Geez we’re a nation of fuckwits aren’t we?
Not all of us mind you, just the ones who, when they hear of a tsunami warning, run down to the beach rather than away from it. Oh sure, they have all seen the footage of just what a tsunami can do, like what happened in Samoa recently and in Thailand on Boxing Day 2004, but who cares? It is as if they believe that would never happen here in New Zealand and just in case it does these wasters want to be there so they can post the pics of them drowning on their Friendbook pages...
Is this what we’ve become? The land that common sense forgot? We used to be a country of down to earth, humble, hard men and even harder women. Back then we used to only send athletes to the Olympic Games if they were certain to win something, now we don’t even let a small thing like being 47th in the world at something come in the way of that particular honour.
That was in the days when we sent fellas like all round hard man Ian ‘Ferg’ Ferguson to the Olympics and he knows a thing or two about winning medals; he is NZs most successful Olympian with four golds and silver. His son on the other hand, did absolutely nothing when he went to the last summer Olympics but let’s not dwell on that.
Last week Ferg questioned the value of sending athletes to an Olympics (either summer or winter) when they don’t stand a shit show of making the top ten in their discipline and I for one agree with him. The Winter Olympics may give the impression of being one swinging hot tub party at the end of the day, but the athletes there represent the best in the world and if you don’t go thinking you can compete with them why even go?
It probably doesn’t help sway Ferg and I that most of the Kiwi athletes in Vancouver at the moment all come across as stoned surfers when interviewed. In fact most of them seem to be new to their respective speciality which they all appear to have stumbled across whilst on a mega piss mission that was occasionally interrupted by a spot of skiing.
I am not a fan of sending athletes just to make up the numbers under the guise of ‘gaining experience’. Don’t these kids get enough of that when competing between Olympic events? And as for the theory that they do not get enough top level competition I say why the hell not? Are we not constantly being told how mega our ski fields are and how thousands of pastry eating Scandinavians come to visit in their off season?
Maybe it’s just me but I feel that way about a lot of things we send athletes to. Even the All Whites who are on a complete hiding to nothing this year when they rock up to the World Cup finals in South Africa.
Only team sports have a way of giving even the dark horses a chance because teams, even the world’s best, can have their off days and when you only have three group games deciding your fate then one unpredicted result can really fuck it up for everybody.
Now some might say that same argument could be applied to solo sports like say, skiing, still, the athlete needs to give them self every chance of capitalising on it should it happen. But when you’re ranked something silly like 25th in the world you’re really holding out for at least twenty people above you to have one hell of a bad hair day before you even get close to being in the medals. That’s one hell of a big ‘if’.
Honestly? You would have a better chance of seeing fuckwits flocking to watch a tsunami than that ever happening.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Sins of the Firm, Tanned Flesh
Who would be a professional sports person aye?
Oh sure, once you’ve reached the zenith of your sporting code you will be given god like status by the masses, be showered with money, adulation and temptation but that last bit won’t matter because somehow, whilst on your way to becoming the hottest thing on two legs, we will have expected you to develop a higher sense of morality than we, the common man.
You won’t have of course, quite the opposite. And herein lays the peculiar downside to sporting fame; that your downfall in the eyes of an adoring public is more likely to come when you err off the field, not on it.
Tiger Woods is of course the epitome of that fall from grace at this moment in time. His quest to sink his balls into his own private 19 hole course across the country has plagiarised opinion amongst even the most loyal of diehards. His case is at the extreme end of the scale but then so is the man. Hey, he had to do something with all that money and time didn’t he?
A similar, but slightly less spectacular story is unfolding in London where two of England’s most recognisable footballers – John Terry and Ashley Cole – are both in the gun for their infidelities. Both play for Chelsea, the top team in the league at the moment and therefore the most hated team in the league, if you support one of the other 19 teams that is.
Terry, up till the story broke, captain of both club and country, has lost the latter honour. Shagging someone else’s missus alone probably wouldn’t have got him into much trouble in the eyes of those that run the game over there, but this particular missus happened to be engaged to a team mate, Wayne Bridge. Terry, it should be noted, is married but clearly rooting his missus must be like flogging a dead horse.
Bridge left the club last year (after all the ‘hide the tip’ shenanigans happened) but there is a very good chance that the both of them will be picked to play for England at this year’s World Cup Finals in South Africa. Now I’m no Dr Phil but I’m betting the two won’t spend their time together in a long, warm shower discussing their feelings.
