The Threeway.

Tell the truth now; how many times have you read a headline like this online:

Drunk Teen ‘Forced Into Sex Act’

And thought “Oh yeah, I’ll have a look at that...!”

Usually in the hope there will be a pic or two. Only there isn’t and to really top things off and make you feel really stink for hoping it was filthy, is the first paragraph which list’s the ‘act’ as occurring between some dirty old bugger and some stoned boy.

Had it been a dirty old man and some drunken girl, well, that wouldn’t be as bad. All of which reminds me of a quote from Ja’mie King, inadvertent star of that kaleidoscope doco on Australian life; Summer Heights High:

“I’d rather be a paedophile than lesbian”.

I jest, of course. But then should we be super surprised that another teacher has been implicated in a sexual relationship with an underage student? Especially when the old parent – teacher interview is these days called a ‘three way’?!

True story and it’s called a three way because it’s the parent, the teacher and the child. Now I don’t know about you but if I’m remotely involved in any way in a three way, I sure as hell don’t want any kids about.

Rather worryingly, Mrs ClubDes is quite excited about the whole thing, on account of Junior’s teacher being quite the hunk of spunk. She hasn’t exactly been shy in telling people she’s having a three way tonight.

A. Three. Way. Further proof then that teacher’s these days are 5% shaping young minds and 95% rooting their way through rooting each other...

Ja'mie King; her breasts would've been bigger but she had an eating disorder in Year 8.

Breaking Stereotypes Fail.

Some ethnicities just don’t want to help themselves do they?

Now I’m no racist; oh sure, I don’t trust carneys and no, I wouldn’t be happy with Gyppos moving in on the front lawn and okay, I have some unresolved issues with Asians and AK47’s, but I am on the whole, as racially tolerant as the next frightened Caucasian.

Yet sometimes I wonder if some of the minorities who we share this country of ours with are determined to turn me. And why do they have such an aversion to being proven wrong? Granted, nobody likes to be proven wrong but these guys take that shit personally.

Example One:

I was attending Junior’s football game the other day, a rare occasion for me as I coach another team and their games are seldom at opposite times.

Ten minutes in and the tone for the game is set when a bunch of taxi drivers – and I’m not using the term as a racial stereotype, there were literally three taxis parked up to watch the one boy – started laying into the ref, our ref, because young Imran had just been knocked to the ground in a hard, but fair, tackle.

It didn’t seem to matter to them that Imran was the biggest boy on the field and quite possibly 16, not eleven like the rest of the boys. Nor did it seem to matter that Imran was playing a contact sport in which there is quite frequently, contact. No, any time Imran went over, which was often, the Wellington Combined section of the crowd would launch into the same anti ref tirade that got real boring, real fucking quick.

One of the Dad’s in my son’s team, all seven foot of him, decided to have a quiet word with the contenders for ‘father sof the year’ and suggest to them that they consider just what effect their words were having on the boys.

He might as well have suggested that they all go and suck their mother’s cocks given the response he got. Which was all rather predictable really, but given that he is a very successful lawyer of many years experience and they, well, taxi drivers, things got sorted real quick. An argument over who gets the next spot on the rank this wasn’t.

Needless to say it was a mis-match on and off the field. Imran fell over a few more times before the games end, our boys won the game and the entire sorry contingent left with some dirty looks our way, having done there bit for closer community relations.

Example Two:

Being the modern, new age Dad that I am, I like to drop my son off at school each morning. It’s a dicey bit of logistics on a dry day, but when it’s persisting down it’s like that bit on Star Wars where Luke attacks the Death Star in his X Wing.

Right outside the entrance to Junior’s school is a crossing and next to that, a bus stop. Having dropped him off I pulled out into the traffic. A bus had stopped in the opposite lane and was off loading the several hundred kids these things seem capable of holding in the mornings, which meant they were all drifting across the crossing, in small groups.

Amongst all this, some dude – let’s call him Kamahl – made the decision to squeeze in behind the bus and pedestrian crossing all the while trying to turn across my lane into the driveway. Had his car been, say, a pushbike, it wouldn’t have posed a problem but now it was pissing with rain and I couldn’t see kids behinf him entering the crossing on his side of the road. Real cool.

So we did what all good folk do in this type of situation; we had a verbal altercation from the safety of our cars. I mentioned that his not waiting till the other side of the crossing was clear was endangering the children, but the suggestion was drowned out by his claiming to be “not on the crossing. I am not on the crossing!”.

