Top 5: My Worst Moments of 2010

It’s that time of the year again when everybody who is anybody – or just a wanker with a blog – is making their ‘Best Of’ and ‘Worst Of’ list for the year just past.

Now I’ve said before just how much I loather a list maker, but then I went and made several of my own which is as funny as me pooh-poohing James Blunt when his new song came out a few weeks back now, only for me to not only have now bought it off iTunes, but have since learnt to play it on the guitar.

But then that’s just me – making statements I never keep.

So after some deep soul searching and a pretty decent trawl through the memory banks here is my list of disappointments this past year. Pack a lunch because shit is about to get deep.

1. I got Swine Flu and it nearly killed me. That pretty much sucked.

2. All the football teams I’ve coached this year have lost more games than they’ve won. But from those teams came more rep trialists and players than any other one team in each grade, so I must be doing something right.

3. That last one is not a disappointment; it’s me turning a frown upside down.

4. Lost, the TV show, finished in an ending that was emotional on two levels; it ended six years worth of wtf moments with a big tear jerker and sadly heralded the last time we've seen Kate (Evangeline Lilly) on TV other than in those 'Because you're worth it' ads. I love you Kate.

5. Natalie Portman is pregnant and unless she found a use for all the pendants of mans milk I’ve been sending her then I suspect that sadly, it’s not mine.

So stay tuned for the Best Of which like the above is totally subjective and complete arse to anyone but the writer, but hey, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do right?

What has she done with all my pendants I wonder...?

Wake Me Up When December Ends

Three days into the Christmas holidays and already I’m bored shitless.

That can’t be right can it? What’s even more concerning is that I’ve started drinking earlier and earlier into the day to get through the boredom. Yes, I’m turning into one of 'those' Dads. Now that really can’t be right.

I’ve tried alleviating the monotony. I broke the habit of a lifetime and ventured out amongst the Bollocks Day sales and as suspected, it was a complete shit fight. All about nothing really because most retailers weren’t offering much more discounts than they had been before Chrissy but we buy it every year don’t we? Hook, line and sucker.

Junior wanted an iPad which, no one stops to tell you, is completely useless if you don’t have a PC or laptop to kick it off on. Apple is making a mint on these things of course, especially as they’re making them interchangeable and compatible only with their other products. Smart move that. Of course Apple stuff is never reduced in price, even when everything else around it is....

Its times like this I’m tempted to take advantage of sales and update the wardrobe, but there’s some things I just don’t seem to get, like shirts that have a tee shirt sewn into them. It’s almost as if they don’t think you’ll know how to dress yourself so they sew another layer into it. Or sleeves that are already rolled up for you...it’s hardly the stuff of engineering marvel is it, the rolled up sleeve?

It reminds me of a guy I used to work with at Hallensteins, back in the day. We all took turns dressing the mannequins in the shop which was a relatively mundane task because each week head office sent photos and clear instructions on how each one should look. Creativity was never a problem, shall we say.

Except when Antonio got his hands on them. He liked to layer everything because layering was his thing and this was before anyone even knew what the hell layering was. And he wouldn’t just use the odd tee shirt or two, if he could get 16 different colours under one shirt he would.

Which just fucked it up for everyone really because whilst he was doing his Queer Eye for the Straight Guy thing the rest of us would be doing menial tasks like serving the customers, or stripping down mannequins to find the last Large tee shirt he had used on one of them.

He was a top guy was Ants. Later, after I had left, he developed some pretty serious back issues that meant he couldn’t work for months. His girlfriend of about ten years and High School sweetheart took time of work to nurse him back to full fitness as he was laid flat out for most of the time. He thanked her by running off with some 17 year old part timer when he finally did get back to work.

I think the whole under tee and rolled up sleeve thing rarks me on two levels; the whole presumption that I am so simple I couldn’t possibly know how to do either and I just have a problem with being told shit that is obvious.

Like ads and promotions that try and tell me what being a New Zealander is all about. I’ve lived here all my life, I bloody know already. Those fresh of the boat might not but what the hell are they doing watching TV anyway?

So needless to say I didn’t buy anything which is a good thing because I can spend the money on beer, which I seem to be getting through a lot of these days...

Wake me up when December ends will you? Cheers.

An Eye for an Eye; The Perfect Circle

Now, that one time with the parking wardens aside, I am not a violent man.

But I can be when provoked and the so called parents of the now most infamous 9 year old in NZ, provoke me. Big time. What is worse do you think, that the parents did what they did or that we as a society keep letting it happen? Oh and they did some pretty heavy shit:

The girl was allegedly dragged across the floor by her hair, beaten with a vacuum-cleaner pipe and broomstick, had a toenail ripped off and salt and hot water poured on the wound, and was kicked in the groin with work boots. The couple face joint charges of withholding food from the girl and denying her medical treatment.

Happy families they ain’t.

So how do we stop it happening? Fucked if I know but I know what would be a good start, make the punishment fit the crime; make it an eye for an eye and a broken tooth for a broken tooth.

Let’s not waste time giving people like this the kind of trial and punishment reserved for actual crims, lets fuck them right up and maybe, just maybe, we’ll make a couple of the future kiddie beaters think twice about just who they hit with the vacuum cleaner pipe.

If we’re serious about ending ‘the endless cycle of family violence’ and we certainly like to talk a lot about how we are, then let’s get it on like Donkey Kong. No more fannying about worrying about things like civil liberties and rehabilitation, I say once a child beater, always a child beater.

And we’re not talking about the old man giving you an open palm across the arse because you tried pinching a Perky Nana from the corner dairy and who then spent days regretting giving you one. No, we’re talking about your A grade psycho’s, the kind that do it because they enjoy it.

So let us see how they like it. But who would do such a heinous thing as administer to them what they’ve done, I hear you ask? Easy. We have prisons full of the fuckers, in fact, in a remarkable coinky-dink, that’s what they are there for.

So here’s the dealio: Perp A deals to Mum and Dad of the year and whilst they recover Perp B, who will obviously be bigger and meaner, will deal to Perp A. It is like for like after all and we can’t be seen to favour one scrote over the other. We’re not savages.

Once Mum and Dad recovers Perp A, himself now recovered, gets another go at letting out his pent up frustrations from his taking a thrashing. Etcetera, etcetera. Eventually, shit will get serious and they will, in time, all kill each other.

It is whichever way you look at it, a perfect circle.

Jump Jet Dreams And BBQ Goodbyes

Why does depressing news always arrive only days before the likes of Christmas? I’ve had two such moments in as many weeks and I won’t lie to you, both ripped my undies, emotionally speaking.

The only time I’ve ever actually ripped my underwear is that one time in Standard Four where I had a shart of epic proportions during class and had to flush them down the toilet as they were literally, unsalvageable.

But don’t tell anyone aye? Least of all my mother who always wondered what happened to my camo green, A Team Y fronts. Has there ever been a more useless invention than the opening in the front of Y fronts?

The theory being of course that when a fella wants to have a wee he will open the fly, reach into the opening and well, you know. Let me clear one thing up right now; that’s too many openings and too many points of failure, especially when you’re 10, at school and in fear of the toilet door being kicked down at any moment.

See that kind of carry on frightens a young man and his appendage into urinal stage fright and would often lead to many, many minutes spent waiting for either every other bastard to leave before you could pee, or to desperate thoughts of cool things that would take your mind of the fact that you’ve been standing there for 15 minutes.

Like Harrier jump jets.

Which were officially retired this week in a decision that will end the dreams of many a young shy pisser like me who grew up wanting to fly one of the coolest things ever, second only to the thought of a flying tank.

