Beer. It's whats for breakfast.

I got spam mail the other day reminding me that now is the time to vote for Miss Tui 2008 – that great competition that allows pooh chicks, who are always being told by inebriated guys how hot they are, to find out that they’re actually not.

Now its not really spam, because it’s not unsolicited. I signed up for it years ago and although I could, I never quite seem to get round to unsubscribing from the Tui mailing list and I know full well why it is that I don’t. It’s because I’m a sucka. And a fool. A sucka fool . And those of you fluent in jive like I am don’t need to be told what that means.

I’ve been well sucked in by the chief weapon of the Beer Barons, which is fear. A fear that is perpetuated by an advertising campaign that convinces sucka fools like me that if I don’t drink their firewater than I am never going to be a party boy, I’m never going to score the type of chicks that allegedly work in the Tui brewery – they don’t actually because I’ve been there and the girl behind the counter was decidedly A for average – I’m never going to be funny and cool and I’m never going to get any closer to scoring than a bag of Twisties and a Sky 1 late night movie.

Which is all a load of shit and I should know better but yet, somehow, they got me by the seedless grapes all those years ago and now I can’t bring myself to unsubscribe. Perhaps it’s because I enjoy a free perv as much as the next guy, who knows. But it will come as no surprise to you, the reader, to hear me say that I believe we have a drinking problem here in New Zealand. It is predominately a young persons thing but lets not get ageist here; I’ve seen and know of some pretty pickled middle agers too, some of which decided to lower the drinking age a few years back in a moment of clarity that can only be attributed to them being pissed at the time.

We do have a drinking culture and as life gets more and more demanding and the perceived need to fit in and be as popular as fuck grows, you can bet your arse more and more will be consumed. Advertising glorifying beer and its properties doesn’t help. I’m all for freedom of speech and all that rubbish but I reckon it’s time to pull the plug on beer ads. Lets be honest, nobody drinks beer for the taste, its drunk for effect. The pricks make enough money as it is tanking up our kids so why should we allow them to make it look cool when we all know it isn’t. No one ever projectile vomits on those ads, or wets themselves because they can’t get off the couch in time, or plows their ridiculously modified high performance car into two eighty year olds coming home from their 60th wedding anniversary celebration. Wonder why they don’t show that on them thar ads?

A couple of the local dirty girls were on the current affairs program Sunday the other day talking about how common it is these days to be shagging on the first hook up. It’s the done thing, apparently. They were experts on the matter, they’d all had several and that was just that week and they were all very ho hum about the whole thing too, almost teetering on the brink of being bored with the whole concept. “Crikey”, I thought to myself after coming to the realisation that I unfortunately knew none of them, ‘it’s a sad day when sex with strangers becomes boring!”

And let me just say this: I think I pay them a service by calling them ‘dirty girls’ because that has a connotation to it that implies they are actually a bit of alright. These slappers were far from alright. Good from afar springs to mind.

Where were girls like this in my day?! Oh That’s right, they were busy bettering themselves for a future whilst it was we the boys who got shitfaced in the bizarre belief that by being inebriated we would do away with all our awkwardness around anything in a skirt and become instantly attractive to the girl we’d been masturbating all term over. What we actually ended up being was the same bunch of dickheads who still couldn’t put four words together and now smelt of nothing but piss – the bottled variety and quite probably our own because we’d been too tanked to think about not standing out of the wind when having a slash out the back of Bedrocks.

But thankfully the girls of today are making it easier for the boys by getting comatose on booze real quick, real often. Isn’t equality a wonderful thing? Somehow I can’t imagine that’s what Kate Sheppard had in mind all those years ago as she battled to have woman given the right to vote in this country.

I think we as New Zealanders, by definition, are a conservative bunch. We were raised by even straighter parents who themselves fancied a flagon or two. We drink to allow some of the defences we put up come down so that we can say the things we wouldn’t normally say and do the things we normally wouldn’t. Which is fine, hey that’s the purpose of alcohol, to relax oneself, but there comes a point where we cross that line and become a danger to those around us and most importantly ourselves. Too many of our young, beautiful, smart young women are now crossing that line because unfortunately it’s become blurred. Big time.

But it’s not just their fault, there are so many things that cause this need to get hammered and therefore need to change – some of them I’ve covered in previous blogs – but not letting the breweries take the piss, out of us drinking their piss, would be a bloody good start. If we can ban advertising and sponsorship by anything smoking we can do it with anything drinking.

