Australia is a big place. It has big motorways packed with big cars driven by big wankers. We weren’t surprised to hear on the wireless whilst driving around that Gold Coast drivers were found to be the worst in Australia. My wife ran a red shortly after just to add to the statistics.
The speed limit on most of the open motorway is 110kmh, which means that every guy who fancies himself as the next Peter Brock – which is half the male population and that’s being conservative – drives it at 130kmh. You may recall that the legendary Brocky died after wrapping his race car around a tree, I think the Gold Coast highways could do with a few strategically placed trees actually, do us all a favour.
There’s a lot of money to be made on the Gold Coast it would seem, no doubt in commercial property and mostly by fat Middle Eastern men, all of whom seem to drive very expensive European cars. There were so many it seemed almost as every second car was German and that’s no small thing given you’re in a country that loves it Holden’s and Fords. If you measured the place just by the cars on show at any given point in time, you could even be forgiven for thinking that maybe you were in Germany. Unfortunately it’s Kath & Kim accents that ring out around the place and not that manly German one that all Krauts, including the women, have.
It wasn’t all a car show though. Amongst all the chrome of the Mercs, the Beemers and the Audis and away from the grunt and muscle of the Holdens and Fords there are some right shit heaps doing the rounds. Driven mostly by guys who cultivate that ‘just got out of bed / the surf / my mate’s buttocks look’. Driving a death trap on wheels just adds to the charm of just such a guy I suppose, it makes him ‘edgy’.
I was surprised to see whilst at Dreamworld that a large Arab contingent had been let in. Only because Australians seem to be as paranoid about terrorism as the Yanks are. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see that burqas were on the list of banned items on the rides right alongside cameras and cellphones, but they weren't. It certainly confused the hell out of the Asian tourists though; they didn’t know whether they should take photos or run and hide.
There was no such hesitation from the group I witnessed at Movie World, who all posed for photos with a little Aussie toddler who had no idea what was going on other than she was getting a whole lot of cuddles from strangers. I was going to try the same thing but somehow I don’t think I would have gotten away with it quite as successfully. I tried flogging off my son for a few pics to the same group of tourists, promising him at least half of the ten bucks I planned to charge the Asians per cuddle, but he wasn’t having any of it.
Speaking of the Vietcong; all the sightseeing choppers that buzz the beaches in Surfers took me back a few years, to the four day weekend that Dougs, Lancey, Big Al and I had off down Long Dik Dong way in ’69. It had been several weeks since any of us had been near civilisation, let alone fresh water and I remember endless hours spent bathing and frolicking together in the sea, nude, whilst the Air Cav boys flew recon missions over the tree line in their Iroquois choppers all day long. We’d finish off the day trying to make a gymnastics pyramid on each others bare backs whilst the sun went down. War does strange things to a man, but that was not one of them.
One of the rich Middle Eastern guys I mentioned actually lived one floor above us in our hotel. His apartment was directly opposite us and the two young concubines he had living with him would spend most of the day out on the balcony sunning their ridiculous trim and taught figures till the sun went down. It made doing anything in the kitchen damn difficult because it was the closest vantage point and I was forced to stare at them the whole time. My wife thought I had prostate issues the whole trip because I always had to run off to the toilet wherever we went, when really it was on account of all the tea I was making whilst back in the apartment.
We bumped into Fat Tony and one of his hand maidens in the foyer one morning. She was pretty enough to be a waitress and he was oozing something, possibly cold hard cash, but whatever it was it wasn’t the ‘just got out of bed’ look that's for sure.
Ah Australia, the land of opportunity. Just leave your conscience at the door.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Good Times In The Gold Coast - Part One
The ClubDes family took a break in that northern most of New Zealand outposts last week, The Gold Coast. It’s a great place and has a lot going for it; its hot, dry, has beautiful beaches, beautiful people and is almost devoid of Emos. I only spotted the one the whole time we were there and even he was tanned!
It’s one of those places where girls in bikinis greet you almost the moment you step off the shuttle. Man they’re everywhere and hey that’s okay by me. I don’t mind if they’re at the fair on the waterfront, in and around the hotel, in the mall and of course on the beach, so long as they extend the same courtesy to me and my thong.