The Harrier was a jet that blew the pubescent mind because not only did it go forwards, but up & down (on the spot) and backwards. Fuck. Yes. Oh sure, helicopters can do those things, but you can’t load 14,000 kg of whip ass onto a helicopter.

There was something innately sexual about a Harrier too. Maybe it was the big air intakes that looked like nubile breasts, or just the simple fact that it was so pants wettingly awesome, but it turned young boys like us on even more than the underwear section of the DEKA catalogue. Did it what.

The RAF Harriers took their last operational flights this week and it was a deeply moving sight, so much so I proceeded to spend the next few hours spooning the car, it being the biggest metal object I could get my hands on at such short notice. And yes, the F35 Lightning that replaces them is a jump jet too but it’s not the JUMP JET. That title belongs to the Harrier.

I probably could have handled the news a lot better if I wasn’t already at such a low ebb with the heartbreaking news that Mrs ClubDes had decided it was time to retire the family BBQ of 10 years.

Now I’m not one of those guys that get deeply primal and protective about his right to barbecue. Not by a long shot. If truth be told I’d actually prefer someone else did the cooking but I appreciate the emasculation one undergoes if, when surrounded by other men, a fella turns the tongs over to the missus. So I don’t.

But I’d much prefer to sit back with a cold beer and listen to me old mate James Blunt on the wireless than to sweat it out like a rapist in front of a hot girdle and proceed to spend the rest of the evening smelling like meat.

That said though, when I do take the reins, I crank out some quality shit; no char grilled or burnt anything when I’m on the job. I guarantee it. It’s all about temperature control bitches.

So I was disappointed to see an old friend go, especially as I had constructed a mega set of new legs for it when the old ones had given way due to being cheap as chips, made in China rubbish. It was some of my best woodwork and reminded me of weekends spent wasted away in Granddads’ shed, building shit.

Like scale model Harrier jump jets. Oh yeah.

Check out the rack on that!

Turn That Frown Upside Down..

Sad sad news this week that Ryan Reynolds and Scarlett Johansson are to divorce after only two years of marriage.

Normally I wouldn’t give a shit about this kind of thing but I can’t help but perhaps I had something to do with it. After all, I did rate Ryan on this little list of mine and how could any marriage compete with that kind of pressure.

Oh sure, Scarlett is a good looking bird and a talented actress too; but I ain’t putting her in a Top 5 anytime soon so maybe, just maybe, that got to her.

So if you need a gaff to doss down in Ryan, then our spare room is free brother. We can spend our nights crying, comforting each other, comparing our abs and manicuring each other’s man beards. Oh and in the morning, I’m making waffles.

And that, is how we turn a frown upside down.

People In Your Neighbourhood: Crasians

So the Asian guy across the street was out mowing his lawn the other day, with a scuba mask on.

Now plastic bags tied around the shoes I can understand; who wants grass stains on their white Bata Bullets, but a scuba mask?! What’s up with that, for fucks sake?

Actually I know what’s up with that, he be a crazy Asian (Crasian) and that’s just what they do.

Do you remember that bit in Sesame Street they always used to do about ‘the people in your neighbourhood, in your neighbourhood, they’re the people you meet everyday’? And they had the strapping black guy who looked like, but obviously wasn’t, a homicidal rapist? My street reminds me of that sometimes.

Gardening day across the road is very amusing at the best of time. A small portion of the household – some 400 approximately – take a break from making car tyres or whatever it is they do in the garage all day and descend upon the front yard with all manner of garden tools and kitchen utensils.

The actual strip of lawn out the front of their place is roughly the size of the men’s toilets but my god do they go to town on it as if they were they attacking South Korea or something.

The funny thing is that when the dust settles - and it’s like Hiroshima over there for most of the gardening afternoon - it still looks a complete shambles. Shorter admittedly, but only in the front. They leave the sides long, just like a good mullet; Business on top, party down the back.

But there’s a strange comfort you have knowing that your friendly neighbourhood Crasians are watching you most of the day from behind their closed blinds, like they do when not scuba diving amonst the weeds. They see things, just like Jack off Titanic.

Not to be confused with jacking off to Titanic, because everyone knows you can only really do that to the one scene and it’s not even Kate Winslet’s hand for chrissake. And it’s a long wait till then too, all which makes for a pretty sad wank really. Especially the second time.

We have another Asian family in the street but they’re not so much crazy as they are nosey, but in a good way. The old guy, Mr Miyagi, keeps an eye on the street, literally. He smokes a pipe which is a wonderful excuse to get out on the driveway and away from her indoors I suspect.

He and I have a little ritual that is both respectful and amusing. He watches me get into the car and then turns away as if he hasn’t seen me. He’ll start making his way inside right up till the moment I pass when he looks back to see if I’ll wave.

I always wave and so does he, despite pretending he never really saw me in the first place. When I drive up the street he does the same thing. The other day we bumped into each other at the supermarket and out of instinct he turned and walked away. I didn’t let him down when he looked back.

Sometimes I really catch him out, like when I need to leave early for football and he’s not only out of the house but halfway up the bloody road. This leads to an awkward moment, like we’ve just walked in on each other in the nude, yet still the ritual beings, he turns away and I wait for him to reach the drive and look back...

But it’s neighbours like that you like. I know that if anyone is cruising up and down our little street casing the place then he’s going to notice the bastards and for that I’d let him walk in on me in the buff if he really wanted to.

Crasians might be indeed crazy and in some cases quirky, but they are the people in your neighbourhood that you meet every day and that you come to rely on, even if for a bit of light relief when they mow the lawns wearing scuba masks.

Looks like those damn puppets were right after all.

Karate vs. Ninja

The problem with people who think that they're ninjas is that they stuff it up for those of us that actually are.

This same rule of thumb can be applied to anyone professing to be a martial artist, like these guys who had their picture in the paper the other day:

Members of South Wellington Seido Karate Club braved the chill to punch and kick their way through a two-hour training session at Lyall Bay yesterday.

Head instructor Tony Gaeta said beach training helped students adapt karate to any situation. If the student was concentrating, the sand and cold waves shouldn't matter.

"If stuff is going to happen it's going to happen to you on the street, and you can't say to your opponent, `Wait, just let me put my karate pants on and then I'll be ready'. You have to be able to handle any environment, and do what you normally do."

No shit Tony. Is that why you all have your karate pants on whilst you're standing in the waves? And when was the last time, exactly, a three foot wave attempted to mug you on the street? And what will you do if you're alone when it does and you're not able to hold the hand of thirty odd other people in a defensive clothesline?

Best not let him know I said that though because it then becomes this whole Karate vs. Ninja thing and I've sliced and diced too many good men just to prove a point...

Football from Heaven

Non sports fans bear with me just for a moment. As usual croquet fans, there will be fuck all for you in this blog.

Quite possibly one of the best displays of football took place yesterday morning. Beautiful Barcelona played one of the best, yet gayest, teams in the world, Real Madrid, who just happen to be coached by one of the best in the business, Jose Mourinho, the self appointed ‘Special One’.

Barca demolished the pretty Madristas. Absolutely blitzed them. Made them look like part timers. Five nil once it was all over and 98,000 fans - yes that’s right; the stadium holds that many - went home to hit the piss deliriously happy.

Meanwhile, back in little ol NZ we followers of football made our way to work and cracked one under the desks as the goals keep rolling in via the live text updates on the world wide intraweb. The one thing we have to live for at moments of inappropriate arousal like this is that we’ll be able to catch the goals on the telly during the lunch time news.

Only today they had other priorities, like fucken cricket.

The Ashes to be exact, contested between two countries that aren’t even New Zealand! I know we’ve got a lot of Poms and Aussies here but fuck ‘em, Brisbane is three hours away by plane, if they want to catch the score they can piss off and go get it in person.