He was right of course, he wasn’t. But he was still endangering kids, still in the wrong and still a complete fuckwit. But then what can I say, some ethnicities just don’t want to help themselves and break down the stereotypes do they?

The Shameless Self Promotion of Team Smith.

Have you heard that someone is planning to remake the original Star wars trilogy? Jaden Smith will be playing Luke Skywalker.

Sound farfetched? I would have thought so too, but then I saw Karate Kid at the movies the other day and I would not be at all surprised if that was the next step in the shameless promotion of Team Smith.

Karate Kid, the remake, ends almost identically like the original. Right down to the broken leg and miracle move that wins the young hero the tournament. Infact the whole premise of the movie is the same, albeit in a different location with different characters.

Which is okay, if you’ve never seen the original, but who hasn’t seen Karate Kid? Seriously, I reckon it’d be a fucken long road you’d have to travel before you found someone who didn’t know that Cobra Kai Never Die, that sweeping the leg is a killer move or what the transcendental meaning of ‘wax on, wax off’ is.

So why, I wondered, in the cold hard light of the day and mere moments after I realised I had just wasted most of my World Cup Sweepstake winnings, would someone pour millions into making something we all know the ending of?

Then it dawned on me; this is a Smith family joint produced solely for the promotion of Will Smith Junior, Jaden. No it really is. Mom and Dad are producers on the movie and the closing credits have stills from the movie; some of scenic China, some of co-stars enjoying a rare break in filming and a whole heap with the whole Smith clan, three of which weren’t even in the movie!

Talk about living the dream through your children. You would think Will Smith had all the success a man needed in a lifetime, but no. I used to like Will Smith, really I did. I loved his cheeky black ass in Fresh Prince and I still know all the words to ‘Summer Time’. I loved Bad Boys and if you were to grab, squeeze and twist my plums till I admitted it, I loved him in the first Men In Black too.

But then he started to get a bit predictable and well, boring. Every movie role started to be Will Smith: The Greatest American Hero and it’s a script he’s never stopped reading from. Think about all the Will Smith movies you’ve seen for a moment and try and pick out the ones where he hasn’t been in a boys wet dream role.

What happened to the comedy? Or the catchy Caucasian friendly rap? Clearly they didn’t make the same amount of money that boring fucken movies do. He’s a hell of a nice guy, is Will, granted, but he reminds me of the kind of guy who keeps telling you the same damn story every time you see him.

And now we have Jaden lining up for some more of the same. I can only imagine the discussion that must have taken place when the family decided on just what role they would pick for Junior:

“What’s the coolest role for a 12 year old?”
“Luke Skywalker?”
“Nah, too white. Someone who knows Kung Fu maybe?”
“Well when I was ten I wanted to be like the Karate Kid?”
“Fuck yes! Let’s do the Karate Kid! He kicked ass!”
“And he was Hispanic, that’s close enough”
“Fuck yeah!”

Thus we have Karate Kid, the remake of the movie of the same name and almost identical plot. Visually, it’s a better movie and Jackie Chan is very cool, but Jaden Smith is no Karate Kid, not in my book anyway. Ralph Macchio may not have been a Chuck Norris himself, but at least he looked like he could make the transition from geek to kick ass geek.

One thing is for sure though; with Team Smith calling the shots you can bet we’ll see much more of Jaden. Maybe even in a remake of Star wars.

Our Top 5; Gingas

Australia’s got a new back stabber – I mean Prime Minister – and she’s a raging ginga, or ranga, as she would be called in her native land.

It must be an empty feeling surely, being a Prime Minister that no one actually elected. It’s a bit like winning the meat pack but only after the original winner wasn’t there to claim the prize when their name was drawn. Julia Gillard will relate to that I’m sure because one look at her and you can tell she’s mutton...

Ranga is short for ‘orangatan’ which is slightly more offensive than calling someone a ginga I would’ve thought, but there you go. I didn’t know what it was short for until I looked it up on the urban dictionary:

Derived from Orangutan or from the Latin “Orange Utan” meaning red pubic hair, commonly known as Fanta pants. This creature is well known for its fiery temper and pale skin; hence its ability to spend long periods of time in the sun is limited. The female of the spices is renowned for being good in bed, combining its natural aggression with its lack of appreciation for its looks.