Functionality doesn’t appear to be high on the list of prerequisites though when girls in Oz pick their cozzies. Many of the young ladies who I witnessed spending the day at Wet’n’Wild spent most of their time readjusting or holding up small bunches of fabric that just couldn’t maintain the support that one needs when being fired down a tube of pulsating water at some ridiculous speed. As it was I spent half the day trying to retrieve my board shorts from my anus so I’d be genuinely surprised to find any young lady that didn’t need exploratory surgery at the end of the day to recover their skimpy little bikini bottom from their bottom.
One young lady in particular had on a fantastically frilly number that no doubt looked great in the pages of the magazine from which she picked it out of, but really had no place being in a wave pool. I spent the entire ten minutes of one such wave session trying to keep an eye on my son only to be distracted by her arse crack which would appear after every passing wave. Unfortunately she was in the direct line of my sight the whole time, but fortunately it was not the kind of sight that required me to be at least up to my waist in the water. I’m surprised the lifeguards didn’t ask her to get out before a small child was sucked up in there.
But the need to imitate each other that I noticed seemed to afflict most Aussie girls didn’t end with their choice of bikini. Aussie girls really only do the one look and its best described as falling somewhere between high fashion and trying to look like the girls of The Hills. Many young ladies I noticed – and this is during the day mind you – had such a thick layer of make up on that I can only imagine that it had been applied with a trowel and would have to be removed by a water blaster.
Many girls had on extremely short skirts, commonly just an oversized mens shirt worn with a belt, that they then had difficulty remaining comfortable with while wearing, often trying to pull them down whilst walking. Needless to say sitting down or getting up in one was a complete write off and as such I saw more breakfasts than I recall ordering. Wearing elevated heels to make the legs look longer didn't seem to help much either.
In one of my previous blogs I referred to a study done last year that showed Australian girls as being some of the highest scorers, internationally, who feel under increased pressure to conform. And I’m beginning to understand why. Twenty years ago, when I was a horny teenager, the world got its collective rocks off over naturally beautiful Australian women like Elle McPherson. Aussie soaps like Neighbours and then Home & Away etc had us fellas running home to have a quick wank after school before the sister got home because the girls on those shows were like no one else on TV. But now it seems Aussie girls, or at least those on the Gold Coast, appear to have lost that sense of identity and are busy trying to all be like American girls.
Aussie fellas only do the one look and it’s that ‘just got out of the surf’ look, which put another way is the ‘just got out of bed look’. Given the distinct lack of surfers I actually saw surfing I suspect it’s more of the latter but the girls over there don’t seem to mind, which just goes to prove my theory that these days it’s getting easier and easier for guys to do nothing and still pull chicks – even in Aussie.
It’s one of those places where girls in bikinis greet you almost the moment you step off the shuttle. Man they’re everywhere and hey that’s okay by me. I don’t mind if they’re at the fair on the waterfront, in and around the hotel, in the mall and of course on the beach, so long as they extend the same courtesy to me and my thong.
Functionality doesn’t appear to be high on the list of prerequisites though when girls in Oz pick their cozzies. Many of the young ladies who I witnessed spending the day at Wet’n’Wild spent most of their time readjusting or holding up small bunches of fabric that just couldn’t maintain the support that one needs when being fired down a tube of pulsating water at some ridiculous speed. As it was I spent half the day trying to retrieve my board shorts from my anus so I’d be genuinely surprised to find any young lady that didn’t need exploratory surgery at the end of the day to recover their skimpy little bikini bottom from their bottom.
One young lady in particular had on a fantastically frilly number that no doubt looked great in the pages of the magazine from which she picked it out of, but really had no place being in a wave pool. I spent the entire ten minutes of one such wave session trying to keep an eye on my son only to be distracted by her arse crack which would appear after every passing wave. Unfortunately she was in the direct line of my sight the whole time, but fortunately it was not the kind of sight that required me to be at least up to my waist in the water. I’m surprised the lifeguards didn’t ask her to get out before a small child was sucked up in there.
