Scott Sandwich

Scott Sandwich

 Sydney, New South Wales, AUS
BandSpoken WordAlternative

Scott Sandwich is a Beatnik who would have been rejected in the 50s for being too lame, and is rejected in the 21st century for claiming to be a Beatnik. He performs rants, readings and hip hop, exploring rhythm and rhyme in stories about dates, death and the apocalypse... and kittens.


Following a pathetic demise from the aquatic tourism industry, Scott Sandwich’s first performance won an encouragement award in the 2010 Paroxysm Press Poetry Slam as part of the Adelaide Fringe Festival in Australia. He went on to win the FBi Radio Poetry Slam, making the Australian Poetry Slam National Final, and winning the 'Wordfood' Poetry Slam Competition at the Woodford Folk Festival.

His songs have a focus on storytelling, with a tendency to explore disasters, death, the apocalypse and failed first dates.

In October 2010, he released an awkward not-quite-hip-hop EP, called The Feast & The Beast, with an album and two EPs due to be released later in 2011.

Scott Sandwich is the performance name of Sydney sound designer and noisy jazz guitarist Tom Hogan. For more information visit


Our First Date, Our Last Date

Written By: Tom Hogan (aka Scott Sandwich)

She wore black to the restaurant. Infinite black. She takes the menu first. She orders cow and pig and bird and greens and reds and liquids, entrees and mains and desserts and after dinner mints and in betweens.
And I say, “Just a sticky date pudding thanks.”

And she’s like, “Really? Is that all? Because you can have some of mine, I’ll pay, it’s fine, mine is yours and what’s yours is mine.”
And I say, “No really, just a sticky date pudding thanks.”

And she’s like, “No, you’ll have something good, something great, something healthy, something filling, something colourful, something thrilling”
And I say, “No, just a sticky date pudding thanks.”

And she’s like, “What are you, 10 years old? You can’t have sticky date pudding at a time like this! You’re supposed to impress me and wine and dine me!”
And I say, “No, just a sticky date pudding thanks.”

The waiter arrives and he covers the table in all of my date’s crap
And she puts chicken on my plate, steak on my dish, sets up the dips, cracks open the crab, slices the bread into equal amounts, pours wine, unfolds our napkins, reorganises my cutlery, excuses herself politely before asking if I would like to try some of her pastrami
And I say, “I’ll just have the sticky date pudding thanks.”

And she’s like “Come on! Do something, be something, want something!”
And I say, “Really, I just want a sticky date pudding thanks.”

And she’s like “No seriously, go fuck yourself, you twat… eat shit, and don’t you dare call me back!”
And she rips up the tablecloth, the food falls to the floor, the quail manages to slip and slide all the way to the door (leaving a trail of poop-stain coloured gravy was the last of it we saw), and the turkey shat out its stuffing as my date’s black heel pierced its breast, the eggs all prayed to be put back in their nest, and the duck flew west (because it wasn’t winter yet)
The steak is stuck to the roof, the lamb is lost and aloof, the ribs are cracked and broken, the veal has been set alight and now it’s smokin’, she flattens the salami and performs origami, the spam is binned along with its tin, the T-bone is beaten til its more tender than its ever been.
She rockets the rocket and the waiter doesn’t stop it, she strangely leaves the lettuce but spits on the variety of fettas, she stepped on the vinegar which somehow cured her tinea, and we won’t see the tomato til tomorrow, or the potato til 2012.
She pours the red wine on the white carpet and the white wine on the red walls and sparkling in the fish tank and the lemonade on the candy bank, she left the water alone, but considered taking a sip because she was running out of breath and needed all she could before she really ran amuck
For she was now a Mack truck, and she blew through the walls, a trail of falling debris in her wake, I keep my eyes on my sticky date cake.
Her surf and turf take a trip through the window glass, half landing in water the other in grass, while the lobster lands back in its boiling bath, its brothers in a nearby tank had to laugh, they’ve come to accept their life could never last, the squid however had an inkling he’d survive being cooked and digested and spliced with knives, to his surprise met his demise, if he could he’d scream out “Don’t believe the lies!”, while both the prawns and the shrimp just watched on with their beady little eyes, or perhaps it was just the latter? Whichever, they were both on the platter before it was used as a splatter for the fish batter.
She punched the waiter, knifed the chef, forked the owner, and spooned a random guy, poured beans on a woman wearing what looked like the skin of a mule, and then she expertly side kicked the 2 year old child off its high stool
Amongst all of the destruction, I can’t resist, and I slowly reach for my fork, I let it sink into the dark sponge, through the soup sauce, I delicately place the caramel on my tongue and let it dribble in my mouth, I suck on it, close my eyes and swallow twice
She stops. Sits down calmly and says “Actually… that smells rather nice. May I please have a bite?”


The Feast & The Beast EP (available online).
His tracks "Our First Date, Our Last Date", "Stay Out Of The Water" and "21st Century Vampires" have received radio airplay across Sydney.