Cashley Cole, so named for his very public contract negotiations a few years back where he made it quite clear that he would happily play for whomever offered him the most money, was also married when he decided to dip the candle into a hairdresser.
All I can think is that she must have given him one helluva good hair cut to get that bonus. His wife was prepared to forgive him for that one but it has since come to light that his philandering ways have continued and he is now, quite rightly, out on his Arsely.
Coles missus, like Terry’s, is not undesirable. Mrs Cole is a pop star and therefore by very nature of her position in society possibly one of the most masturbated over woman in all of Britain. I didn’t actually know how attractive she was until I Googled her and found she fitted quite easily into the ‘I would’ category.
So you wonder what it is with these dudes. Guys who have it all, live the dream of so many and yet still manage to fuck it up. The answer is simple; they are, despite the hero worship, human and no different to you and I when it comes to urges and impulses. Perversely we chastise the likes of Messrs Terry, Cole and Woods for their sins of the flesh but not the mingers who tempt them. Funny that.
The ultimate irony in this whole sorry story came to me when I watched John Terry get booed by a bi-partisan crowd of 35,000 the very next away game he played after the story broke. Like none of them have ever fancied a mate’s missus, or been unfaithful to theirs. You have to love the morality of football fans.
Could it get any worse? Probably. I’m personally waiting for the news that John Terry and Ashley Cole were having an affair with each other...
Oh sure, once you’ve reached the zenith of your sporting code you will be given god like status by the masses, be showered with money, adulation and temptation but that last bit won’t matter because somehow, whilst on your way to becoming the hottest thing on two legs, we will have expected you to develop a higher sense of morality than we, the common man.
You won’t have of course, quite the opposite. And herein lays the peculiar downside to sporting fame; that your downfall in the eyes of an adoring public is more likely to come when you err off the field, not on it.
Tiger Woods is of course the epitome of that fall from grace at this moment in time. His quest to sink his balls into his own private 19 hole course across the country has plagiarised opinion amongst even the most loyal of diehards. His case is at the extreme end of the scale but then so is the man. Hey, he had to do something with all that money and time didn’t he?
A similar, but slightly less spectacular story is unfolding in London where two of England’s most recognisable footballers – John Terry and Ashley Cole – are both in the gun for their infidelities. Both play for Chelsea, the top team in the league at the moment and therefore the most hated team in the league, if you support one of the other 19 teams that is.
Terry, up till the story broke, captain of both club and country, has lost the latter honour. Shagging someone else’s missus alone probably wouldn’t have got him into much trouble in the eyes of those that run the game over there, but this particular missus happened to be engaged to a team mate, Wayne Bridge. Terry, it should be noted, is married but clearly rooting his missus must be like flogging a dead horse.
Bridge left the club last year (after all the ‘hide the tip’ shenanigans happened) but there is a very good chance that the both of them will be picked to play for England at this year’s World Cup Finals in South Africa. Now I’m no Dr Phil but I’m betting the two won’t spend their time together in a long, warm shower discussing their feelings.
Cashley Cole, so named for his very public contract negotiations a few years back where he made it quite clear that he would happily play for whomever offered him the most money, was also married when he decided to dip the candle into a hairdresser.
All I can think is that she must have given him one helluva good hair cut to get that bonus. His wife was prepared to forgive him for that one but it has since come to light that his philandering ways have continued and he is now, quite rightly, out on his Arsely.
Coles missus, like Terry’s, is not undesirable. Mrs Cole is a pop star and therefore by very nature of her position in society possibly one of the most masturbated over woman in all of Britain. I didn’t actually know how attractive she was until I Googled her and found she fitted quite easily into the ‘I would’ category.
So you wonder what it is with these dudes. Guys who have it all, live the dream of so many and yet still manage to fuck it up. The answer is simple; they are, despite the hero worship, human and no different to you and I when it comes to urges and impulses. Perversely we chastise the likes of Messrs Terry, Cole and Woods for their sins of the flesh but not the mingers who tempt them. Funny that.
The ultimate irony in this whole sorry story came to me when I watched John Terry get booed by a bi-partisan crowd of 35,000 the very next away game he played after the story broke. Like none of them have ever fancied a mate’s missus, or been unfaithful to theirs. You have to love the morality of football fans.