But the need to imitate each other that I noticed seemed to afflict most Aussie girls didn’t end with their choice of bikini. Aussie girls really only do the one look and its best described as falling somewhere between high fashion and trying to look like the girls of The Hills. Many young ladies I noticed – and this is during the day mind you – had such a thick layer of make up on that I can only imagine that it had been applied with a trowel and would have to be removed by a water blaster.
Many girls had on extremely short skirts, commonly just an oversized mens shirt worn with a belt, that they then had difficulty remaining comfortable with while wearing, often trying to pull them down whilst walking. Needless to say sitting down or getting up in one was a complete write off and as such I saw more breakfasts than I recall ordering. Wearing elevated heels to make the legs look longer didn't seem to help much either.
In one of my previous blogs I referred to a study done last year that showed Australian girls as being some of the highest scorers, internationally, who feel under increased pressure to conform. And I’m beginning to understand why. Twenty years ago, when I was a horny teenager, the world got its collective rocks off over naturally beautiful Australian women like Elle McPherson. Aussie soaps like Neighbours and then Home & Away etc had us fellas running home to have a quick wank after school before the sister got home because the girls on those shows were like no one else on TV. But now it seems Aussie girls, or at least those on the Gold Coast, appear to have lost that sense of identity and are busy trying to all be like American girls.
Aussie fellas only do the one look and it’s that ‘just got out of the surf’ look, which put another way is the ‘just got out of bed look’. Given the distinct lack of surfers I actually saw surfing I suspect it’s more of the latter but the girls over there don’t seem to mind, which just goes to prove my theory that these days it’s getting easier and easier for guys to do nothing and still pull chicks – even in Aussie.
Friday, August 15, 2008
China; Land of the Fugazi
Those sneaky sneaky Chinese. They might be cute, cuddly and ready to please but it only took about five minutes for old habits to kick in didn't it?
The little girl who sang at the opening ceremony was fake. The fireworks at the opening ceremony were fake. I think the whole freakin Olympics are fake. I don't think they're being held in China at all. I reckon it'll turn out to be like an episode of Lost and all the world's athletes have been kept on some island with giant panda bears whilst the fake Olympics took place. But then there’s no real surprise in that, China is fugazi central, they even make fake components to be used in fake appliances. When that blows up in your face you can buy fake medication to treat your not so fake injuries. No stone is left un-turned when it comes to faking it in China.
It can have its advantages though. I'm reminded of this one time, back in 'Nam, that DG Macca, Lancelot, Big Al and I were on covert sneak peak insertion near the Cambodian border and we stumbled across a platoon of Chinese crack troops all locked and loaded. They hadn't expected to see any G.I that close to the border and were actually all tucking into some flied lice and Cream of Sum Yung Gui when we came across them. Needless to say shit got real serious real fast, but luckily for us their AK-47s were fake.
Not everything that comes out of China is fake. Many of the world’s biggest labels, such as the adidas hoodie I'm wearing as I write this, are made in China. The irony is that a lot of the fake copies of the worlds biggest labels come from China too. I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be that the guys who produced the real stuff also had a hand in making the fugazi's too because there's a lot of money to be made in both that's for sure. Although quite what the Chinese will spend it all on is open for interpretation. Better haircuts? I don't think so.
Still, if any of our athletes at the fake Olympic Games need an emergency replacement pair of sneakers they can pop next door to the factory of ten year olds making them and help themselves.
Communist bum chums Russia seemed determined not to let their rent boy China have all the attention this month though. They decided to up and invade Georgia which is one of those little break away countries that you'd never know about unless they were invaded or were home to the world's most prolific serial killer. Unfortunately for the poor Georgians it appears as though the Russian AK47s are very real and they're getting a right fisting.
Team America has taken notice though and put the Russians in their rightful place by telling them they've all been naughty little boys. In fact, as soon as Michael Phelps has won his eight gold medals they're sending him over to sort it all out in a classic Yanks vs The Reds confrontation, the likes of which the world hasn't seen since we taught that Chinese platoon how we like to party like it's 1969.
So that leaves only one unanswered question. If Michael Phelps has size 14 feet and his arm span is bigger than he is tall, how big do you reckon his chopper is?