And why is some guy named Michael Hussey called ‘Mr Cricket’? Did he invent the game? I think not. It strikes me as one of those nicknames you give yourself to appear way cooler than you actually are. Mine was GreatBigHardCock.

Mind you, if you’ve been called ‘hussy’ all your life anything will do. Just ask my first shag; Tracey, from Waipawa.

So fuck you very much TV3. I’ve seen the game and the goals now but I shan’t be watching your lunch time news ever again which is okay by me because TV1 has a far sexier financial news presenter before the sports news anyway.

Barca vs.Madrid. Quite possibly the best football you’ll never see (unless you have Sky).

Five star Barca - better than a Hussey anyday.

Sonny Bill & The Mormons

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I was a Mormon.

Not because I have a hankering to find God, it’s just that I just love their uniform. And they wear it so well; rain or shine you’ll go a long way before you find anyone wearing the classic white shirt and black tie combo quite as sharply as a Mormon does.

Cyclists could take note from the Mormon too for he doesn’t need to invest in those silly “I’ve got more pretty labels than you” lycra numbers that so many of you wear. Oh no, all the Mormon needs are two bike clips (one for each leg) and the truth.

I once had a divine moment with the Mormons.

It all started when I contracted chicken pox at the grand old age of twenty. I was consequently holed up in the flat feeling rather sorry for myself, watching daytime TV, going through the flatmates underwear draw – that kind of thing – when there came a knock at the door.

On the doorstep were two Mormon girls, one of which was a gorgeous, blonde, American girl.

Maybe it was the fumes from the cream they give you to rub on the scabs but for some reason I thought she was an angel and after politely declining their offer of a chat on account of said blistering, porous rash, invited them back for a cuppa the next day.

Needless to say I spent most of that next morning prepping myself for a meeting of porno proportions. I can’t recall the number exactly but I probably took the edge of twice, maybe three times. Yes, I may well have been sick with the complexion of a kid working at McDonalds but I was betting on working the ClubDes charm that day I don’t mind telling you.

Imagine my complete surprise and I’ll admit, terror, when the knock came and I noticed out the corner of the lounge window, not one, not several, but tens of Samoan Mormon boys converging on my doorstep.

Now I know they say God works in mysterious ways but he damn well knew what he was doing that day. Either they were going to leave having converted me or it was going to be one hell of a gang bang. I never did answer that door that day, or any other time the big fulla has knocked.

But I love that Mormons are what they present themselves as. If they knock on the door you know what you’re going to get, which is more than I can say with Rebel fucken Sport, the weakest sports store ever.

They’ve spent a lot of money this year on having brick shit house and all round hunk of man spunk, Sonny Bill Williams, do their ads. I think they should’ve spent their money on organising their stores so that you can actually find something and stocking the place for if and when you do.

This is what happens when you have a virtual monopoly of a retail genre like Rebel do. You can pretend to have sales which are really nothing more than a slight reduction in overpriced stock and you can hire staff more interested in dancing to the radio playing in store than knowing where the shin pads are kept.

Because where else are we going to go aye? The guy on the High Street who sells fishing rods, rifles and aertex shirts, in that order? He wouldn’t even know what a T90 is if you showed him a picture, even then he still wouldn’t give a shit. He certainly wouldn’t stock it any time soon.

But, just like the Mormon, what you see is what you get. Amen to that.

Damn You James Blunt

Damn you and your new song which I tried so very hard not to like.

But you got me again with your catchy lyrics, your sun swept video and that strangely alluring effeminate way you carry yourself. Not to mention that mouth of yours that looks big enough to hold a couple of balls in it.

I’ve since bought it off iTunes, dammit, but I nearly didn’t because I’m almost sure I can make out that somewhere in the back ground, some poof (other than you) is playing a ukulele. Which has to be the most deeply disturbing trend in music these days. Or as my mate Marco put it so aptly “Ukuleles. What’s up with that shit?”

Ukuleles are right up there with surfers who then go on to be musicians in my big book of things that fuck me right off.

As are clowns who decide to take over the stereo at small intimate gatherings and play some reggae dub step rubbish that you’re most likely to hear blaring out of cars in the Coromandel. Not cool bro, not cool.

Now I admit that guys like Jack Johnson probably sound awesome playing their out of tune guitars when everyone is huddled around the camp fire, high on sea water, surfboard wax and whatever it is they’re all smoking but lets face it, who wouldn’t aye? Even Blunt and his lose-the-will-to-live-when-you-hear-it numbers about being somebodies lover would rock that particular party.

There’s just one thing I can’t get my head around regarding James Blunt and that’s the fact he was in the army for six years, as a Captain no less. He saw action in Kosovo and even stood guard at the coffin of the Queen Mum when she carked it in 2002. So at some point the guy had some semblance of an impressive life before he started singing about perving at strange girls on the train.

Knowing that makes me wonder what it was like serving with the guy. Did the other Captains wake each morning to find him serenading them, naked, from the end of his bed in the Officers Mess? Nakedness, by the way, is acceptable during wartime. Incidentally no one worries about trivial things like the size of your cock when there’s every chance you’ll be dead by bed time.

Did he sing to them whilst in the communal showers and in those poignant, quiet moments that always inevitably arise in times of conflict, did he try out new numbers on the troops and if so, what did they make I wonder, of the lyric ‘three wise men having a semi by the sea’…

Speaking of strange girls; I have this moral dilemma I feel I should share with the group.

Most days I drive past a not unattractive young, solo Mum struggling to make her way up the Mount Kilimanjaro that is our hill, pushing bubs in his / her pram. Often, depending on the weather which lets face it, in Wellington is usually shit, I contemplate stopping and offering her a lift.

Which I could easily do because I’m usually alone, drive a big booted passion wagon with plenty of room for a pram and usually have a car seat for when we pick up the niece. But the thing that stops me every time is the thought that it’s a fine line between being a well meaning guy and a well organised sexual deviant, at least in her eyes. So I don’t.

Ah well. At least the thought is there I suppose. She probably wouldn’t get in when she heard the ukuleles pumping out of the iPod anyway.

Damn you James Blunt.

Two balls minimum I reckon...

Appearances May Deceive

Nothing is safe from disturbing trend that is making shit cheap and nasty these days. Not even the king of such things; plastic utensils.

A plastic spoon broke on me today as I tried to extract the teabags from my cup. Yes that’s right, plural. I like my tea so strong it sometimes stirs itself. Anyhoo, it just snapped in half, midway up the shaft which as we all know, is the worst kind of break.

I managed to teabag myself, even with a broken shaft, but my god, it was messy.

How can we expect to maintain the fabric of society when even the simplest of things no longer function, for fucks sake? It used to be you could cut through an over cooked steak with a plastic spoon, or tunnel under the barbed wire perimeter fence. Then along came China and stuffed up everything through their mass production of everything.

I wonder if they use plastic utensils in Whitby. Or drink beer from cans. Did you know that beer in cans is sensationally cheaper than in any other vessel, but no bugger buys them because drinking from stubbies is far harder. And easier to throw at the neighbours / parked cars / cops, probably.

There’s nothing quite like a drive round a gated community to remind you just how inconsequential your little three bedroom number in the suburbs is, is there?

I had to pick something up from there this week and for a while there I wondered if I had taken a wrong turn and ended up in Beverly Hills. It is a place that suffers from split personalities; take the first turn in and you’ll find yourself in Shitby, take the second or third and you’re very much in Richby.

It’s suburban snobbery at its finest and something I am well familiar with. Growing up in the Hutt Valley Hills (see what I did there?) we had our fair share of it. The frightened Caucasians who found themselves living in ethnic suburbs like Taita, started calling their area ‘North Avalon’. Try and find that on a map why doncha.