I’ll even unsubscribe from receiving my Tuigram. Right after I’ve voted for Miss Tui 08.


Miss Tui 2008? Homemade bikini optional.

Reading Between The Lines

Some things never change no matter where you are. Like daytime TV – shit whether you’re at home on the couch because you’ve pulled a sickie, or on a hospital bed because you are a sickie. Admittedly I didn’t watch a lot of TV whilst in hospital, but some of the stuff I did was even more disturbing than the abnormal interest my Asian physio had in examining my phlegm each morning.

TV1 news for example, now gives us the weather before, during and after the news. That’s the same weather forecast three times in an hour. Now I would’ve thought that by now, after about 40 years of it having been done the same way each and every night that people would know that the weather is covered in the last ten minutes of the news. If you haven’t figured that out by now then let’s be honest, it’s not going to make a blind bit of difference whether it’s raining or sunny tomorrow because in all probability you are a Mongol and will dress / plan / venture inappropriately regardless of the overhead conditions. Just because your audience is getting dumber TV1, doesn’t mean you have to.

And I love how both channels – TV1 and TV3 – show the same news shots from the same event and try to claim it as ‘exclusive footage’. Did they not see each other standing there whilst they were filming or what? And just because your camera is ten metres closer than the other network’s doesn't mean you can claim to be the ‘first to bring it to you’ either! Munters.

Mind you TV3 aren’t far off having the dudes from Play School present their shows either. Their V8 Supercars coverage on Sundays is presented by the morning crew from The Rock radio station. If you’re not a big fan of the unoriginal Rock team then you’re fucked really, because now they’re on your TV too, lead by Rog, the tiny unattractive man with a voice that sounds like he needs a wheelbarrow to carry his humongous gnads around. He doesn’t, incidentally, because they’re not humongous but it makes you wonder why he, a man with a face for radio, got the job and not some up and coming presenter with a future in the bizzo?

The only saving grace for that lot is Tracy Donaldson gets to be on camera and she’s every bit as good looking as she sounds on the radio. She’s a blondie too which means she has a 95% better chance of appearing on the cover of Cleo than a brunette. I know this because a) I’ve made this observation before in a previous blog and b) thanks to the generous stack of glossy mags I had to work through whilst in hospital I can confirm that nothing has changed. Both Cleo and Cosmo had their usual blond it girl on the cover and inside, pages and pages of how to look like her. They also had in depth earth shattering articles on how to get the career you want. The big secret is just to be yourself. Genius. But now I’m confused – is it try to look like Kate Heigel, or be myself?! Oh fuck. And what if I’m a ginga that looks nothing like Kaye Heigel – is there any hope for me?!

Cleo also had an insightful piece on what guys want in a girl. It looked to me as though the guys were actually asked ‘what gives you a stiffy?’ because the answers were pretty stock standard; nice figure, great legs, firm boobs. Dave on the other hand, liked ‘dresses with flowers on them’, which made me think Dave hadn’t been vetted very well for his sexual preference because I don’t think it was girlies.

Cleo also had their most ‘full on’ sealed section ever, which contained 93 sexpert tricks written by actual pornstars, strippers and sexperts. It contained gems like ‘do it in a public place’, take it ‘slow and steady’ and try ‘using no hands’. Despite having several multiple orgasms by just reading the damn thing I couldn’t help but feel that by using the term ‘full on’ Cleo had reset the bar when it comes to bullshitting their readership. There weren’t even 93 tips either! Just because your audience is getting dumber Cleo, doesn’t mean you have to too.

I wonder if Cleo and Cosmo get the same guy to write their sealed sections as FHM and Ralph do to write their erotic stories. Although FHM try to make like theirs is written by a dirty girl, one who makes good use of her Thesaurus because I for one never knew there were quite so many words that meant ‘ejaculate’. Maybe it’s something that’s only taught in ‘fat guys who want to talk dirty online’ school.

There’s actually very little difference between the likes of Cleo and the likes of FHM. They contain lots of what’s cool, lots of innuendo and lots of girls wearing very little. FHM and Ralph do actually have some interesting stuff in them but it’s buried beneath all the soft porn. Barmaids and girls next door in bikinis were great ten years ago but that was before a little thing called the Internet came along – you may have heard of it – and started delivering free porn daily in any flavour you liked. Surely these lads’ mags are fighting a losing battle for sales because I reckon if you’ve seen one pretty girl holding her naked milkers you’ve seen them all.