Neither Russian nor fake, apparently, is brunette model Dasha Astafieva, rumoured to be the latest bit of totty for one Mr Hugh Hefner. He likes what he sees so much that he’s reportedly invited her to come be his fourth concubine, much to the shock of his three resident blonde hand maidens. They don’t want another girl in the house quite possibly any more than Astafieva wants to play with a couple of walnuts in a stocking every fourth night but hey, you do what you have to do to get by these days.
Just like these poor kids, who have to stand together for the entire month of August otherwise shit just won’t make sense…
The little girl who sang at the opening ceremony was fake. The fireworks at the opening ceremony were fake. I think the whole freakin Olympics are fake. I don't think they're being held in China at all. I reckon it'll turn out to be like an episode of Lost and all the world's athletes have been kept on some island with giant panda bears whilst the fake Olympics took place. But then there’s no real surprise in that, China is fugazi central, they even make fake components to be used in fake appliances. When that blows up in your face you can buy fake medication to treat your not so fake injuries. No stone is left un-turned when it comes to faking it in China.
It can have its advantages though. I'm reminded of this one time, back in 'Nam, that DG Macca, Lancelot, Big Al and I were on covert sneak peak insertion near the Cambodian border and we stumbled across a platoon of Chinese crack troops all locked and loaded. They hadn't expected to see any G.I that close to the border and were actually all tucking into some flied lice and Cream of Sum Yung Gui when we came across them. Needless to say shit got real serious real fast, but luckily for us their AK-47s were fake.
Not everything that comes out of China is fake. Many of the world’s biggest labels, such as the adidas hoodie I'm wearing as I write this, are made in China. The irony is that a lot of the fake copies of the worlds biggest labels come from China too. I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be that the guys who produced the real stuff also had a hand in making the fugazi's too because there's a lot of money to be made in both that's for sure. Although quite what the Chinese will spend it all on is open for interpretation. Better haircuts? I don't think so.
Still, if any of our athletes at the fake Olympic Games need an emergency replacement pair of sneakers they can pop next door to the factory of ten year olds making them and help themselves.
Communist bum chums Russia seemed determined not to let their rent boy China have all the attention this month though. They decided to up and invade Georgia which is one of those little break away countries that you'd never know about unless they were invaded or were home to the world's most prolific serial killer. Unfortunately for the poor Georgians it appears as though the Russian AK47s are very real and they're getting a right fisting.
Team America has taken notice though and put the Russians in their rightful place by telling them they've all been naughty little boys. In fact, as soon as Michael Phelps has won his eight gold medals they're sending him over to sort it all out in a classic Yanks vs The Reds confrontation, the likes of which the world hasn't seen since we taught that Chinese platoon how we like to party like it's 1969.
So that leaves only one unanswered question. If Michael Phelps has size 14 feet and his arm span is bigger than he is tall, how big do you reckon his chopper is?
Neither Russian nor fake, apparently, is brunette model Dasha Astafieva, rumoured to be the latest bit of totty for one Mr Hugh Hefner. He likes what he sees so much that he’s reportedly invited her to come be his fourth concubine, much to the shock of his three resident blonde hand maidens. They don’t want another girl in the house quite possibly any more than Astafieva wants to play with a couple of walnuts in a stocking every fourth night but hey, you do what you have to do to get by these days.
Just like these poor kids, who have to stand together for the entire month of August otherwise shit just won’t make sense…
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Coloured Tampons? WTF?!
Sometimes I look at my two cats and wish that they were big enough for me to mount and ride them, like He-Man did his. Just imagine getting around the place astride a giant cat. That'd be awesome.
Speaking of giant pussies, do you remember sitting and giggling through your first Sex Ed class back in intermediate or college? It all went so well until the moment they whipped out the visual aides and every guy sat there absolutely terrified from the moment the huge floating vagina appeared on the teachers flip chart board. Geez it was like something out of Star Trek wasn’t it? And if that wasn’t scary enough it was soon followed by a giant flaccid dickie which was so big it left most of us boys feeling deeply inadequate for several years after having seen it.
I thought of this the other day when I saw an ad for coloured tampons. WTF Ladies? Coloured tampons seem to me to be a tad unnecessary; I mean they're all going to come out the same colour aren't they, so what’s the point? Do you really want to be shoving something dyed bright orange up the ol’ sprinkler, because last time I heard coloured food dye was great for causing hyper activity in kids but shit all else and yet, here you are with a whole box of coloured goodness in your hand?!