Not that there is anything wrong with being a ginga. Just ask my mate Bruiser who loves a bit of fire crotch. He also loves a bit of Asian so it’s fair to say his dream girl is a red headed Asian which would be one hell of a magical mix, a bit like a black stripper with blue eyes.

Anyhoo, watching Gillard on the telly the overnight got us to thinking about our top five redheads right now. Not of all time mind you, because that would require some hard out thinking back to big wank’s of days gone by, so we’ve gone with the hair(red)and now.

1. Hayley Williams

Now there may be some doubt as to whether or not this orange dyed cutie and lead singer of Paramore, is a natural ginga but we’ve seen her fruit jubes, thanks to a topless pic she accidentally tweeted a few weeks back and they’re definitely the numnums of a redhead.

2. Samantha Hayes

Still the sexiest news girl around.

3. Deborah Ann Woll

Anna Paquin may have been the main attraction for the first season and a half of True Blood, but baby vamp Jessica is the hottest girl on the Bon Temps block these days. In a sexy ‘the girl next door will drain your blood’ kind of way. More on all things vampire in an uncoming blog...

4. Li-Lo

Yes, we know that she’s a train wreck, soon to be in jail and that her hair is currently some shade of peroxide, but Li-Lo’s carpet does not match the curtains and deep down she is a bonafide ginga. She’s also prone to random acts of, well, randomness, like shagging some guy in the toilets whilst at rehab. Kinky bitch.

5. Rhys Darby

Yes, we know, he’s a fella. But he’s still a fucken funny fella so that will make for a highly amusing homosexual experience. As opposed to the otherwise disturbing Gaylord experiences you’ve had to date.

ManFlu and Mucus

It’s amazing isn’t it, just how much mucus the body can produce when one is sick, almost as amazing as just how many places it can come out of...

I had the manful earlier this week which, by the way, is a terrible affliction. Not quite as bad as self rape, but close. In fact the two are linked because when you’re stuck at home laid up with the manful thoughts inevitably turn to playing with yourself.

Not while Good Morning is on though, because just as you get warmed up one of the two fellas come on. Talk about your mood killer.

My mate AJ was perplexed by the term manflu and wondered if it was some cross species ailment. It’s not but it raises something I’ve contemplated before; if you were a vet how long would it be before you got bored with the work and just started shagging stuff?

Maybe that’s why I’m not a vet.

Still, it would beat daytime TV which sucks arse. It always has – there’s nothing new in that – but it never ceases to amaze me just how mind numbing it is, which beggars the question – who watches the shit?

Dr Oz is cool, I guess, in the same way that all family doctors who’ve seen three generations of the breasts in your family are. The other day he had Richard Simmons on who is just a legend in his own time and seems to have been around for ages and yet, doesn’t appear to have aged one bit. Spooky.

Is there a scarier advertisement for weight loss than the teeny tiny shorts he wears? I know one thing for sure, if some fruity guy in short shorts and sequined tops started getting all excited and chasing me around a gym I’d run till the fat dripped off..

Apparently he’s put out over a hundred audio visual recordings which is a phenomenal number. Who’s buying them all I wonder? And they can’t all be working because surely you only need the one exercise video and if it doesn’t work then more by the same guy isn’t going to help. Perhaps Simmons is the P of weight loss DVDs; no one wants to admit to doing him but someone clearly is.

I do like him though and his back story is quite the inspiring one. For fatties.

Yet despite the apparent lack of quality TV on during the day, those affected with manflu are strangely drawn to watch it between cat naps. It’s either that or raid the DVD collection and watch films you feel obligated to watch again because you paid full price for them and couldn’t wait the couple of weeks it would’ve taken for them to drop to $10.

Perhaps it was all the staring at the walls I did but I found myself contemplating some interior decoration. Unfortunately, like all sufferers of manflu, I had almost lost the ability to stand, so the closest I would’ve come to fulfilling that dream was to have taken some diarrhoea pills and to go to work on them with a stencil.

I did find the energy however to sit outside in the sun, wrapped up warm, like an old fart, supping on tea and barley sugars. I would have preferred a Fishermans Friend to have sucked on but sometimes you have to work with what you’ve got.

And I’m on the mend, if only I could stop this incessant flow of mucus...

And So Endeth The Fever.

The football World Cup was decided this morning with the very sexual Spain defeating the dirty Dutch in a final that saw the two form sides of the last 18 months line up against each other.