What they should do is cut out all the soft porn, seal their issues up each month in a plastic bag and include on the inside a free one time log in to a porn site of your choosing. Now that would be worth $8.

Taking In The Sites of Ward 17

You sure do see some sights in hospital, especially when your room is first cab of the rank and every bugger walks by you to enter the ward.

The upside is that every hot young doctor / nurse / physio has to pass by several times a day, the downside is having every prick take a good long look in trying to see if what you’ve got is any worse than the poor soul they’re coming to see. It’s like some bizarre show and tell for the sick and infirm. Two people died whilst I was there too – I shit you not. That’s taking the game too far I reckon.

But I got my own back. In the morning, as the sun came streaming into my room, I would pull the curtain across the room and delicate poise my daily banana ration between the thighs. It made quite the silhouette I’m told. Other times I would simply lay starkers on my bed pretending to be asleep, or take leisurely strolls up and down the ward after a shower, clad only in a flannel, pretending to look for a towel.

But then you do things like that to pass the time. My wife and I had the most insightful conversations whilst sitting in the various waiting rooms for the various tests, answering the tough questions of life like: If you had to have only the one tube used but inserted into the nose, mouth, anus and urethra - what order would you have them do it in?

Sometimes I didn’t even have to make shit up. A Canadian guy, an orderly, came and took me to x-ray this one night. He spent the entire trip there waxing on about how hot the nurses were on my ward, especially the “cute little blond one with the tight ass”. Quite how he knew the circumference of her sphincter I don’t know because he was hardly Mr Personality or indeed Mr Physical Fitness so I seriously doubt he had ever had the pleasure. And to think that I thought it was his torch or something that keep banging the back of my wheelchair.

Another orderly, the one who looked like he had stepped straight out of a Huey Lewis and the News music video used to stand outside my window and fog it up whilst trying to watch the sports news on my TV. Now I liked to be watched by strange men as much as the next guy, but I would always make a point of waving him into the doorway but the moment I did his pager would always inevitably go off – as did he. Poor guy must have had tourettes or something cause he swore like a sailor. Which probably did nothing for the elderly lady on deaths door in the room next to me either but you never know, it might've been quite soothing. She probably got a lot of that back in her era, when men only had to tell their bitches the once.

The guy who came to empty my rubbish bins was one of those salt of the earth guys who is just simple enough to do the shitty job but enjoys it and takes pride in his work. I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite as excited to see a full rubbish bag or know so much about the literage of a plastic bag. Infact it made him so happy I seriously considered cacking in mine just so I could ring him and let him know it needed changing again. I thought I’d blown it though the day he came round after I had just taken an almighty high fibre diet induced dump in my en suite, but it didn’t seem to bother him, quite the contrary, he went back in twice that morning to check the bin he’d just emptied.

By far the funniest thing I’ve seen in a medical sense though was some years ago whilst waiting to have a blood test one Saturday morning at Valley Diagnostic, the place you go for all sorts of tests and the place where you can drop of all manner of samples. This old guy rocks up with a rather large brown paper bag. He’d obviously been told he needed to bring in a stool sample – but why bring a sample when you can bring the whole stool? Which he had, muddy water and all, inside one of those big preserving jars that your Grandad always kept his pickled onions in. The chick at the counter wasn’t phased in the slightest; she was probably just relieved he took the time to put it in a jar for her.

Now the question I’ve always asked myself is did he poop and scoop, or did he precision aim that sucker straight into the jar…..?

Fancy a Twistie Nurse?

A man can get through a lot of thinking when spending two weeks hold up in a hospital. He can get through a lot of masturbation too, especially when he has a resourceful mate like DougalMac who smuggles him in a stickmag and a jumbo bag of Twisties*.

The thought occurred to me whilst in there, that hospital life is in some ways much like what I imagine prison life to be. Basic, almost primal, metaphorically speaking. In both institutions, life is stripped back to the most simplistic of human instincts; survival. In both places who or what you are on the outside is irrelevant because it doesn’t count for anything once you’re in there. Hospitals are the most maternal of places - for most of us life starts in one and for most of us life will also end in one. The circle of life at it’s simplest really, the exiled programme returns to its source. If you’re not in hospital to die then you’re probably there to be healed, like a child returning to its Mother because it’s hurt itself in the playground that is life.

