Aren’t the Chrissy holidays great? All that time off work – unless you’re in retail then this period of the year really does blow – to do the things that you just don’t seem to get round to doing the whole other 350+ days of the year. Like gardening, which I need to get out and do but unfortunately for me my neighbour likes to partake in a bit of nude sunbathing behind the fence that runs alongside the strip I need to weed.
Now normally I wouldn’t see anything, the fence that divides us is a good six foot high and where she’s laying she is quite sheltered from view. Infact it was only by chance one day whilst my wife was up the embankment behind our gaff that she happened to glance down and see said pink bits. But like all good fences that have been up a while, the wood has buckled a little and decent gaps have started forming between the planks and when the light is right, or you’re standing at the right angle, you can see through the fuckers.
Now I know it and I’m damn sure she knows it, so either she’s up for a bit of glory hole action or, whilst I’m minding my own business weeding with my head down and iPod on, she’s gonna call me for perving. Usually I wouldn’t mind a bit of the girl next door baking her dumplings in the summer sun but my neighbour is fifty going on a hundred and the last thing I, or anybody, wants to see through the crack in the fence is some grey haired spider action. Needless to say that particular task is being put on the back burner till I notice her car is gone from the drive. Fuck it I might have to even get out there at night and do it.
Usually there would be a time limit on when I have to have a task like that done by, but Mrs ClubDes is in Aussie for the week leaving me alone for a period that I was tentatively proclaiming to be ‘WankFest 09’ but only to wind her up before she left. So Junior and I are home alone, living on the couch, clad only in our undies eating three square meals of toast with various toppings and getting all the essential vitamins and nutrients one finds in the average can of Coke.
It hasn’t been all Playstation and Mythbusters marathons though; I have managed to embark on a spring clean of epic proportions and am feeling quite chuffed with my efforts. Not that ‘clean’ is the appropriate word, when we men spring clean we really only move junk from one location to another. We compress, we never throw anything away.
You never threw anything away in Nam. Anything you could discard Charlie could use to hurt you; empty cans, bottles, nails, stick mags, faeces. You name it and cunning ol Charlie could build a bomb out of it. Yes, even shit. Sneaky bastards.
My pontificating over exactly which chore to do next was sadly put into context over the weekend with the disturbing sight on the news of strewn motorcycles across some byway down South. It was a stark reminder that whilst most of us will be in cruise control at the mo, someone, somewhere is in a rush on our roads and inevitably putting lives at risk.
This is a topic that’s become quite poignant to me with my best mate Coops recently buying a motor bike. I always knew he longed for something big and throbbing between his legs but a bike was a bit of a surprise, even for me and I don’t surprise easy. Just ask Charlie. Now Coops is as smart as they come and he is well aware of the dangers on the roads having had to police them for several years, so I don’t doubt his judgement – but bikes change people and the way they approach travel.
The way I see it, motor cyclists have two big dangers; themselves and other drivers, some of whom struggle to notice other vehicles around them with four wheels let alone two. Now if you start mucking around with the natural order of things, like speed limits, lane markings and peoples abilities to judge distant and speed then shit is going to get serious real fast.
One of the dead cyclist was said to be a methodical, calculating, experienced cyclist. No doubt and far be it from me to speak ill of someone who I never knew and is now the departed, but he tried passing eight cars in one hit on a short stretch of road! Not the best type of methodical calculation to be fucking up.
There is this great Andy Garcia and Christopher Walkin movie called ‘Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead’, which is definitely worth the $4 weekly hire down at Video Sleazy and apart from lending itself to the title of this particular blog, has nothing whatsoever to do with the content of this blog.
Unless you’re a dead cyclist.
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