Could it get any worse? Probably. I’m personally waiting for the news that John Terry and Ashley Cole were having an affair with each other...
Oh sure, Cheryl is hot, but can she cut hair?
Monday, February 22, 2010
I Prefer Cats
Why do the manufacturers of dog food seem to believe in making their product look more appealing to humans, not the dog?
This is an animal that will eat its own, or heaven forbid another’s, shit. I don’t think it’s going to be too concerned if its next meal doesn’t have thick, meaty chunks lathered in gravy surrounded by real vegetables.
But yet it must work because dog owners up and down the country are fooled into buying processed horse made to look like the stew Mum used to make.
This is just one of the reasons why I prefer cats.
This is an animal that will eat its own, or heaven forbid another’s, shit. I don’t think it’s going to be too concerned if its next meal doesn’t have thick, meaty chunks lathered in gravy surrounded by real vegetables.
But yet it must work because dog owners up and down the country are fooled into buying processed horse made to look like the stew Mum used to make.
This is just one of the reasons why I prefer cats.
The missus and I love our cats this much...
Friday, February 19, 2010
Chat Roulette & Shaven Arms (Not Balls)
The latest in online instant gratification is chat roulette, the online game which combines both all that is good and all that is so horribly bad with the internet.
Rather disappointingly it does not involve anyone playing silly buggers with a revolver. That’s Russian roulette. But I am told that the scenes one can come across whilst playing are not far from the penultimate scene in The Deer Hunter, only less blood, the skull fragments and the brain. Otherwise it’s pretty close.
Like most things people do at their computers these days there is an inane sense amongst some users – usually men - that it is okay to be as socially repugnant as possible when full anonymity is just a click away. And just like all the other online apps that involve free interaction between the sexes it is a world heavily dominated by men who are desperately longing to stumble across a partially clad young girl in the throes of conducting a breast examination.
Sadly it is, like almost everything else on line, a sausage fest.
It’s that kind of misguided belief that leads some of those retards to accidentally-on-purpose stumble across some kiddie porn and before they know it, boom! 400 odd images ‘accidentally’ downloaded to the hard drive. But it’s okay, it’s the internet, no one will ever know it was me...the fuckers.
I must confess that I haven’t actually seen chat roulette in action but then I haven’t needed to. The online collections of web cam stills are everywhere and after flicking through such gems as the ‘30 Best Men Dressed in Female Underwear’ series of stills I’m pretty sure I have all I need to know.
Besides, I have Lillian doing all the work for me, he loves that shit. He’s managed to pull himself away from the delight that is having only just discovered Facebook to do so too, so I am grateful for his compulsive voyeurism and contribution to this particular blog.
I am just not into that stuff, any more than I am likely to start Tweeting any day soon. I am still unsure as to what the fascination is in hearing what other people’s mundane thoughts are. Mine for instance, would be completely boring despite the fact that I am an extremely funny person, but yet me Tweeting ‘I’m buying some oranges’ whilst waiting in the queue at the checkout is hardly going to get anyone’s juices flowing.
Tweeting and chat roulette are just cogs in the wheel of the giant dumbing down machine that seems to be running this particular Matrix. Just like the many ‘Hot or Not’ sites, roulette offers the participants the chance to sort their interaction by attraction, not substance and even then, when they do eventually find someone who appeals to the eye, communication has reached a point where sentences are comprised of 25 words or less. A return to primal grunting may be closer than we think.
If only real life interaction was so easy. Mine is because I refuse to talk to ugly people or anyone who shaves their arms. Legs I can understand, just, but arms, like balls, are meant to be hairy and if you’ve taken the time to deforest them (arms, not balls) then you better keep them well hidden when we come across each other on chat roulette.
I’ll be wearing something tight and revealing. I suggest you do the same.
Rather disappointingly it does not involve anyone playing silly buggers with a revolver. That’s Russian roulette. But I am told that the scenes one can come across whilst playing are not far from the penultimate scene in The Deer Hunter, only less blood, the skull fragments and the brain. Otherwise it’s pretty close.
Like most things people do at their computers these days there is an inane sense amongst some users – usually men - that it is okay to be as socially repugnant as possible when full anonymity is just a click away. And just like all the other online apps that involve free interaction between the sexes it is a world heavily dominated by men who are desperately longing to stumble across a partially clad young girl in the throes of conducting a breast examination.