It’s really some deep shit when you think about it and I did, whilst on some pretty good drugs I might add.

There’s no fearing the shower in hospital of course. Any bum fun whilst going about your ablutions is going to have to be either a) of your own making, or b) if you’re the bedridden type patient who has assisted showers, you may be able to sweet talk the nurse into giving you a cheeky ring finger before she’s done. I did ask actually, but none of the female nurses were up for it. Murse Arvin on the other hand had a mischievous glint in his eye. I always made sure to shower before his shift started. Incidentally liquid soap is on offer in hospital showers, which struck me as a great idea for prisons, as it would take away that whole mystique of ‘dropping the soap’. Probably wouldn’t make much difference though, I suspect a resourceful buggerer would still find a use for liquid soap….

Nurses have a tough profession. Not only are they chronically understaffed and underpaid - like so many of our essential government services – but they do a job that is potentially, intrinsically speaking, void of fulfilment. Their daily work is to care for people who are at the very lowest ebb of their being, people who are sick, needy and a pale version of their true self. A nurse’s job is only done when that person is fit and well enough to leave and return to their normal lives again, meaning that there’s a good chance that the Nurse never really got to know or see the person for who they really were at all, despite having just been a surrogate mother of sorts to them whilst they regained their health. It’s a thankless job really.

I told you the drugs were good, this is some of my best work.

Now being in full control of all my faculties I was able to chat with all my nurses at length and they loved it. I can only imagine that they don’t get a lot of chances to talk about stuff of genuine interest - whether it be about themselves, their families, their work or just shit on TV - when you’re changing the sheets at 2am on the old lady next door who has soiled herself again, or propping up the morbidly obese smoker guy in the shower each morning. The nursing students in particular were gagging for conversation; they spent most of their time so petrified that they were going to fuck up taking my blood pressure and temperature that any distraction for them was a welcome one.

Nurses, like Cops, are a resource that we woefully undervalue. Why do we let successive politicians and governments continue to neglect the very people who do the jobs that are so essential to the wellbeing of society? Half of my nurse force was from Asia, from countries like the Philippines and Malaysia, that are subject to recruitment drives by our district health boards because there’s just no staff to be found here. Admittedly the career choices for young women in New Zealand these days are huge and nursing is not the bastion of potential employment it once was, but you have to believe that if Nurses were paid better and given the kind of resources you and I, the office wasters, have each day, then overseas recruitment would be minimal. Meanwhile, seven fat parliamentarians with small peckers – even the ladies –are off on an all expenses paid trip to Europe at the cost of two new Nurses. Go figure.

We could sure do with some more lookers on the wards too. Oh there were a few alright, but ironically I only ever had a ridicously good looking nurse on the night shift. Whilst I was asleep! Physiotherapy on the other hand is a branch of medicine that is blessed with more than it’s share of attractive young ladies, many of whom I am sure signed on so that they could end up squeezing the hips, thighs and buttocks of many a buff athlete. Instead what they got for the last 10 days was old ClubDes with his dodgy lungs and an orange stiffy under the ever so thin bed sheet. Oh yeah.

Actually my physio was an Asian man with eczema. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried, the drugs weren’t so good that I could hallucinate him into a blue eyed blonde girl with soft, curious hands.

*Alas, DougalMac’s fine efforts were in vain. Unfortunately print porn stopped doing it for me back in my teens, but the articles in the mag were actually quite good - I kid you not – so it wasn’t a complete waste. My wife ate the whole bag of Twisties too and rather disappointingly never once offered to give me a wank.

Ready for a Sponge Bath?

We’re taking a break here at ClubDes for the next few weeks due to unforeseen circumstances on the health front. Unfortunately the Architect didn’t bless this particular Matrix program with an All Black physique so I am in need of some running repairs to this life support system for a massive penis that others refer to as a body. And to think you wondered where I put all that food I eat aye?

Anyhoo, as the always accurate reflection of real life - the porno - would tell us, I will be spending the next few days with nurses that look like this



So it won’t be all bad. I’m not sure if they have internet at Chateaus Capital Coast Health but if they do I’ll probably be using it for porn, but I may get a posting in here and there because you never know, sharing a beige coloured room with five other men that cough, fart, snore and dribble their hours away may provide some inspiration. Then again it may not.

And no Bruiser, I am not going in for a sex change. You wish big boy, you wish.