I sometimes try it on myself. Where we live is on the border of a very well to do suburb on the one hand and a complete anus on the other. Even the council can’t work out where we are so why shouldn’t we play on that confusion, especially when we decide to sell?

Because even the most directionally challenged, blind guy is going to take one look and know we’re trying it on, that’s why. It’s a bit like internet dating and the blatant misrepresentation that happens in the biggest sausagefest of them all. Not that I’m into that but I know some who have been. Successfully too, I might add.

It’s a real meeting of some of this country’s finest minds, is internet dating, especially from the fellas point of view, who like to lie about the little things like, oh, overall physical appearance. How’s that going to work when you meet that special lady, do you think?

It’s not weird to find a partner on the net these days but it fucken was when Mrs ClubDes and I found each other. Quite what she was doing on there I don’t know but I was towards the end of my Meg Ryan obsession and had watched ‘You’ve Got Mail’ for the umpteenth time and figured hey, if it happened like that in the movies then it must be true.

I can’t remember what I wrote on my profile exactly but it certainly wasn’t the de rigueur of the modern day dating site douche. I wasn’t vague about my name, age, marital status or work situation and I’m pretty sure I didn’t have a picture of my chopper alongside a stubbie as a profile pic. I just wasn’t that classy back then.

And the ladies then wonder just why it is that when they make that particularly choice they find themselves in Shitby, not Richby...

"Yeah I'm six foot two, dark, work in marketing and my hobbies include windsurfing, rugby and masturbating.."

Sex Ed; Condoms, Cucumbers & Lesbians

I know we’re all trying to save the environment and shit by car pooling, but seeing two dudes sharing a motorbike just makes me uncomfortable. Reach around anyone?

Sex Ed at school made everybody uncomfortable. I was reminded of this recently when Junior announced his class was going through puberty. The lesson, not the body changing experience, although in some cases of kids with advanced development - and I have seen them with my own eyes - I suspect it’s both.

Even the act of teaching it has changed. Why just the other day his class had to come up with as many swear words as they know for male and female genitalia. Now that’s my kind of lesson.

They even have homework; both Junior and my niece – the football prodigy – have to do an assignment on puberty and the changes it brings. Back in the day they never set us homework for sex ed because we had our own; masturbation and we all got an ‘A’.

Which reminds me of the time Maxi got caught wanking by his Nana. The poor old thing had a stroke. Maxi was surprised to find she had such a soft hand...

Things have definitely changed since our day. Our sex ed consisted of a couple of lesbian P.E teachers showing us cutaways of the various bits on an A3 bit of paper and that was it. Quite why it had to be the lesbian teachers that took the co-ed class I never did quite understand; it just made us fellas laugh the whole time and the girls awkward as Ms Man spoke with some intensity about the vagina.

The diagrams, although incredibly accurate, were quite useless. The penis for example, was drawn at such an angle it made us boys wonder if that something was not quite right with our equipment.

Now I don’t make a habit of checking out cock or nothing, but I’ve never ever seen one with quite the same bent arm action going on as those 1950s diagrams would have you believe.

As for the female reproductive system, well, it could have been a map of the solar system for all we knew. None of the heavily embellished sexual stories from our older brothers or friends mentioned anything about it looking like the Klingon Bird of Prey, for chrissakes.

I realise now of course that such horrendous diagrams were most likely to have been drawn by a celibate monk so as to scare young minds off ever contemplating trying to get past the undies. Oh how he must have dreamed of the day that lesbian P.E teachers unleashed them on a frightened student faculty...

A few years later and, conveniently after we had all left college, Sex Ed suddenly became hands on.

Young girls were given condoms to pull on over all matter of root vegetable, usually cucumbers which just ruined it for fucken everybody. From that point on sexually awakened girls expected to find a cucumber each and every time, whilst boys spent their nights weeping uncontrollably with the impending inadequacy that moment would bring.

My dear friend and daughter I never had, Sam, a college girl, tells me that sex ed at her age is still very much hands on but thankfully there’s not a cucumber in sight. Hers is a single sex school which at least makes the whole process easier; at least there aren’t half a class room of boys feeling inadequate because their penis doesn’t resemble a tap. Or a cucumber.

Still, I guess I can be thankful that schools make an attempt at least because let’s be honest, no teen in their right mind is going to ask Mum and Dad about it so that leaves only avenue, porn and as I’ve mentioned several times before, that particular medium has a lot to answer for in mis-educating young male minds.

On second thoughts, maybe a couple of lesbians and a cucumber aren’t so bad after all.

I Love A Wedding - Even In Oz

Off, then, to Australia for me old mate Sully’s wedding.

And what a week it was. He showed us the bright lights of Brisbane town, I got a tan and spent the day itself surrounded by and looking out for, four gorgeous bridesmaids. Where I come from we’d call that a result.

Now admittedly Australia is a grand place, but there’s something about the thing that just gets on my tits. And not just because it’s full of Aussies.

Actually I met several nice ones whilst there and spotted just as many on their lunch break in the city centre. The inner city girls are a very stylish lot who clearly take a pride in their appearance, so much so I wonder just how anyone manages to work around them. I know I couldn’t.

It got me wondering what they’ve done with all the average looking folk, because I didn’t see many. Maybe it was just that I was so busy trying to check out the female cast of Home and Away that I didn’t notice anyone normal.

Oh and the little school uniforms they wear on shows like that? No one wears anything remotely arousing as that in inner suburbs of Brisbane town and believe me, I checked. Several times. How many disappointed paedophiles have travelled to Australia on the basis of that one I wonder?

Somewhat bizarrely the only crowd that stood out more from the nubile and well dressed were those moving about in small gangs that were neither goth nor emo, but yet all looked like they had hepatitis. It must be an Aussie thing.

The one thing that they do really well, in Queensland anyway, is their roads. They, like slavery, just get shit done. Everything is two or three lanes, minimum and that’s just the residential areas and whereas here in NZ it takes years to fill a pot hole at the end of your street, the Ossies erect things like main arterial bridges between your Gold Coast visits. And we were only there three years ago!

But then the place is so damn big they have to really.

Everything is about carving the quickest route from Point A to Point B and minimising disruption while they do so. Whereas in NZ every second road worker leans on a spade as you take an hour to crawl through 50 metres of roadwork, they just get on with it. In Brisbane they shut down one lane, leaving three. No fucken dramas.

All of which was secondary to the real reason we were that and that was, of course, to see my good mate and fellow World Cup football sweepstake conspirator, Sully, marry his gorgeous misses, Jess. I had the honour of being a groomsman which has all the coolness of the best man with none of the responsibility!

I did take it upon myself to look after Jess and the girls whenever I could. I won’t lie to you; it is an unpleasant job looking after five stunning young ladies but I think I managed to pull it off and what’s more, I have the photos to prove it. I don't think it's a job I'd ever get tired of either...

So well done Mr and Mrs O’Sullivan; you two were outstanding and it was I, for once, who was a close second.

Top 5: Guys I'd Go Gay For

Whilst having the time of my life with my girls last weekend, we got to talking. About many things, but mostly boys, which was cool by me because for about 16 years of my life I was actually one.

Okay, 18 if you count full pubes but hey, let’s not stress about the finer details. Naturally I was able to offer the girls many an insight to the pubescent mind, possibly because I still have one and at some point I declared that ‘I would go gay’ for a certain fella which set them right off.

Naturally I had to explain myself and reveal my full list of man love. So here it is. Fellas, find yourself a nice quiet spot, borrow the moisturiser from the missus and keep the tissues handy because you’re going to need them...