Sadly it is, like almost everything else on line, a sausage fest.
It’s that kind of misguided belief that leads some of those retards to accidentally-on-purpose stumble across some kiddie porn and before they know it, boom! 400 odd images ‘accidentally’ downloaded to the hard drive. But it’s okay, it’s the internet, no one will ever know it was me...the fuckers.
I must confess that I haven’t actually seen chat roulette in action but then I haven’t needed to. The online collections of web cam stills are everywhere and after flicking through such gems as the ‘30 Best Men Dressed in Female Underwear’ series of stills I’m pretty sure I have all I need to know.
Besides, I have Lillian doing all the work for me, he loves that shit. He’s managed to pull himself away from the delight that is having only just discovered Facebook to do so too, so I am grateful for his compulsive voyeurism and contribution to this particular blog.
I am just not into that stuff, any more than I am likely to start Tweeting any day soon. I am still unsure as to what the fascination is in hearing what other people’s mundane thoughts are. Mine for instance, would be completely boring despite the fact that I am an extremely funny person, but yet me Tweeting ‘I’m buying some oranges’ whilst waiting in the queue at the checkout is hardly going to get anyone’s juices flowing.
Tweeting and chat roulette are just cogs in the wheel of the giant dumbing down machine that seems to be running this particular Matrix. Just like the many ‘Hot or Not’ sites, roulette offers the participants the chance to sort their interaction by attraction, not substance and even then, when they do eventually find someone who appeals to the eye, communication has reached a point where sentences are comprised of 25 words or less. A return to primal grunting may be closer than we think.
If only real life interaction was so easy. Mine is because I refuse to talk to ugly people or anyone who shaves their arms. Legs I can understand, just, but arms, like balls, are meant to be hairy and if you’ve taken the time to deforest them (arms, not balls) then you better keep them well hidden when we come across each other on chat roulette.
I’ll be wearing something tight and revealing. I suggest you do the same.
Can't wait to see you on the Roulette...
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
More Sensing Bullshit?!
Let’s be careful out there folks, because yet another series of Sensing Bullshit has hit our small screens.
Kelvin Quickwank and his mutton-dressed-as-lamb colleague will spend the next few weeks making grandiose generalisations and case breaking observations that must have escaped experienced Police detectives, like that the room in the old, empty house is oh so cold in the middle of winter, or that when they walked buy the tree by the river at moved, as if it was trying to tell them something...
And like all the other times they showed this rubbish they will at the end of it, have contributed absolutely nothing to the solving of cold cases that they spent so long researching in the hope that it would appear miraculous that they know what they know about it.
The fans of Quickwank and the show will, of course, lap this shit up and start emailing editors and calling talk shows as if the solving of the case depends on it. Everyone else will avoid it like the plague and do something meaningful with their time.
Like have a Cruickshank.
Kelvin Quickwank and his mutton-dressed-as-lamb colleague will spend the next few weeks making grandiose generalisations and case breaking observations that must have escaped experienced Police detectives, like that the room in the old, empty house is oh so cold in the middle of winter, or that when they walked buy the tree by the river at moved, as if it was trying to tell them something...
And like all the other times they showed this rubbish they will at the end of it, have contributed absolutely nothing to the solving of cold cases that they spent so long researching in the hope that it would appear miraculous that they know what they know about it.
The fans of Quickwank and the show will, of course, lap this shit up and start emailing editors and calling talk shows as if the solving of the case depends on it. Everyone else will avoid it like the plague and do something meaningful with their time.
Like have a Cruickshank.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Boring Sports # 2 - Yachting
Someone won something in yachting today and guess what? Apart from that guy on the news who is always whacking off about boats I don't think anybody gave a shit because yachting is dead boring.
We in NZ seem to be infatuated with yachting because we’re surrounded by water. Following that logic we should be infatuated by hot air ballooning too because we’re surrounded by air, but thankfully we’re not. Because that would be far too much excitement for one country.
Yachting, if you’re into it, is an expensive pastime. That means only a small percentage of the population actually take part and most of them live in a place where a harbour is easily accessible i.e. Auckland or Wellington, so for a code that has quite possibly the smallest number of participants per capita we really do over excite ourselves.
