John Campbell Blows. Himself.

If you’ve ever wondered what it would look like to see a guy give himself a blowie – and let’s be honest, who hasn’t – then tune into TV3 at 7pm each week night. John Campbell might not physically be able to pull it off, but he always has that look of someone who just did.

If I was to be honest, I’d have to admit that I usually don’t mind John. I’m not likely to put a photo of him on my ceiling above the bed anytime soon, but I can handle him in small doses. John is the kind of guy that uses pigeon Maori a lot so as to appear a genuine Kiwi bloke. The thing is John, genuine Kiwi blokes, like myself, don’t actually use any pigeon Maori unless we’re mocking that one dimensional character on Bro Town, but there you go.

John doesn’t wear a tie with his suit so as to appear casually relaxed, but at the same time, seriously anally uptight over the news of the day. John pushes the boundry of decency by sometimes saying some soft core profanity like ‘bugger’ and ‘bastard’, and gets away with it because he’s always smiling when he does. John’s the kind of guy you would hear shorten names like ‘Noel Leemings’ to ‘Noels’ because he thinks it makes him sound more Kiwi, when in fact it makes him sound like a twat, as does anyone who shortens the name of an appliance store.

But John is a hard core reporter who lives life on the edge. This week he had one of the scrotes that pulled the Waiouru museum robbery appear incognito on his show. That’s right, New Zealand’s most wanted man, who to date has evaded capture, sitting casually in a studio with the tie less John Campbell. The perp was so well disguised with his hoodie on, face blurred out and voice changed that it could almost have been anybody. It’s almost unbelievable, but it had to be true because John had his serious frown on and never once did he turn it upside down.

Needless to say the Cops were interested to speak with John the next day and so they did, turning up at the TV3 studios with a warrant. John probably welcomed them with a ‘Kia Ora’ and called them all ‘maaate’. This of course made the lead story of TV3 News and not unsurprisingly the lead story on John’s program too. It was right at that moment, that I realised the only way John could have been giving himself a bigger gob job was if he had had a couple of ribs removed so that he could fully deep throat his bad self.

For a start, there is no two sided story to be told here. The pussies that robbed the museum did so for personal gain and desecrated the memory of men with vastly bigger testes than they. Men who fought in World Wars won those medals whilst doing their duty so that these pricks could have the freedom they clearly don’t seem to enjoy having today. That, in my opinion, makes those that took the medals public enemy number one and no one with an ounce of national pride would hesitate in calling the bastards in were they to come face to face with them.

But then that says a lot about Harae Mai John I guess. Him and his station are now hiding behind journalistic principals and stoutly promising not to reveal their sources, which I could understand if they had just prevented a huge injustice from happening, but they haven’t. What they’ve done is man milked a gutless crime for as much airtime as they could and poor old John has the lockjaw to prove it.

Reporters, or rather the guys who sit at the desk with someone else’s hand up their rectum and read an autocue should stick to reading the news, not trying to make it. And what about the lawyer who we’re supposed to believe is a hero because he got the medals back? Apparently he did the same to some rare paintings that were nicked a few years back too. I reckon that makes him either extremely resourceful to be in the right place at the right time - not once but twice - or a decidedly jammy bastard who shouldn’t be trusted. He is a lawyer after all.

Personally I hope the boys in blue put all the pricks in jail for obstructing justice and then we can have a new public health poster that reads something like “This is your anus before journalistic integrity” and “This is your anus after you go to jail for journalistic integrity”.

Kiaora John, you tit.

The First Rule of BlogClub...

DougalMougal was giving me gip today for not having posted anything on the blog in over a week. Honestly, the more that guy speaks the less I want to sleep with him. But he’s quite right; you can’t not write anything for ages and try to pass yourself off as a blog, it's the first rule of BlogClub.

I’ve actually spent the entire week trying to open a new and improved pack of AA batteries, one of the ones where the new ‘easy tear’ tab is anything but easy and usually starts off by coming away from the pack at the slightest hint of pressure, thus rendering it completely useless and almost entirely impenetrable.

How many ‘easy to open’ packs do you actually find, well, easy to open? How is opening a box of muesli bars difficult anyway, it’s not exactly the Krypton Factor is it? Remember the good old days of bottled milk where all you had to do was jab your dirty index finger through the foil top to get to the good stuff? Now you’d be lucky to open your milk with anything less than several knifes of varying bluntness from the kitchen draw and a small Asian family. Tiny powerful little fists.

