it with, what the day’s been like, what you’re listening to Will tells us. "Food and music are both about creating a moment. That’s the stuff people remember.”
As his songs continue to resonate around the world, from the stages of Nashville to the paddocks of New South Wales, William Crighton remains committed to that core philosophy: stay grounded, keep it simple, and always cook with heart.
Because whether he’s crafting a haunting verse or searing a steak, Crighton knows—the good stuff happens when you let the fire do its thing.
In partnership with Grill Mates and Stubb's BBQ Sauce.
There’s something unmistakably raw about William Crighton. It’s there in his voice—deep, cracked, like bark peeling from a eucalypt—and in the stories he tells, steeped in red dirt, rolling hills, and river ghosts. But beyond the music, there’s another side to Crighton that’s just as grounded in the Australian bush: cooking.
To him, the fire pit and the fretboard aren’t all that different. “I approach music similar to how I approach cooking ,” he says, “which is, I don't know too much, and going back to that childhood curiosity and wonder.”
Bush Songs and Backyard Smoke
Crighton’s music is often shaped by time spent in nature—walking through scrubland, sitting by creeks, or staring into campfire flames. His songs are rooted in place, and so is his food. He’s not about complicated recipes or kitchen gadgets; his ideal cooking set-up is a cast iron grill over coals, a sharp knife, and the open sky.
“There’s something about the bush that strips things back to what matters,” he says. “It’s the same with cooking. When you’re out there, it’s just you, the fire, and whatever you’ve got on hand. That’s where the magic is.”
And while Crighton’s approach is humble, it’s far from bland. A believer in bold, honest flavour, he’s quick to call out two essentials in his campfire toolkit: Grill Mates seasoning and Stubb’s BBQ Sauce.
“I’m not a chef, but I know what tastes good,” he laughs. “Grill Mates have that smoky hit that just works with anything—lamb chops, kangaroo, even a grilled zucchini. And Stubb’s? That stuff’s got soul.”
Smoke and Soul
For Crighton, cooking is more than just survival—it’s ceremony. Whether he’s on tour or out bush with his family, there’s a rhythm to it. Gather wood. Light the fire. Let it burn down. Season the meat. Cook it slow. Sit, talk, eat, listen. It’s the same process as writing a song, he says. “You don’t rush it. You let it build. You taste as you go.”
That sense of time, patience, and presence defines both his music and his meals. There’s no room for distractions when you're working with fire and feeling your way through a song. It’s tactile. Sensory. Honest.
“A little bit of not knowing, that's where the best s*** comes,” he says. “Too much heat, too much spice, too many words—it’ll burn out or fall flat. But when you hit it just right? It’s unforgettable.”
Music, Meat, and Meaning
Ask Crighton about the perfect cook-up, and he won’t talk about sous-vide machines or reverse searing. He’ll talk about standing barefoot in the dust, his guitar nearby, kids running around, a bit of Stubb’s soaking into a thick ribeye as the sun drops low.
It’s not just about what’s on the plate—it’s who you’re sharing it with, what the day’s been like, what you’re listening to Will tells us. "Food and music are both about creating a moment. That’s the stuff people remember.”
As his songs continue to resonate around the world, from the stages of Nashville to the paddocks of New South Wales, William Crighton remains committed to that core philosophy: stay grounded, keep it simple, and always cook with heart.
Because whether he’s crafting a haunting verse or searing a steak, Crighton knows—the good stuff happens when you let the fire do its thing.