The thing with yachting is that it’s shit to watch, live or on telly. It’s quite possibly worst on telly because you can’t ever tell who’s in the lead and how far they have to go. Something that seemed to escape everybody until only recently, when some smart buggers down south decided to come up with a graphic simulator to illustrate the whole boring thing.
Watching it live, from a million miles away on shore, you can sometimes tell who is leading whom, right up to the point one yacht tacks back and confuses the fuck out of everybody. Ah well, they’re so far away I can’t really tell who is who anyway...
Sporting wise we have been relatively successful at yachting and that has only added to the moistening of the gusset, so to speak. We seem to have won more than our fair share of medals and alike, quite possibly because no one else gives a toss, it is a boring sport after all.
Our biggest claim to fame was the time when we won the Americas Cup off America, the only other nation that seems as obsessed with yachting as us. The late, great Sir Peter Blake won it for us in his red socks, a fashion faux paus of epic proportions but we kooky Kiwis loved it and started wearing them too.
I wore one, but not on my foot.
Then sit started getting silly. Team New Zealand, like the Warriors and every other wannabe national side made up of foreigners before them, tried to milk the adulation for all it’s worth. The rich man’s sport tried to appeal to the common man by pretending to be a contest held on an equal playing field, which it isn’t.
I forget who won what around that time because a) it was boring and b) it wasn’t ‘us’, but I’m pretty sure it was a land locked country which has to be the lowest of blows doesn’t it? If being beaten by a bunch of watch and knife makers wasn’t embarrassing enough.
Admittedly things did get a bit interesting around then but only because with all the switching of loyalties and name calling it looked as though there might be the odd fist fight or three.
Which brings us to this morning’s race, which, from what little I heard before collapsing into a catatonic state of boredom, was won by a very close five minutes.
Fuck, that’s not boring at all, is it?
We in NZ seem to be infatuated with yachting because we’re surrounded by water. Following that logic we should be infatuated by hot air ballooning too because we’re surrounded by air, but thankfully we’re not. Because that would be far too much excitement for one country.
Yachting, if you’re into it, is an expensive pastime. That means only a small percentage of the population actually take part and most of them live in a place where a harbour is easily accessible i.e. Auckland or Wellington, so for a code that has quite possibly the smallest number of participants per capita we really do over excite ourselves.
The thing with yachting is that it’s shit to watch, live or on telly. It’s quite possibly worst on telly because you can’t ever tell who’s in the lead and how far they have to go. Something that seemed to escape everybody until only recently, when some smart buggers down south decided to come up with a graphic simulator to illustrate the whole boring thing.
Watching it live, from a million miles away on shore, you can sometimes tell who is leading whom, right up to the point one yacht tacks back and confuses the fuck out of everybody. Ah well, they’re so far away I can’t really tell who is who anyway...
Sporting wise we have been relatively successful at yachting and that has only added to the moistening of the gusset, so to speak. We seem to have won more than our fair share of medals and alike, quite possibly because no one else gives a toss, it is a boring sport after all.
Our biggest claim to fame was the time when we won the Americas Cup off America, the only other nation that seems as obsessed with yachting as us. The late, great Sir Peter Blake won it for us in his red socks, a fashion faux paus of epic proportions but we kooky Kiwis loved it and started wearing them too.
I wore one, but not on my foot.
Then sit started getting silly. Team New Zealand, like the Warriors and every other wannabe national side made up of foreigners before them, tried to milk the adulation for all it’s worth. The rich man’s sport tried to appeal to the common man by pretending to be a contest held on an equal playing field, which it isn’t.
I forget who won what around that time because a) it was boring and b) it wasn’t ‘us’, but I’m pretty sure it was a land locked country which has to be the lowest of blows doesn’t it? If being beaten by a bunch of watch and knife makers wasn’t embarrassing enough.
Admittedly things did get a bit interesting around then but only because with all the switching of loyalties and name calling it looked as though there might be the odd fist fight or three.
Which brings us to this morning’s race, which, from what little I heard before collapsing into a catatonic state of boredom, was won by a very close five minutes.
Fuck, that’s not boring at all, is it?
Saturday, February 13, 2010
A Life Less Ordinary
If you ever want to take a look into the world of a life less ordinary then visit your local supermarket at some ungodly hour.