At times like these I am always amazed to think that somewhere, somehow, someone is actually getting paid good money to develop shit like this. Do they live an existence where they genuinely think they’re helping people I wonder, or are they just loving the fact that they getting paid some easy, easy money? All the others down the same packaging chain – the testers, the makers and the marketers – all share in making the same easy money. So it seems everyone on that particular merry go round is making easy money except you and me, the poor bastards who spend several hours fidgeting with the useless plastic seal tab thingee that cost us our hard earned money.

It’s a bit like unhooking a girl’s bra for the first time, except there was something worth getting to in that particular package. Speaking of milkers, Lindsay Lohan, the last great hope for those that fancy a bit of celebrity fire crotch – Bruiser, I’m looking at you brother – has gotten hers out in a photo shoot that pays homage to Marilyn Monroe’s last sitting. They are impressive, as I suspected they always were. I only suspected that since she’s been 16 mind you. To think that when she was like, 12, would just be wrong. If I can figure out how to post a link to them here I will, then we can all have a wank over them:

Lindsay's Nungas

Speaking of freckles, when the hell did the Hi5 line-up change? I just happened to come across the latest K Mart waste of space in my letterbox and couldn’t help but notice the effeminate fella is now a pimply ginga. As the young blondes I’m currently stalking on Bebo would say: WTF?! I think the Asian girl has changed too but you never can tell, they all look the same.

It’s like movie stars who play a memorable role like James Bond. Daniel Craig should be barred from playing anything else until he’s no longer James Bond because it breaks the illusion and it just gets on my tits. Worst is that dude who plays Cyclops in the X Men movies and turned up in the Superman Returns flick. Now that’s not even an honest mistake, that’s just taking the piss because Marvel comic characters do not cross over into DC comic movies, that’s not cool.

Neither is checking out a chick from afar that turns out up close to be a dude. Like some guy I know but who's name escapes me did earlier this week. Never trust a man with a pony tail, or parents who let their kids have hairdos that make them look like the other gender. The highlight of my weekend was asking 'Hows it going boys?' to the two on our doorstep selling fundraising chocolate, only to find that the youngest was called Abby. Great, now I've given some poor girl a complex all because Mum saves money by sending both kids to the same hairdresser.

So anyway, once you’re done having one over Lindsay Lohan – did I mention the shaven haven? – You might like to check out the slideshows I’ve added on the right. They should work for all bar the four of you that read this at our work.

Hey I might not have written anything in a week but I never neglect the blog. It's the first rule of BlogClub.

The Devil's Semen

It’s not that I’m an angry man – I can be when provoked – but I can’t help but think sometimes that life is just one big joke that I’m not in on.

Like when you rock on up to the servo and the pumps don’t work. Whilst leaving RotoAnus a few weeks ago I spent several minutes manoeuvring the passion wagon between two pumps that simply wouldn’t pump, only for Rangi (his real name) to tell me, when he finally noticed the angry pakeha, that “Sorry Bro, forgot to turn those ones on this morning”. When I finally got the devils semen pumped I found I couldn’t even pay for the stuff, because Rangi’s mate inside couldn’t “take cash on this till, only Eftpos”.

Can’t take cash?! It’s legal fucken tender, you can't not but take it! Clearly I should’ve offered him some blankets, some beads and some glue for his children because that day, cold hard cash just wasn’t going to cut it at BP RotoAnus. Rangi finally fixed me up, on the other till, but I came close to pulling a drive off that morning, I kid you not.

But this is not an isolated incident because almost every week I struggle to find a pump at Shell J-Town that will actually work when you put it on that little clip thing that was made – and I’m guessing here – so that you could leave it pumping, hands free. Now that would be handy, was it to ever work. Sometimes the fuckers even stop when you’re manually holding the bloody thing down so there’s absolutely no pattern to it other than to piss me off.

The guy behind the counter the one time I mentioned it was a great help, he reminded me that I had to pull the lever for it to work which was brilliant advice because up till then I had had it up my arsehole. My bad. But clearly our money is no longer any good to them. First they take away the forecourt attendants who used to pump your gas for you and now they take away the ability for you to actually pump your own gas. The final step will be that the pumps actually takes away your gas by siphoning out what little of it you have left in the tank without you knowing.