Fernando Torres

What a guy, what a footballer. He’s a bit cake right now but on his day he has a first touch that makes me feel like a little girl, he really does. Admittedly Lionel Messi is a better player but he’s an ugly man whereas Fernando has it going on; the freckles, the legs and the casual elegance of a cheetah. Personally I liked his hair longer, would give a fella something to hang on to...

Bear Grylls

Any man who can give himself a dirty water enema can hide my soap on a rope any time he damn well wishes.

Alexander Skarsgaard

The coolest vampire on the block and the best damn Sergeant since Zeke Anderson, Alex is the most exciting Swedish thing we want to be inside since the Volvo. Just look at that torso, somebody get the guy a plaster because he’s cut and get this; the guy doesn’t wear a modesty sock when filming nude scenes. Fuck. Yeah.

David Beckham

I’ve never made it a secret that Becks can bend me any way he likes. I even copied his hairstyle once, possibly twice.

Ryan Reynolds

Is as close to me as it’s gonna get ladies; we’re both ridiculously funny, have great abs and wear a beard well, damn well. So who else would I want to have a tender homosexual experience with than the guy who reminds me of myself?

Kickin' It With My Girls

Just when I thought that memorable weekends were a thing of the past I have two of my Top Five, ever, in the one year.

First was Melski’s and Emski’s wedding in May. Second was just this weekend past and our taking my girls football team to the world famous in NZ McCartney tournament in Taupo.

Now I’ve coached a lot of football, seven years worth to be exact, but I’ve never had a team that has left me with such a sense of reward as my girls have this season. Don’t get me wrong, I love my boys too, not in an NAMBLA way mind you, but girl’s football is different to that of the boys.

Oh and I recommend you don’t Google that particular acronym unless you really want to see the Department of Internal affairs confiscate your hard drive in a 6am dawn raid.

Girls approach the game differently. They play in the true spirit of the game where with the boys stuff gets real serious real fucken quick and pretty soon no one is really enjoying themselves. Unless you’re winning, then that’s pretty cool.

My girls still have that same desire to win but they go about it differently. They look at the game holistically and understand that to win they all need to play well as a team. Boys will always try and do it alone. Always.

My girls also soak stuff up like a sponge. If I teach one of them a turn I know I’ll see it executed the very next game, do the same with my boys and I’ll be waiting weeks before they decide that they’ll give it a go.

And I had forgotten how much fun girls in a group are, particularly between the ages of 11 and 14 like mine are. Needless to say once someone mentioned that they’d be carrying my balls on the road trip up it became the running joke that I could never quite live down. And here was I thinking I had heard every in-your-end-o comment that could be made regarding balls in a bag...

On the field they did me proud, off it they were just as impressive. Not that they were the only ones; an early highlight of the weekend was a group of older girls calling out to me “nice boots”. Oh yes. You know you’ve made good in the footballing world when shit hot female footballers dig your F30’s..

There is one added advantage of having 11 & 12 year old girls in the car; they don’t mind the songs you have on your iPod that you chose in the hope it would somehow help you regain your youth, because they sing along to Lady Gaga and Ke$ha just as loud as you do. The Jonas Brothers track did raise an eyebrow though, admittedly.

So girls, heaven forbid none of you ever read this because this blog is filthy and clearly written by someone very immature, but if you are or do, you should know that you rocked my world this weekend.

I hereby adopt you all as my own.

There's Something About Katy (Still)

Dear Katy,

On the off chance that you’re not filling yourself with even more Home Brand Porridge and instead are reading this, then please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I’m over you.

I would tweet you this life changer but alas my life is incredibly boring so I really have nothing of interest to say. That puts me in the same bracket as 95% of Twitter users but there you go.

Why just moments ago I was ironing my shirts for work, watching your video hits on one of our local music channels. Mind numbingly boring it was too. The ironing, not your videos.

Anyhoo, it occurred to me, whilst watching a visual selection of your songs to date, that I really fancied the hot pants off you more when you were kissing girls, running hot & cold and waking up in Vegas.

You had that something special about you that is sadly, no longer there. Back then you were all that and a bag of chips, now you know it and that’s not sexy.

I think things started to go downhill in this relationship of ours when you did the Timbaland song and let’s not even get started on the collaboration with those gaylords who can’t even spell ‘303’...thankfully they didn’t play that video today.

Which lead to ripping off the Beach Boys in your collaboration with Snoop.

Now I must admit that you spraying whipped cream from your boobs is a little bit kinky and that yes, lying naked on a bed of candyfloss is very naughty. Stripping down in a hotel room like a teenager is indeed wet dream stuff, but yet, I was more turned on at the thought of pressing my cuffs perfectly.

Where did the magic go KP?

I used to dig your crazy sexy cool mixture of confidence and vulnerability, now you’re just everywhere an all over everything. I used to love your cool, kooky, vintage dress sense too but now its blue hair and shit. I know you’re doing the voice of Smurfette in a movie real soon but that doesn’t mean you have to dress like her.

Sadly it seems as if I’m not the only one. You know your star is fading when your duet with Elmo, a puppet for fucks sake, gets cut from Sesame Street because it’s too raunchy.

So you were wearing a flesh coloured mesh thing, who knew? Mums with less impressive cleavage than yours don’t notice little things like that and they complain real loud.

That said, your piss take of the whole sad saga on Saturday Night Live was pretty damn funny – “Today’s episode is brought to you by the letters Double D and the number 34” - and if I were to be truly honest, a little bit of the old you.

So maybe I’m not over you at all, you sexy thing you.

BTW, I’d iron your hot pants if you asked me too. I would do that for you.

KP let me take this in happier times...

Does He Really?

Now I knew Stuff.co.nz was starting to scrap the barrel for hits when they started using pictures of our scantily clad Commonwealth Games athletes as an enticement - a fully clothed archer just doesn’t compare to two twins in togs it would seem – but this is just ridiculous:

So what if he uses the rhythm method as a form of contraception? I would have thought it was a little unnecessary as he likes to pack the fudge, but hey, each to his own I suppose. Which reminds me of a joke:

Q. How do you spot the retired porn star working at the local servo?

A. He pulls the pump out before it’s finished and sprays it all across the boot.

Thank you, I’m here pretty much all the time.

The YMCA & The Union

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Yo Hailz! Tweet Me Kay? Thx

Apparently we Kiwis are one of the heaviest users, per capita, of Twitter.

Something I was not surprised to learn because let’s face it, we as a nation, love the sound of our own fucken voices. Twitter is just another in a long line of mediums that fool us in to believing as if somehow, somewhere, someone actually cares about what we think and say.

Think talk back radio, letters to the editor, blogs (mine excluded of course, because it is quite ace) and you have more bastards blowing than a windy day. Add to that Bebo and then Facebook and you have a whole new generation of loud mouths filling cyberspace with their innermost musings.

There’s another factor I reckon and it’s this other warped sense of importance we seem to collectively have in NZ, which comes, ironically, from being a small country on the other side of the world millions of miles away from anywhere. It’s this sense of missing out on something that makes many of us think that it’s vitally important that we unload our shit on everyone else, really fucken quickly.

Other countries similar to us in size just don’t care about stuff like that. The Nordic nations focus instead on making love to each other, smoking funky things and doing magical things with pastry.

Asian countries just get on with working their arse of for the man and doing sensational things with rice, which, by the way, is a great food if you ever want to eat a thousand of anything.

Speaking of which, do you think the Indians will sort their shit out in Delhi? To me it looks like they’ve just spread their shit out which is the crux of the issue really. I know hindsight is a wonderful thing but you have to wonder don’t you, just what kind of fucktard would award anything to Delhi but the Shithole of the World award?