It is a microcosm of the freaks and geeks of this world who you might not otherwise see. Oh how they must have collectively rejoiced when supermarkets decided to open all night. Finally they could shop in peace and be left alone to count the grains of rice in each packet to see which was the best value for money.
I had to nip down and get some milk the other night and it was as if I had passed through some trans dimensional portal into the twilight zone on the drive down. Which I don’t think I did but hey, anything is possible when I’m alone in the passion wagon, distracted ever so slightly by my rocking to a beat from my playlist that I destroy with my unstoppable flows.
Mind you this was the time of night when the shelf packers are on duty and they’re hardly members of Mensa; one nearly wiped me out with a trolley despite my sticking to the same path all the way up the aisle and another lost half his trolley load of boxes in a fuck up of spectacular proportions. The cause of which was a relatively minor issue – the dude had all the stacking skills of an infant.
Then there are the customers. Now I’ve been disappointed on occasion to find my favourite item is out of stock but I have never quite felt the need to launch into a swear fest over it like the guy who couldn’t find his favourite jar of jam. Or the lady who appeared to be quite attractive until she went through her receipt line by line, checking that every item was in the bag and fair enough too, because those bloody checkout girls, they’re always stealing your stuff.
The funny thing is that once, long ago, I used to daydream about living a life where I would frequent supermarkets at bizarre times and would meet funky chicks there. Not funky as in unclean, but crazy girls. Not crazy like mental, but odd and not odd as in spastic, but quirky. Well they would have to be to be shopping at that time wouldn’t they?
I also had this warped idea that if I visited enough of them I could meet a sheila in some obscure second hand bookshop that only three people knew about and frequented. When that failed I took to the internet pretending to be the kind of guy who did his shopping in the wee small hours and frequented second hand bookshops.
It worked too. I started corresponding with a 17 year old girl who did the same and we ended up sending each other poems composed from our favourite bits of movie dialogue. Eventually we professed our love to each other through gratuitous use of emoticons. She lived in Shannon and seeing as I had no car at that time, borrowed some money from my flate mate and bought a bus ticket there.
When I arrived I was disappointed to find that she had lied to me; the supermarket in Shannon closed at 6pm, there was only one second hand bookstore and she was actually a he. We made love so as to not waste the bus fare but it was awkward, to say the least. Why can’t people just be honest?
Woodville has a lot of second hand bookstores, as DougalMac and I discovered whilst passing through on our way to the girls wedding last week. And going by the titles they have on display I’m guessing there are a good few folk who can’t wait for Woodville to a) get a supermarket and b) have it open 23 hours a day so they can do their shopping...
It is a microcosm of the freaks and geeks of this world who you might not otherwise see. Oh how they must have collectively rejoiced when supermarkets decided to open all night. Finally they could shop in peace and be left alone to count the grains of rice in each packet to see which was the best value for money.
I had to nip down and get some milk the other night and it was as if I had passed through some trans dimensional portal into the twilight zone on the drive down. Which I don’t think I did but hey, anything is possible when I’m alone in the passion wagon, distracted ever so slightly by my rocking to a beat from my playlist that I destroy with my unstoppable flows.
Mind you this was the time of night when the shelf packers are on duty and they’re hardly members of Mensa; one nearly wiped me out with a trolley despite my sticking to the same path all the way up the aisle and another lost half his trolley load of boxes in a fuck up of spectacular proportions. The cause of which was a relatively minor issue – the dude had all the stacking skills of an infant.
Then there are the customers. Now I’ve been disappointed on occasion to find my favourite item is out of stock but I have never quite felt the need to launch into a swear fest over it like the guy who couldn’t find his favourite jar of jam. Or the lady who appeared to be quite attractive until she went through her receipt line by line, checking that every item was in the bag and fair enough too, because those bloody checkout girls, they’re always stealing your stuff.
The funny thing is that once, long ago, I used to daydream about living a life where I would frequent supermarkets at bizarre times and would meet funky chicks there. Not funky as in unclean, but crazy girls. Not crazy like mental, but odd and not odd as in spastic, but quirky. Well they would have to be to be shopping at that time wouldn’t they?
I also had this warped idea that if I visited enough of them I could meet a sheila in some obscure second hand bookshop that only three people knew about and frequented. When that failed I took to the internet pretending to be the kind of guy who did his shopping in the wee small hours and frequented second hand bookshops.