Its all part of a disturbing trend I’ve noticed that is the making traditionally what was always unnoticeable – women’s sanitary items - highly ‘in your face can’t bloody ignore it’ noticeable. I wonder if its women who come up with these marketing ideas for other women or is it fellas? Is it some bizarre reverse psychology thing where chicks are trying to be liberated by giving other girlies the option of coloured over just plain white, or is it just guys having a laugh?
Like the three stack able boxes of the damn things on the window sill in our carzie. And just in case you haven’t noticed them, some genius has decided they look best when all brightly coloured in ‘funky retro patterns’. Now lets get one thing straight right now; the only time tampons come close to being mentioned in the same sentence as the word ‘funk’ is when somebody wants to refer to the smell an old used one that just won’t flush is making. And I’ve seen a lot of those.
Right up till the day I went flatting I had never really seen a tampon. I'm sure my sister must have had them but she was very discreet, unlike my first few female flatmates who seemed to take great delight in leaving theirs un-flushed most of the time. I did the same with my cables admittedly, so maybe it was their way of saying ‘thanks for that’.
See I lived a fairly sheltered life growing up and the only naked women I saw for a long time was my mother - she of the retro beaver - and my sister who, like all sisters do, started bathing alone from about the age of ten. I did wonder why for many a year until the memorable day she attempted the streak past my bedroom at bath time only to trip outside my door. That was the day I discovered, much to her embarrassment and to my surprise, that my little sister was little no more. She was my mothers daughter too, of that there could be no doubt, for she too had a huge minge-on. But I try not to think about it.
We had a couple of Martina Navratilova’s take us for Sex Ed too. Real vintage lezzos. Both were married but they were as camp as a row of tents and everyone knew it. Early on in the piece all the girls were taken away to a separate room for a 40 minute period whilst we were left to discuss the fertility merits of boxers vs. tightey whiteys with Ms Man. When the girls finally came back into the room there was a definite mood change in the air and whatever was said whilst they’re gone none of us fellas ever did find out, but we never scored so much as a sneaky feel off any the girls for a good six weeks.
Still, it could have been worse I suppose. I could’ve gone to an all boys school like DG Macca where they only got to see the one flip board diagram in their Sex Ed class and it wasnt the giant set of beef curtains either....
Speaking of giant pussies, do you remember sitting and giggling through your first Sex Ed class back in intermediate or college? It all went so well until the moment they whipped out the visual aides and every guy sat there absolutely terrified from the moment the huge floating vagina appeared on the teachers flip chart board. Geez it was like something out of Star Trek wasn’t it? And if that wasn’t scary enough it was soon followed by a giant flaccid dickie which was so big it left most of us boys feeling deeply inadequate for several years after having seen it.
I thought of this the other day when I saw an ad for coloured tampons. WTF Ladies? Coloured tampons seem to me to be a tad unnecessary; I mean they're all going to come out the same colour aren't they, so what’s the point? Do you really want to be shoving something dyed bright orange up the ol’ sprinkler, because last time I heard coloured food dye was great for causing hyper activity in kids but shit all else and yet, here you are with a whole box of coloured goodness in your hand?!
Its all part of a disturbing trend I’ve noticed that is the making traditionally what was always unnoticeable – women’s sanitary items - highly ‘in your face can’t bloody ignore it’ noticeable. I wonder if its women who come up with these marketing ideas for other women or is it fellas? Is it some bizarre reverse psychology thing where chicks are trying to be liberated by giving other girlies the option of coloured over just plain white, or is it just guys having a laugh?
Like the three stack able boxes of the damn things on the window sill in our carzie. And just in case you haven’t noticed them, some genius has decided they look best when all brightly coloured in ‘funky retro patterns’. Now lets get one thing straight right now; the only time tampons come close to being mentioned in the same sentence as the word ‘funk’ is when somebody wants to refer to the smell an old used one that just won’t flush is making. And I’ve seen a lot of those.