How can you spot the ex porn star at the servo? He’s the one who pulls the pump out before it’s finished and sprays it all over your boot.

An Eye For An Eye

Teenage crime is the latest sexy story for newsrooms in this country to get their hands on. Beats the cop bashing that reporters have milked the teets out of lately I suppose but kids’ getting into trouble is nothing new and you get the feeling it won’t be long before they try and link the two. It’ll be the Mans fault that teenagers are tagging next, you wait and see.

We got up to some good times in my teenage days. Stoning the assistant principal’s house on the way home after a night out on the large was one of our regular feel good moments. Probably scared the hell out of his wife and kids but he loved it, we could just tell by the way he chased us down the street in his jimmy jams. That’s why he was such a prick to us at school; he was gagging for us to retaliate in the dead of night like we did. It was reverse psychology at its best.

Pinching stuff was always a big source of enjoyment. Usually it was pure opportunism like street signs, car badges, milk and newspapers from the letterbox, or even the mail if it looked remotely like a stickmag. It never was and always inevitably turned out to be something lame like LawnMowers Monthly. Some of our biggest heists were off the cuff, like the day we cleaned out the squash club broom closet of all the boxes of spare Coke cans for the vending machine they had stored there. The only downside was that school was still a 20 minute walk away down the main street and your average school satchel doesn’t quite conceal a box containing 3 doz Coke cans. But we made it back to school and we made a tidy profit on selling them to the masses.

My mate Paul was like a magpie when it comes to the ‘ol five fingered discount. There wasn’t much he couldn’t nick including a wetsuit (he wore it out) a 3 foot garden gnome and any matter of small electrical appliances that had started the day in a locked cabinet. My other mate Rob stole to order, usually whilst out with his mates completing their many smash and grabs. If they had no orders, then it was just a smash, obviously. My best period at the school cricket crease was due to the top of the line bat he nicked for me from the window of Stirling Sports. I was a little disappointed that the bat had a dent in the side that Rob had sustained as he yanked it through the security mesh they had inside their window. I had a good mind to take it back to the shop for a replacement actually because it was hardly ‘new’ in that state.

Coops was hardcore though. He’d pocket bits of ham he sliced at the deli in the supermarket he worked, to eat whilst on his break. He’s the kind of hardened criminal you read about as starting their recidivist offending young! My biggest personal haul was the day I though I had struck in big back in intermediate and scored a whole box of the coolest plastic pencil cases I had seen up till that point. These things were like pistol magazines and that had to be cool. The only bummer was that they only came in green and pink but we fellas soon divvied up the green ones and looked to offload the poofy pink ones on the girls. That was until they pointed out to us, only after they had stopped laughing hysterically, that my score was actually a box of tampon holders.

Yep, teenies getting in trouble is nothing new. Stuff gets serious when you throw in a whole bunch of contributing factors. Of which there are too many for me to list here because I can’t be arsed noting all of societies failings, but you can guess alcohol, lack of parental responsibility and boredom are top of that particular list. Why we allowed our politicians to decide on our behalf that lowering the drinking age was a good choice is beyond me. It was a bad decision before they made it and it’s been a catastrophically fucken bad one since they did. Alcohol may only be a small part of a bigger problem but it’s now one of the more accessible ones and you’d have to be pretty naive to say it wasn’t the best social lube since KY.

But then that’s what happens when you let businessmen who make their money out of selling piss to teenagers influence government.

As far as punishment goes I’m a big fan of an eye for an eye and all that. I don’t believe all the civil libertarians - who have never had anything remotely bad happen to them - when they say ‘punishment doesn’t deter or rehabilitate’. How the fuck would we know, because thanks to them we’ve never been allowed to try it! I reckon you get two chances to make a social stuff up. The first time you get a chance at redemption – providing you do something minor – but the second time is over and out. If you didn’t get the message the first time that you'd fucked up then clearly a second or third is of no use to you. If you choose to step out of what society deems acceptable then you no longer have a need for the restraints society applies to those who only make the one booboo.

So for people who kill, they get killed. People who cause physical harm are incarcerated but are thrashed within an inch of their life, given time to recover and then thrashed some more. Those caught tagging or stealing lose a limb. And lets not get hung up on ‘but what if he didn’t do it?’ which again, is an argument perpetuated by someone who has never had anything bad happen to them or their family. I say if you’re caught in the act, then you’re up for the punishment. If there’s doubt over the guilt then we work something else out – but alas my kneejerk theory hasn’t got that far yet.