It worked too. I started corresponding with a 17 year old girl who did the same and we ended up sending each other poems composed from our favourite bits of movie dialogue. Eventually we professed our love to each other through gratuitous use of emoticons. She lived in Shannon and seeing as I had no car at that time, borrowed some money from my flate mate and bought a bus ticket there.
When I arrived I was disappointed to find that she had lied to me; the supermarket in Shannon closed at 6pm, there was only one second hand bookstore and she was actually a he. We made love so as to not waste the bus fare but it was awkward, to say the least. Why can’t people just be honest?
Woodville has a lot of second hand bookstores, as DougalMac and I discovered whilst passing through on our way to the girls wedding last week. And going by the titles they have on display I’m guessing there are a good few folk who can’t wait for Woodville to a) get a supermarket and b) have it open 23 hours a day so they can do their shopping...
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Sheila of the Week
Everyone’s favourite guilty pleasure Glee – you know you watched it – finished last week. What the hell are we all going to do on Fridays now?
Glee had a little something for everyone; music, comedy, studs, schizos, homos and hotties, maybe that’s what made it so popular. Not to mention the guy in the wheelchair, that was a nice touch. Shame nobody remembers his name though...
There was plenty to keep the lads happy to what with Ms Pillsbury the cute, quirky guidance counsellor with a fetish for germs and cleanliness. Hey, we’ve all known irls like that. None of the guidance counsellors at my school were ever as cute as her though, quite the opposite, they were all mingers.
Then there was Terri, the wife of Will who married him early so no one else could and feigned a pregnancy because she was so scared of losing her husband to the Glee club. We have all definitely known girls like that.
Interestingly the actress that played Terri also appeared for a while on Nip / Tuck where she played an HIV positive, recovering sexaholic who had a black baby after a one night stand. The same character later tried to conceive again with a gang bang (more men, more chances of getting pregnant), paid the tradesmen building her day spa with blowies and hand jobs and spied on her ex as he shagged other women.
Eventually she died whilst by falling off the edge whilst having sex on a rooftop. And if you think thats whack you should research the back story to the antagonist of that show, The Carver!
But back to the eye candy on Glee. There were of course, the cheerleaders, or Cheerios. They were everywhere and if there’s one thing we love at ClubDes its cheerleaders. Or girls in uniforms really, we’re not too fussy.
But the real star of the show, at least for us fellas was Rachel, the Jewish sophomore student and the daughter of an inter-racial same-sex couple. Hey, we’ve never actually known anyone like that, ever, but maybe that’s why we love Rachel so much; she’s different but her desire to be liked, wanted and understood is something every girl wants.
In one of our fave scenes involving Rachel she thinks she understands what Mr Schuster is trying to tell her by singing a mish mash of “Don’t Stand So Close To Me” and “Young Girl”.
Mr Sch “Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you Rachel?”
Rach “Yes. I am a young girl and you have trouble standing close to me!”
Amen to that!
Rachel is played Lea Michele, a 23 year old Broadway star who has been singing on stage since the age of 10. She has been nominated for several awards in that time and her success has continued with Glee where she has been nominated for more.
She may not have worn a cheerleader uniform but Rachel had some pretty smokin outfits going on and we like that in a girl.
Thankfully Glee has been renewed for another season (at least) and we, like you, will be waiting in earnest for it to come back on our screens so we can once again see a little more of Rachel.
Monday, February 8, 2010
It Was The Best of Times...
This weekend I had one of those rarest of occurrences – the time of my life.
Emski and Melski, two of my favourite people, committed themselves to a life together in front of a small group of family and friends. It was an evening filled with trepidation, emotion, laughter and tears and in my experience those things make for the best kind of evenings.
The girls had the considerably good taste to ask yours truly to be their MC for the evening and I won’t lie to you, it was some of my best work but then that’s easy to produce when you’re doing it for people you love. I was so on song that I never once made a two girl one cup joke the entire evening...
Perhaps it was the warm summer air, the fluoridated Napier water or maybe, just maybe it was simply the expression of love in its purest form, but whatever it was it made for a hell of a weekend and one I won’t forget for a long, long time. I’m even going so far as to put it in my top five weekends of all time. It was that good.
Well done girls, you were both magnificent and for once it was I that was a close second.