Right up till the day I went flatting I had never really seen a tampon. I'm sure my sister must have had them but she was very discreet, unlike my first few female flatmates who seemed to take great delight in leaving theirs un-flushed most of the time. I did the same with my cables admittedly, so maybe it was their way of saying ‘thanks for that’.
See I lived a fairly sheltered life growing up and the only naked women I saw for a long time was my mother - she of the retro beaver - and my sister who, like all sisters do, started bathing alone from about the age of ten. I did wonder why for many a year until the memorable day she attempted the streak past my bedroom at bath time only to trip outside my door. That was the day I discovered, much to her embarrassment and to my surprise, that my little sister was little no more. She was my mothers daughter too, of that there could be no doubt, for she too had a huge minge-on. But I try not to think about it.
We had a couple of Martina Navratilova’s take us for Sex Ed too. Real vintage lezzos. Both were married but they were as camp as a row of tents and everyone knew it. Early on in the piece all the girls were taken away to a separate room for a 40 minute period whilst we were left to discuss the fertility merits of boxers vs. tightey whiteys with Ms Man. When the girls finally came back into the room there was a definite mood change in the air and whatever was said whilst they’re gone none of us fellas ever did find out, but we never scored so much as a sneaky feel off any the girls for a good six weeks.
Still, it could have been worse I suppose. I could’ve gone to an all boys school like DG Macca where they only got to see the one flip board diagram in their Sex Ed class and it wasnt the giant set of beef curtains either....
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Organised Athletic Meets (Of Any Sort) Blow.
Man I’m sick of the Olympics already and the games haven’t actually started yet!
It seems like every night this year the news bulletins have had some story on some athlete who is set to journey to the games this month. They’ve all been remarkably upbeat given that almost three quarters of them don’t stand a shit show of winning a medal of any colour and that’s not me being a negative bastard, that’s fact.
I’ve never ever gotten excited about either a Commonwealth or Olympic games, even when I was a kid and you spent months leading up to each Games by doing a whole syllabus on the damn thing because it meant that the teacher could spend less time on planning educational lessons and more time trying to root other members of the faculty. Needless to say teachers love it when the Olympics and Commonwealth games roll round.
I was never good at athletics, hence my disinterest in all things Olympic. Despite my football prowess I could never quite muster the inclination to just run for any length of time. Chase a little white ball all over the place, yes, chase brown boys round a 400 metre track, no. The only ‘jumping’ I ever excelled in was ‘to conclusions’, an event which I still hold a gold medal in to this very day actually. As for the throwing events, lets just say that even after I discovered the art of masturbation my right arm was nothing to write home about. I do recall blowing away the field one year in a tennis ball throwing contest but I have a vague recollection of being grouped that time with kids in wheelchairs, so the less said about that the better.
I’ve had some bad experiences with organised athletic meets too. None more so than in third form where at the themed athletics day our class came as ‘Twins’. The girls had spent all week painting a magnificent banner that had been mounted on poles, which Coops and I were to hold high above our heads as we ran out onto the field. All fired up, our class started whooping it up as we made our entrance so that the whole school would turn to see us as we rocked out with our cocks out, figuratively speaking. Unfortunately Coops and I had not discussed previously which direction our juggernaut would head out in and about 4 seconds into the charge we went our separate ways - as did the banner. Now we were pretty loud that day, but the laughter from about 300 kids as the banner tore was louder.
To cap off a great day, somebody downtroued me as I stood around waiting for an event to start. Coops and I had dressed as football players and in 1990 they still wore short shorts so I was gagging for a downtrou really. Luckily I was still of the age that mummy dressed me so the tighty whitey y fronts (which were probably blue because my mother never wanted to tempt fate by putting white fabric next to my arse) held firm and I, or rather the school, was spared the sight of my undercarriage.
Incidentally a few years later I would partially re-enact that scene by wittingly mooning Bruiser across the very same field as we went our separate ways after school one time. He still claims to this very day that his retina bear the scars of the blinding light that emanated off my lily white buttocks at that very moment.