Anyhoo. We’re big online gamers too, apparently. Sometimes, when I get bored of actually having a life, I wonder if I should’ve got into online gaming because it would definitely have been my thing many years ago.

I’d be the shit too. Whenever Coops and I went to the movies because we couldn’t get real girlfriends, we’d always stop and have a few games of Time Crisis and we were so good at it that they had to put up a sign after our first visit that read ‘No Professionals’.

Afterwards we’d be so amped we’d sit at the back of the theatre in the row with about five seats, hoping no one would notice our semis. Told you, I’d make a perfect online gamer.

As I alluded to in my last post there comes a false sense of security with all this virtual openness. It’s easy to start thinking that by being ‘out there’ unscrupulous cads will be put off stalking, stealing identities and other fruity things like breaking into your house just to leave you a dump in your toilet.

People don’t put their full name on things in the virtual world because they feel safe. It’s so that you can find them, realy easy and listen to what they have to say because opinions are like arseholes, everyone has one and you’ll find no bigger collection of arseholes than you will on the net (and I’m not just talking about the kind of sites that DougalMac frequents).

So tweet all you want New Zealand because I ain’t listening. Or reading. Or however the hell it works. I don’t care who has the most followers and I certainly don’t care that you think where you are right now is just so exciting you had to stop and tweet about it. Think again you tit.

I did like the tweet-nip-pic though Hayley Williams. Post more and I just might sign up...

I'd tweet that.

WankBook and The Chef

I read something somewhere recently how some silly bitch was proclaiming that these days The Net is actually a very safe place and the proof is that everybody uses their real name in email addresses and on Twitter and shit.

Clearly she hasn’t be stalked by some nut bar which surprises me in one sense; she’s an editor on a public website, but not on another; she is a complete minger.

Oh and I have a theory on that very premise that I’ll cover in another blog. Not that she’s a minger, because that is completely true, no, more on Twitter and shit later.

Sometimes, just sometimes, when I start to think that she might be right I have to remind myself that there are guys like this out there and guys like me, trolling the net just waiting to mock the shit out of them.

I have blanked out his last name because as you’ll see he may not be the sharpest knife in the draw but like so many borderline personalities he does seem to have access to some and that makes him a little bit scary.

Likewise I removed the name of his friends because it’s not really their fault that he’s their mate is it?

Let’s start at the top.

‘Chef’ is not even a real title. Not like ‘Doctor’ or ‘Sir’ which would be used when introducing or talking about someone. I have a feeling Chef Michael introduces himself as such and probably even talks about Chef Michael in the third person. Win-ner.

Now I know a Chef Mike and he's not even a real Chef but that's okay, because his title is a term of endearment. We bestowed it upon him for chrissake, it's not like he created himself a Facebook account using it.

He's a standup guy is our Chef, the real Chef, who does wonderful things with pastry and I suspect does not 'cook alone' quite as much as Fake Chef. And by 'cook alone' I mean wank.

Fake Chef Mike's activities are interesting and his interests scary, although strangely, his interests are not actually listed as activities...so it makes me wonder why he even listed them at all?!

The real clue though that Chef Michael is, in fact a Penis is that he lists ‘Samurai’ and ‘Ninjitsu’ as activities when we all know you’re one or the mother fucken other. Which is it, Samurai or Ninja? You can’t be both Superman AND Batman, you tit.

And no self respecting weight lifting, Samurai Ninja would even feel the need to know what a sniper rifle looks like let alone use one. Swords are much better because they are silent which means you’re more likely to use them. Shits opponent’s right up. Guns for show; swords for a pro.

So let’s be careful out there gang. Because if you ever start feeling a little better about the world wide porn web just remember that the application could be renamed WankBook tomorrow and guys like the curry munching Chef would still fit right in.

Boring Sports #3 - Basketball

Basketball is a boring sport and here’s just one reason why; the world champs were played last week and Turkey finished second.

Turkey. The land of kebabs, delight and now the second best basketball team in the world, which is even more disturbing than the time the Captain Kirks finished third at the football World Cup in 2002...

Basketball is played in a lot of countries and internationally it appears to be a very competitive sport, which should make it great and compelling to watch, but yet it doesn’t because who really wants to see Lithuania win a world anything?

Basketball is one of those sports where it’s not about scoring – that’s the easy bit – but outscoring your scoring opponent. Fans of such sports will say that makes it exciting, I say anytime a team scores a hundred of anything and only just wins then that makes it boring.

Consider this; I drive the passion wagon in and out of the garage several times a day, would trying to do so more times than the boy racer next door make it any the more exciting? No, it would not.

Now I may well be a white man who can’t jump, but I have some history with basketball that allows me to make the criticism including having watched the movie of the same name more than once.

I grew up in the mean streets of Naenae at a time when interest in the NBA really cranked up and for a while there I was even an official garment of the NBA wearing kango.

But back then who wasn’t? We had moved on from the WWF; had collected all the trading cards and watched all the Summer Slams, had grown out of our NSW and Queensland State of Origin jerseys so basketball wear was the natural progression.

This was at the height of the Chicago Bulls legacy and some guy called Mike was making ‘hang time’ a profession. Bruiser was into Mike in a big way and now that I think back on it, his obsession for the seven foot black man was probably not healthy.

He always had the shoes, the ones with the pump in the tongue, the life size posters, all the videos and all the clothes. He not only watched Space Jam several times but rated it and if Facebook had been around then he would have been a fan and dare I say it, a friend of the big man.

We all had our favourites. I can’t recall mine but then I would’ve only pretended to be interested so as to appear windswept and interesting to the young ladies that hung around my tall, long dicked, basketball playing mates strutting around in their Club 55 tees. It didn’t work.

Back then, as it is now, basketball is great when it’s a five minute highlights package of all the slam dunks and massive, buzzer beating three pointers from the men’s toilets, it’s just everything in between that blows.

And why does every game have to be commented on by at least one loud American who wheels out every annoying basketball phrase in the book?

John Dybvig was always good value as a comments man but then he looked like he would thrash his wife and kids, or somebody else’s, within an inch of their life at any moment, which made him imminently watchable.

Yes, they might love basketball in Turkey and Lithuania (who finished third for fucks sake) but it’s not my cup of tea.

Jammin with my homies, back when Basketball was as cool as wearing two singlets...

Mortality Check

I never thought I’d be quite as pleased to have a discharge as I do today. Oh yes, its home time.

Here’s to at least another two years between hospital visits but with the chances of some bastard giving me swine flu again I won’t hold my breath. Besides, lack of oxygen is what got me here in the first place.

This visit has been unlike my last three, it was, in the immortal words of Big Chris, emotional.

I don’t want to over dramatise things because I hate wankers who do, but my first night in here was about as close to me checking out as I’d quite like to get for a bit, fuck you very much. I like to tell people that it wasn’t that hairy but if I were to be honest – and don’t tell anyone that I am now – but it was the retro minge of close calls.

And you know what my main thought as I lay there struggling to inflate my sad state of a lung sack? That I hadn’t yet put together a playlist of essential funeral songs for the missus to play, should this be it. Yep, priorities - I’ve got ‘em.

Now I’ve been in similar predicaments before and I’m not talking about Nam either. Oh sure, we got into our fair share of shit storm’s there, but there was no chance I was going to let someone with a name that sounds like an empty Coke can blowing down the street and an AK47 take out Noshow.

But when you’ve got little things like, oh, lungs and shit starting to cease what it is they should be doing, then there is a point where you have to man up and make a decision; do I stay or do I go?