It may not stop teenagers from stealing ham from the deli, or stoning the assistant principal’s house at night, but it might make them thing twice about knifing each over some graffiti.

Cheque Book Loyalty

ClubDes has opened its doors again this week after a brief hiatus away in the very unlike Las Vegas town of RotoVegas. I’ve never been to Las Vegas but unless it’s full of Asians and hories and stinks of arse then I reckon I’m safe in assuming the two are quite unalike.

It’s called Rotovegas because it pulls the tourists, has the bright lights, has the shows etc. It really should be called RotoAnus though, on account that it smells like one and you'll be paying top tourist dollar through yours at every attraction you visit. They really should give a discount to those that can rock up with a NZ passport I reckon because $50 for a three second tumble in a ball of bubble wrap is a bit cheeky. Even if you do add a bucket of tepid water to lube it all up, quite frankly I’ve had more fun flushing whilst I sat on the shitter.

Still, there’s always the joy of handling your extended family’s washing whilst on a shared holiday to look forward to. There’s nothing quite like a spot of ‘compare the gusset stains’ as you hang everything on the line each morning. I couldn’t help but notice as I did, that my brother in law Bruiser single handily keeps the Asian sweat shop industry running with his excessive label bashing; Calvin Klein grundies, Nike bike shorts and adidas outer shorts. And that was just one days washing!

But then I can understand why he layers up like he does. It’s all down to a traumatic event he had whilst wearing the stubbies that were compulsory PE attire back in our college days. It was no coincidence that those that decided on the dress code back then were a bunch of homoerotic men who called themselves the Board of Trustees and all of whom longed to see all young men clad in thigh revealing, ball hugging short shorts. These shorts were unnaturally high cut and gave new meaning to the term ‘the cut lunch’.

Many of us didn’t know whether to laugh or applaud the day Bruisers left plum broke free of the flimsy mesh netting and came to rest on the polished hardwood floor. The young Bruiser was advanced stage of physical development for a boy of his age and whilst we longed for the day our manbags resembled walnuts in a sock, his were coconuts on a tree. They still are he assures me, just a little less milk than there used to be. I’m happy to take his word for it.

There’s nothing better than a game of backyard cricket to bring the family together whilst on holiday, that is until some Captain Hard Out prick bowls a few beamers and stuffs it up for everyone. Personally, I bring a test match attitude to the crease in such fixtures and give nothing away until I’ve reached an epic hundred or the game has ended due to boredom, which ever comes first.

I enjoy playing the game but I stopped watching cricket or rather specifically New Zealand play cricket, several years ago. If you want to see delusion in action, than look no further than the way cricket is marketed to the masses in this country. Cricket in New Zealand relies solely on the past reputation of guys who played 20 – 30 years ago to get the support it does. Martin Crowe was the last really good player we had and even though he played on one leg with no hair for the last few seasons, was still a cut above fully fit players. It was about this time that tossers like Adam Parore started believing that they were really, really, really ridiculously good looking, not to mention good at cricket and it’s about then that the bullshit started and I turned off.

Cricket these days is a lottery, plain and simple. Countries play each other so often no one keeps count. The result should be decided at the toss prior to play and everyone can save themselves the eight hours in between. NZ would benefit from this because we might win more games than we actually do and it would have the added bonus of removing the one certainty in world cricket today: everyone will get their personal best figures whilst playing NZ.

So no surprise to see Shane Bond took the money and ran like he did this past week. I wasn’t surprised but that doesn’t make it right, but then I remember a time when ‘loyalty’ meant more than a crumpled bit of cardboard that if stamped 27 times means you get a free coffee. Loyalty is watching the next four seasons of Lost, no matter how ridiculous it gets, because you took the time to watch the first three. What else are you going to do when it’s on anyway? Have a wank?

Bond is it doing it for the money which is the way of the world isn’t it? Fair enough, but I say he’s a prick for doing so, albeit a rich one now and by walking away from your country you kick in the pink bits every coach, volunteer, supporter and administrator who gave up their time in helping you get where you are today. There payback was watching you do the bizzo for the national team so unless you’re cutting them in on your dirty money than you are what you are, you prick.

I live in hope that if he every turns up in RotoAnus they fleece him for everything he’s got.