Emski and Melski, two of my favourite people, committed themselves to a life together in front of a small group of family and friends. It was an evening filled with trepidation, emotion, laughter and tears and in my experience those things make for the best kind of evenings.
The girls had the considerably good taste to ask yours truly to be their MC for the evening and I won’t lie to you, it was some of my best work but then that’s easy to produce when you’re doing it for people you love. I was so on song that I never once made a two girl one cup joke the entire evening...
Perhaps it was the warm summer air, the fluoridated Napier water or maybe, just maybe it was simply the expression of love in its purest form, but whatever it was it made for a hell of a weekend and one I won’t forget for a long, long time. I’m even going so far as to put it in my top five weekends of all time. It was that good.
Well done girls, you were both magnificent and for once it was I that was a close second.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Her Next Door
Today I read yet another trivial ‘news’ story featuring Katy Perry, the very sexy singer who touched us all with her breakthrough song about kissing a girl.
I fancy her like crazy but not since she started dating Russell Brand. What's he got that I haven't is what I ask myself when dancing topless to her songs in the mirror.
Why is it that when someone windswept and interesting like Perry comes along we all start gagging for any tidbit of a story that might prove even more titillating than the last?
Whether she really does like to kiss girls or not who cares? She sang a song about it and got over it, if only we could. Now that she’s hooked up with that mangina Brand it’s like all the newspapers and websites in the world are hoping that it all goes spectacularly sexual so that they have a licence to print even more money.
I do like her songs though and it’s okay for a guy to sing them too, which isn’t always the case because girlie songs are not always suited for a deep manly voice like mine, thanks to my bull like testicles.
I have been sitting at home today, with the front door wide open, singing like no one is listening and only now do I realise someone has been - she next door who likes to sunbathe topless in the back yard.
I wouldn't mind that she gets her knockers out as often as she does were she 17 but she's about 50 and at that age gravity is the enemy. All summer I have been painting the fences and there is a section that I am yet to paint because I can see through the planks. Even if I tried not to, I would still see through the planks.
I had a close call the other day whilst painting the section next to said glory hole. My wife was water blasting the drive at the time and she next door, perhaps panicking at the thought of an unexpected shower, popped her head above the parapets to see just how far away the missus was.
Thankfully she didn’t look my way because I wasn’t in the mood to make conversation with a topless retiree, but the real relief was that I wasn’t working on the said section because I would have had a knothole full of nipple and she a body paint experience like no other.
Needless to say that section can bloody wait till the winter.
The view through planks three and four...
I fancy her like crazy but not since she started dating Russell Brand. What's he got that I haven't is what I ask myself when dancing topless to her songs in the mirror.
Why is it that when someone windswept and interesting like Perry comes along we all start gagging for any tidbit of a story that might prove even more titillating than the last?
Whether she really does like to kiss girls or not who cares? She sang a song about it and got over it, if only we could. Now that she’s hooked up with that mangina Brand it’s like all the newspapers and websites in the world are hoping that it all goes spectacularly sexual so that they have a licence to print even more money.
I do like her songs though and it’s okay for a guy to sing them too, which isn’t always the case because girlie songs are not always suited for a deep manly voice like mine, thanks to my bull like testicles.
I have been sitting at home today, with the front door wide open, singing like no one is listening and only now do I realise someone has been - she next door who likes to sunbathe topless in the back yard.
I wouldn't mind that she gets her knockers out as often as she does were she 17 but she's about 50 and at that age gravity is the enemy. All summer I have been painting the fences and there is a section that I am yet to paint because I can see through the planks. Even if I tried not to, I would still see through the planks.
I had a close call the other day whilst painting the section next to said glory hole. My wife was water blasting the drive at the time and she next door, perhaps panicking at the thought of an unexpected shower, popped her head above the parapets to see just how far away the missus was.
Thankfully she didn’t look my way because I wasn’t in the mood to make conversation with a topless retiree, but the real relief was that I wasn’t working on the said section because I would have had a knothole full of nipple and she a body paint experience like no other.
Needless to say that section can bloody wait till the winter.
The view through planks three and four...
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Facebook: Modern Day Fountain of Knowledge
Another deeply philosophical discussion takes place on the omnipotent and omnipresent Facebook. Why do we even send our kids to school when there is genius like this to be found all over the Internet?
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