Far be it for me to shatter any Mills & Boon dreams you might have about how that moment might present itself were you ever unfortunate to reach it, but here’s how it goes; there are no bright lights, no aliens in spaceships probing your anus (Maxi you will be disappointed), or sadly, nubile maidens in nearly-but-not quite see through cotton one pieces beckoning you into the water.

The chances are that when it comes you’ll have several tubes sticking in you, which always looks so ace on TV, but in reality makes the necessities of life, like sleeping, impossible. There will be a constant stream of people fussing over you the problem, not you the patient and despite all this activity there’s a very high possibility that you’ll be alone.

Nor will there be some gay, Greys Anatomy back ground music track playing but that’s a plus really.

It will be just you and the choice. Like Neo choosing between Trinity and Zion or Batman choosing Rachel over Harvey Dent and you lot know me, I’m a sucker for a good looking brunette so I chose to stay with mine. But it’s not the easier door to open, I won’t lie to you.

Yet open it you must because unless your penis has seen so little action that it’s retracted upon itself thus leaving you with a vagina, or vice versa depending on your gender, you will still have much to see and do. Personally I plan to write at least 4000 more blogs, coach more football and stalk so many more young ladies on Facebook.

Mortality is not something I contemplate too much because that would lead to eyeliner, striped jerseys, Adam Lambert CDs and crying over absolutely nothing, but every now and then you just have to look back and say “Shit in my mouth. That was a close one”.

There's only ever one door worth opening...

Things To Read When You're In A Hospital Bed

When cooped up for nine days straight one often turns to reading to pass the time. Well that or masturbating but we all know you can only do so much of that before the chaffing starts...

Luckily I have several magazines to peruse in between bouts of treating my body like an amusement park ride.

1. NZ Home & Garden – Provided by raging interior designer Maxi

This is one of those mags where women who look like a boiled horse pull on their best white pants and pose with their hen pecked husbands on beds and couches that are more pillow than furniture.

They like to hang their plates on the wall, have seven duvets where one would suffice and for whom sticking flowers in a vase on a jaunty angle is about as cutting edge as life gets.

They are always, always pictured with their husbands who look as though they are gagging to say “Enjoy this moment dear because once the photographer is gone I’m moving in with my 18 year old sugar daughter who really does give me something for all the money I waste on her…”

Masturbatory verdict: Absolutely none, unless you have a thing for middle aged women who look like tampons in their tightey whitey three quarter pant’s..

2. NZ Performance Car – Provided by thoughtful but ultimately misguided sister

One for the mecapheliacs. Lots of shiny, throbbing pistons and rotary engines adorn these pages, usually from cars owned by young people who must be mortgaged up to their eyeballs.

Strangely, most of the featured rides were bought, dismantled and rebuilt again at some cost just so they could make an RX7 look like, well, a RX7. What the fuck for?

There’s a lot of Asian envy in these pages and of course, the token tart in a bikini who you just know has no interest in cars that drift or the gearsticks that drive them.

My issue also has a big A3 poster of a shiny RX7 that I doubt will appear on any wall other than that of the guy that owns it.

Masturbatory verdict: Lame with a capital L, although, having read it I did have the desire to insert my penis into the exhaust of the passion wagon. Imagine that.

3. FHM – Snuck into the work basket by the lads. Have you fullas never heard of a stick mag? Geez.

For Handy Masturbating is a magazine I have always struggled to understand the point of even when I was looking for a handy wank back in the day.

It really is the junk shop of magazines and tries to squeeze a whole bunch of stuff that apparently appeals to men, like cars, movies, fashion and grooming but ultimately fails because the geezers buying it are not doing so for the articles.

Jessica Alba is in my one and yes, she is an attractive lady but she kills the mood a little by declaring that she would never appear nude on screen or in print.

And besides, she reminds me far too much of ClubDes alumni Amz for me to ever fancy her in a dirty way.

Masturbatory verdict: it was a sad wank.

4. Uncut – a good effort by the sis.

This is one of those English music mags which is for the most part a really good read. The rest is all about how one of the writers attended some obscure concert by some obscure band that has gone on to become the stuff of legend. Well, at least to the four people that saw it that day anyway.

My issue has Fifty Best Lost Movies, all of which were scandalous and in some cases salacious in their day, but are all bar a few, are completely nonexistent today. And the point of the article was thus...?

My copy also has a free CD of artists I have never ever heard of before and by the look of it, never ever will again.

Masturbatory verdict: Original Lady Man Lady, David Bowie, was strangely attractive during the 70’s.....

5. New Idea – included in the basket from work. Not funny guys, not funny.

Utter drivel aimed at the Good Morning watchers amongst us. A program which happens to be the ultimate in catering for those with attention deficit disorder...

Masturbatory verdict: I wouldn’t even beat the cleaner with this, let alone the meat.

6. Time, The Listener – bought by the missus in an excellent effort.

Once upon a time I collected these mags like I did my X-Men comics and I was pleasantly reminder why; cover to cover factual reporting that is so informative my brain just about burst for a bit.

Masturbatory verdict: Faster working than Viagra which, for those who don’t know, takes about half an hour and by then she’s probably managed to wriggle free anyway….

Camera Self Shot Fail

Is it really worth the fuss ladies, really?

Selfshot #1

Selfshot #2

Not really, no.

Hospital Bed Clarity

The world is a crazy place isn’t it, what with earthquakes in Crimechurch, floods in Pakistan and the cell phone thief who uses the stolen handset to take pics of his wang which he then sends to everyone in the contacts book.

Personally I don’t know why the guy has to commit a crime to facilitate such a joyous task, why not just pick up a mate’s phone when he’s not looking? I know I do. I don’t send mine though I just leave them there for the significant other to find one day. It beggars the question though; just what would you do if you got a cock pic from the phone of your best mate...?

Angelina Jolie visited Pakistan this week in one of those poignant but utterly fruitless celebrity endorsements of a cause. Her revelation on seeing the place was that yes, it was quite shit and yes, something really needs to be done about it. And who says actors can only be told what to say aye?

There’s probably several reasons why people aren’t flocking to help the Paki’s like they have other nations affected by natural disasters, but consider this; in the same week we were hearing about the floods we had the Pakistani cricket team being exposed, yet again, for the cheating bastards they are.

So what are the cricketers doing for their fellow countrymen at this time? Living the high life, pretending to be rock stars and taking bribes to bowl no balls, that’s what and Ms Jolie wonders just why it is no bugger wants to lift a finger to help?!

Of course it’s easy for me to have this clarity when locked away in Ward 5 where I spend my days not concerned with the poor and impoverished of the world, but instead getting angry at really important things like the gay designers on 60 Minute Makeover and their decidedly piss poor taste. Since when did being gay mean that you automatically lose any semblance of colour coordination?

But then it’s easy to be a gay interior designer when its someone else’s money isn’t it? Oh how the real rimmers amongst us must cringe when they see the ‘Fabulous’ branch of the movement out in the public eye fucking it up for everybody.

Angelina doesn’t have the time to have my clarity. She has a family and a career of course and must fret dreadfully over just what to do with all those millions she makes from lame movies like Salt. Personally I liked her a lot more when she was edgy, bi-curious and prone to getting her nungas out in movies.

Everything up to Tomb Raider was cool but it’s all gone a bit mediocre since then I reckon. Mr and Mrs Smith was a good wank the first time round but I struggled to rub one out during consequent viewings.

Sadly I haven’t yet had a nurse that comes close to being even remotely attractive as Ms Pitt, yet. The closest so far is tidy, but she does have a passing resemblance to a colleague at work who just happens to be a dude. Which is like fancying your best mates younger sister who is hot and the opportunity is always there, but yet so is the family resemblance...