We had this chick in our class who fancied herself as a sprinter too. Well she fancied herself as many thinks really but the expression ‘good from afar but far from good’ springs to mind when thinking back on those. She never one a race in all the years I had the pleasure of sharing a class with her despite all her hype. To make matters worse she was the poorest loser out and always took a dive near the end of the race when it became abundantly clear she was not going to win. I’m pretty sure she was never really injured before she took the dive, but when you’re doing the hundred metres at breakneck speed and you decide to fall over, chances are you’re going to end up second best to the ground and need to be carried off. Stupid bitch.
So chances are I will watch a bit of the Games despite being over it, if only to see women in ‘tards, but I won’t pretend to get all excited when a Kiwi athlete finishes tenth and breaks their personal best. Fuck it’s a sad day when after travelling half way round the world to compete in the anus of Asia you come back happy with tenth. I’ve always been of the mind that if you’re not there to win then why is it that you are there at all?
Someone has to make up the numbers sure, but does it really have to us?
It seems like every night this year the news bulletins have had some story on some athlete who is set to journey to the games this month. They’ve all been remarkably upbeat given that almost three quarters of them don’t stand a shit show of winning a medal of any colour and that’s not me being a negative bastard, that’s fact.
I’ve never ever gotten excited about either a Commonwealth or Olympic games, even when I was a kid and you spent months leading up to each Games by doing a whole syllabus on the damn thing because it meant that the teacher could spend less time on planning educational lessons and more time trying to root other members of the faculty. Needless to say teachers love it when the Olympics and Commonwealth games roll round.
I was never good at athletics, hence my disinterest in all things Olympic. Despite my football prowess I could never quite muster the inclination to just run for any length of time. Chase a little white ball all over the place, yes, chase brown boys round a 400 metre track, no. The only ‘jumping’ I ever excelled in was ‘to conclusions’, an event which I still hold a gold medal in to this very day actually. As for the throwing events, lets just say that even after I discovered the art of masturbation my right arm was nothing to write home about. I do recall blowing away the field one year in a tennis ball throwing contest but I have a vague recollection of being grouped that time with kids in wheelchairs, so the less said about that the better.
I’ve had some bad experiences with organised athletic meets too. None more so than in third form where at the themed athletics day our class came as ‘Twins’. The girls had spent all week painting a magnificent banner that had been mounted on poles, which Coops and I were to hold high above our heads as we ran out onto the field. All fired up, our class started whooping it up as we made our entrance so that the whole school would turn to see us as we rocked out with our cocks out, figuratively speaking. Unfortunately Coops and I had not discussed previously which direction our juggernaut would head out in and about 4 seconds into the charge we went our separate ways - as did the banner. Now we were pretty loud that day, but the laughter from about 300 kids as the banner tore was louder.
To cap off a great day, somebody downtroued me as I stood around waiting for an event to start. Coops and I had dressed as football players and in 1990 they still wore short shorts so I was gagging for a downtrou really. Luckily I was still of the age that mummy dressed me so the tighty whitey y fronts (which were probably blue because my mother never wanted to tempt fate by putting white fabric next to my arse) held firm and I, or rather the school, was spared the sight of my undercarriage.
Incidentally a few years later I would partially re-enact that scene by wittingly mooning Bruiser across the very same field as we went our separate ways after school one time. He still claims to this very day that his retina bear the scars of the blinding light that emanated off my lily white buttocks at that very moment.
We had this chick in our class who fancied herself as a sprinter too. Well she fancied herself as many thinks really but the expression ‘good from afar but far from good’ springs to mind when thinking back on those. She never one a race in all the years I had the pleasure of sharing a class with her despite all her hype. To make matters worse she was the poorest loser out and always took a dive near the end of the race when it became abundantly clear she was not going to win. I’m pretty sure she was never really injured before she took the dive, but when you’re doing the hundred metres at breakneck speed and you decide to fall over, chances are you’re going to end up second best to the ground and need to be carried off. Stupid bitch.
So chances are I will watch a bit of the Games despite being over it, if only to see women in ‘tards, but I won’t pretend to get all excited when a Kiwi athlete finishes tenth and breaks their personal best. Fuck it’s a sad day when after travelling half way round the world to compete in the anus of Asia you come back happy with tenth. I’ve always been of the mind that if you’re not there to win then why is it that you are there at all?
Someone has to make up the numbers sure, but does it really have to us?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)