Late To The Party - a podcast on Autism, AuDHD and Neurodivergence
Aug 4, 2026 · 1 hr 5 min · 9 segments
In this episode of *Late to the Party*, Dan speaks with MJ Warfield about what it’s really like to work in a job that looks completely incompatible with an AuDHD brain. Loud, chaotic, high‑pressure…
Dan KerrHost
MJ WarfieldGuest
Martin RyanGuest
Little Daniel, 17, and therefore convinced he was both immortal and terribly worldly.
He was accompanied by Martin, Richard, a lad of such improbable height, he appeared to have been stretched on a medieval rack.
And Martin's auntie, who travelled with a retinue of women possessing the serene confidence of people who actually know how to pitch a tent.
The evening's festivities began at a pub of the sort that seems to have been assembled entirely from the memories of other Australian pubs.
The carpet was a tapestry of ancient spills, the air smelled faintly of nostalgia and disinfectant, and the locals regarded the boys with the gentle curiosity of cows observing a passing hot air balloon.
Drinks were consumed with the reckless gusto of youths who believe hangovers are merely an urban myth.
By the time they staggered back to the campsite, the world had taken on that warm, fuzzy, slightly operatic quality that suggests one has drunk enough to attempt philosophy or karaoke.
The three boys collapsed into a two-man tent, an act of spatial optimism so heroic it deserved a commemorative palanquin.
a roar, and finally settled into a sort of Wagnerian thunder that suggested Valhalla itself was under renovation.
In a moment of desperate inspiration, he reached across and began thumping Daniel's chest with the earnest determination of someone trying to reboot a Victorian steam engine.
Little Daniel, 17, and therefore convinced he was both immortal and terribly worldly.
He was accompanied by Martin, Richard, a lad of such improbable height, he appeared to have been stretched on a medieval rack.
And Martin's auntie, who travelled with a retinue of women possessing the serene confidence of people who actually know how to pitch a tent.
The evening's festivities began at a pub of the sort that seems to have been assembled entirely from the memories of other Australian pubs.
The carpet was a tapestry of ancient spills, the air smelled faintly of nostalgia and disinfectant, and the locals regarded the boys with the gentle curiosity of cows observing a passing hot air balloon.
Drinks were consumed with the reckless gusto of youths who believe hangovers are merely an urban myth.
By the time they staggered back to the campsite, the world had taken on that warm, fuzzy, slightly operatic quality that suggests one has drunk enough to attempt philosophy or karaoke.
The three boys collapsed into a two-man tent, an act of spatial optimism so heroic it deserved a commemorative palanquin.
a roar, and finally settled into a sort of Wagnerian thunder that suggested Valhalla itself was under renovation.
In a moment of desperate inspiration, he reached across and began thumping Daniel's chest with the earnest determination of someone trying to reboot a Victorian steam engine.
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