So what can Angelina do to make a change in Pakistan other than state the obvious I wonder? Maybe she could fly Mayor Bob Parker over when he’s done with being the hero of Crimeschurch and he could do his stubble and Icebreaker orange jacket thing over there? It seems to be working well here.

Or maybe she could bribe some Pakistani cricketers to fuck off home and help out with the cleanup.

Bloody gay interior designers, always getting it wrong...

Breaking Through The Bubble

Hey, which are you sick of hearing about more; me being sick or the Christchurch fucking earthquake?

Personally, for me, it’s the latter although I’m just about over the former too. It doesn’t help that I’ve been in isolation for five days watching wall to boring wall coverage of the quake.

Thankfully I am now out of isolation and the doctors say I’m on the mend but given that I didn’t once think of playing with myself in that entire time I’m not so sure...

Why I’ve even left the room a few times too, with Mrs ClubDes to make a cuppa and always with a surgical mask ala Michael Jackson. I don’t need to wear the mask, so say those that would supposedly know, but given the last guy admitted with my condition died on account of something he picked up whilst staying here I’ll keep it on, fuck you very much.

Despite being in a hospital I feel very strange in wearing one.

I can’t help but feel I must look like an Asian on my walk to work, which is a bizarre thing anyway when you consider that Asians are prepared to bombard their ovaries and testes with the gamma rays from any number of miniature electronic devices they profigate but yet, they stress over a little bit of airborne carbon monoxide?!

Of course being a fully fledged ninja I am well used to wearing a facial mask but then I’m used to being completely invisible when I do so too. Hence my anxiety.

It’s fair to say then that with my isolation and paranoia about cross infection I have become a little, shall we say, unhinged. Last night I ventured out by myself in the 9pm twilight for a simple char run and it all went horribly wrong.

The writing was on the wall when I passed the room where I could see two massive, black feet, face down and sticking out from the end of the bed. Was it a patient, I wondered, or was it some dear old lady getting railed by a six foot four black man, because that really would be alternative medicine at its most inventive...

Then there were the fire doors that were closed, thus blocking my way to the kitchen. Now usually I’m well aware that pushing the green button releases these things but for some inexplicable reason all logic went out the window and I panicked.

For two reasons really; I’m a little on edge as it is but also a good looking blonde nurse was watching what I was doing and possibly all the time wondering just how awesome a guy needs to be to get a Captain Awesome tee shirt issued to him like the one I was wearing.

Naturally I was eager not to disappoint her by failing to navigate a fire door because that would be distinctly un-awesome.

So I doubled round to the second set of doors and they too were closed. They even had a bit of paper stuck on them telling me to use the button but yet, I retreated back into the night and scarpered back to the safety of my room - my bubble - tea less and slightly concerned that my room was only one away from the black man.

Actually, come to think of it, if I’m having thoughts like that then maybe I am on the road to recovery after all...

A Week Of Firsts

Well. What a week of firsts it has been for your’s truly.

It’s the first time I’ve gone without anything resembling sleep for about five consecutive nights, food of any sort for three days, the first time I’ve actually felt quite close to carking it and my first time in the new hospital. Oh and the first time I’ve had swine flu, did I mention that?

The new digs are very nice by the way; a vast improvement on the old, but the same old design flaws make this modern day version the biggest mastabatorium since Dougal Macs time at boy’s school.

Like all the sinks which are still delicate poised at crutch height with hairline triggers for taps and which pick up the slightest change in air pressure anytime your hand goes near them, thus dumping a pulsating stream of water into the sink, the wall and your crutch.

It would be all a little bit erotic if it didn’t leave you looking like you had been playing with yourself rather than doing whatever it was that you were supposed to be doing. Incidentally that’s one first I haven’t yet rattled off in the new ward, a wank, but yet, the stay is still young…

I have however had two, yes two, up close and personal space contact moments with nurses which included some accidental boob touching. Unfortunately they were both of the morbidly obese build so I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that the pleasure was all theirs.

And please let the record show that as far as the two aforementioned incidents go, I was more concerned - as is usually the case with such encounters - of the weight shifting ability of the said nurses were gravity to get involved. How many incidents of death by accidental smothering by obese nurses go unreported in hospitals I have since thought.

It doesn’t seem right does it, that nurses are allowed to be obese? How is that supposed to inspire anyone to get back to full fitness? Now topless nurses on the other hand..

The one thing they don’t tell you about swine flu is that it is the biggest trip you can have legally and for good reason too because imagine if that news got out?!

Young people would stop trying to look like they’ve got hepatitis (as most of them seem to do) and start trying to cultivate the pale, emaciated, dead behind the eyes look of the H1N1. Now that really would be a trip.

So it has indeed been a week of firsts. Although what with the blood, sweat, hallucinations, Filipino nurses and choppers landing on the roof it’s all been very much like my time in the evac hospital at Hanoi in 1970.

Only without obese nurses.

The movement has begun...

Save The Whale? Not This One...

Some people should be banned from owning computers. Like the guy who writes the Whale blubber – I mean oil – blog site.

According to Wikipedia he’s a ‘controversial NZ blogger’ but I challenge that description and in doing so I might be about to break the rule of some unwritten blogger's union by criticizing the guy, but I don’t give a fuck. I only belong to the one association; the Captain Awesome Union, membership of one. Me.

He’s in court this week for breaching suppression orders because he on his blog he ‘outs’ high profile people who get name suppression when they beat their wives or fiddle their kids. Now I support the principal that is naming and shaming these pricks, but sadly, there’s more to Whale Blubber than just the community service he likes to think he’s doing.

I’ve read his blog a couple of times and maybe it’s just me, but I could never work out who it was that he was trying to name anyway, which is surprising because I’m an intelligent man. He doesn’t actually name them as much as give you the clues so that you can figure it out i.e. a pictogram.

Perhaps therein lies my problem; I always have all the answers it’s just the questions that confuse me.

Aside from this fantastic public service that he does, or doesn’t do depending which way you look at it, he also indulges in the following; name calling, personal attacks, speculation on the penis size of those that disagree with him (which is a bit rich considering it’s probably been some time since he saw his own) and other such gems you’d expect from someone best describe as an ‘angry old man’.

In his trail this week it was revealed he suffers from clinical depression and takes medication. Sure, don’t we all. Earlier this year it was reported that he and his wife lost their family home after insurance payments for his depression were stopped by his insurer. It led to an emotional exchange of posts on the Blubber blog between him and his wife who clearly don’t actually talk to each other in person.

Who knew you could get paid for being a sad fuck aye? I sense a lifestyle change coming on.

It’s about now that I’m starting to get a bit bored of this whole sorry saga and as we all know boredom leads to porndom, but one look at this guy will soon solve that. He is the stereotypical look one would associate with a blogger and he gives us all a bad name, especially the ridiculously good looking ones like me*.

Apparently he has a job in the real world but that doesn’t stop him from blogging constantly. Fuck if I tried that carry on at my work I would be out on my arse but yet a little something like ‘job security’ probably doesn’t rate high on this guy’s give-a-fuck scale.

Here’s what I think. I think it’s easy to be an arsehole to lots of people and then hide behind the excuse that is clinical depression. I think it’s easy to be a political commentator when your father used to be the President of the National Party and tells you how and what to think.

I also think it’s easy to make like you’re some virtual vigilante when in fact you don’t really reveal anything so I reckon it’s time Whale Blubber got out from behind his PC, got himself some exercise, some fresh air and pretty much a life. I'd also like it very much if he didn't turn up on the news while I'm trying to eat.

Otherwise I’m going to point the Japanese Whale Fleet in his direction.

*You're a very close second KB.

Lift Only Your Own Trophies, Trust Me.

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