They strut around the place as if being a coach of a child’s sports team is just as important and impressive away from the sports field and as such we should all marvel in their awesomeness. We don’t of course but they spend the whole time cracking a fat over the very thought that we are all so aroused that we too are cracking one at the sight of them in their shiny jackets.
I should confess at this point, that on occasion, I am just such a jacket wearer. I have two which reside between Saturdays in the back of the passion wagon and yes, on the odd occasion I am out and about and in need of a jacket, I will wear one. But I feel like a complete tit the whole time. I am proud of the fact that I coach not one but two football teams and I am proud to wear the club colours, but not when I’m running errands like picking up the Vagiclean from the chemist for the wife.
My wife refers to just such a garment as a ‘Hutt Jacket’ on account of the fact that it looks like something someone from the Hutt, presumably of a lower socioeconomic standing, would wear, by choice. How she comes to that conclusion is beyond me because although she visited there a few times during our courting days, most of it was spent leaving the damn place as quick as she could so how she had time to conduct a comprehensive fashion survey of the residents is a conscientious point between us.
How funny is suburban snobbery? Some folk will do anything to make you think they reside somewhere a little more upmarket than they actually do. Back in the day people who live in certain parts of Taita liked to use the term ‘North Avalon’ because Avalon was a posh place to live. Posh for the Hutt anyway. Nobody was buying it, least of all the gang members who drove through ‘North Avalon’ on their way to the fortified gang patch just round the corner.
These days I can legally claim to living in a far poncier suburb than the shit hole I do on account of NZ Post having us on the boundary. We are literally half and half so subsequently I feel a lot more stuck up when down one end of the house than I do the other. But who really cares aye? I certainly don’t and as I’m not about to invite you lot over to our gaff anytime soon neither are you I suspect.
It was Maori Language Something week last week, did you know? The nervous Caucasian TV presenter attempting to welcome you with two minutes of badly pronounced Te Reo is usually the first sign; some dude having stuck up Maori terms for everything at your workplace is the second. And I don’t mind that, its all good fun, but when the Cartoon Network, which is an Australian run TV channel, broadcasts an entire week of badly over dubbed SpongeBob Squarepants in total Te Reo then you know shit has got out of hand.
What did they think would happen, that thousands of children under the age of 10 would be fluent by the weeks end after watching a cartoon with no subtitles? My son gave it about 40 seconds before deciding that Hannah Montana was far more interesting and that’s really saying something when you are a 10 year old boy.
Now I must admit that I fancy a bit of Miley Cyrus as much as the next fella but then I remind myself that her tasty mallow puffs are only 16 and that’s a bit too young even for me. But something I do fancy is when a crusty old sheila pulls up behind me in a car like the Mercedes SL Roadster (pictured). And its always some glamed up bird well past her prime driving because her husband, also well past his prime, buys her just such a car in the hope it keeps her from noticing he’s rooting someone the age of Miley Cyrus.
But its not just because it’s a fuck off shiny motor that I like the Mercedes SL, but it has these groves on the bonnet that make it look like it has cannons underneath the hood and who hasn’t wished they had a couple of those on the old passion wagon from time to time?
Ze Germans know a thing or two about nose cannons though, back in the 40’s I flew 29 sorties over occupied Europe and on a couple of occasions had the bally Hun up my pooper in his bally Messerschmitt ME 109 (also pictured). Now those things had the kind of nose cannon that caused a man to crack one out of fear, the worst kind of arousal.
Luckily I lived to tell the tale and wear shiny coach’s jackets, all of which makes me terribly important so there.
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