The Dutch are a feisty bunch though aren’t they? I wonder why that is? I’ve known a few Pastry Eaters in my time and they have almost, to the man, been complete nutcases, especially on the football field.

One I knew quite well carried a baseball bat in his car to football matches he was due to play in, just in case things got ‘tasty’. He also took great delight in telling me all about the latest pornographic emails he would get at work which would get through the work mail sweeper because they were written in Dutch.

Perhaps it’s the marijuana in the Daddy’s semen that fertilises the Mummy’s egg, or the hypnotic effect of all those bloody windmills turning over and over...

Anyhoo. Until this morning the Oranje hadn’t lost an international game in 24 matches and the Spanish only twice in the last two years, one of which was at this tournament, so there was an air of inevitability around proceedings I thought.

I did, of course, pick Spain in an earlier blog and had the remarkable fortitude to have them in not one, but two sweepstakes, which given that I ran them both has cast a few eyebrows around these parts. God only knows why.

Must I reiterate again that the sweepstake fixing scandal of 1998 is long forgotten and I went to great efforts to ensure that the ‘lost entry’ scandal of that particular competition was not to repeat itself some 12 years later. Besides, it was all Sully’s doing anyway in 98. He’ll deny it, of course, but it was no coincidence that he and I pocketed some of the winnings that year.

But what a strange old tournament it’s been, what with players being sent home (Anelka of France), goals that weren’t given (Lampard of England) and some that were (Tevez vs Mexico). Talk of over inflated balls and the crazy goalkeeping it produced, four South American teams making the quarters but then none the final and them vuvuzelas. Oh them fucking vuvuzelas.

New Zealand were there of course, drawing all three games and as that idiot Martin Devlin kept telling us at every possible opportunity, right up till the final minute of TVNZs coverage no less, remained the only unbeaten team at the World Cup.

He’s quite correct of course, but a fact that would be made all the more impressive if that extended to seven games and not just the three in pool play before the flight home. Not that that will stop anyway from wheeling that little gem out at every opportunity. Look for that trivia question on Tui stubby caps any day soon.

As the interest of competing nations dropped off at the demise of their teams thus increased the excitement over a certain mollusc, Paul the Octopus, picking results, primarily of Ze Germans but once The Hun was eliminated, of the final too. It was so exciting sometimes you almost forgot there was football to be played at the end of it all.

But at the end of the day football was the winner and not just in Spain where they’ll be partying like they’ve won the World Cup for the first time (which they have), which will make for a nice break from the real estate market collapse which is threatening to bring the country to its knees financially.

For us football fans on this side of the world it will be back to a full night’s sleep and nothing to whack off to in the shower before work anymore other than Pippa Wetzell on Breakfast.

It’s quite the comedown, is going cold turkey after four weeks of quality football, so don’t be surprised if a football fan near you starts to go a bit emo over the next few weeks. At least until the Premiership starts in a few weeks time.

Now, what am I going to do with $75 cash and twelve chocolate bars....

The Pastry Eaters left their mark on Spain, but not the trophy...

...we wouldn't mind playing Dutch Ovens with some of their fans though.

That Don't Impress Me Much...

Paul the Octopus picking World Cup results, or rather our response to it does not impress me much.

How typical of life in New Zealand that despite professing to now be a football nation, the moment our team’s chances ceased to be so did most of the interest in the rest of the tournament (at least amongst those who only sing when we’re winning).

So much so we’re now fixated on whether or not a mollusc with eight testicles can pick a winner in a 50 – 50 chance equation. The TAB is even running odds on whether or not Paul will get it right. And to think we’ve always thought Ze Germans were fucked in the head...

Kylie Minogue’s latest music video does not impress me much.

Is she gagging for a gang bang or what? I seem to recall one of her other videos containing similar orgy overtones. Now I love Kylie as much as the next straight guy but I much prefer to fantasise about her as the cute girl next door who eventually turned out to be as dirty as we wanted her to be, not as some 42 year old surround by naked guys in masks.

Still, I would go there.

The amount of Indian / Pakistani taxi drivers does not impress me much.

Not because they don’t do a good job, they do, but there’s just so many of them doing it now it’s blurred the lines of the stereotypical Indian joke being about Dipak at the Dairy.

Mrs ClubDes used the taxi joke the other day and although highly amusing, it dawned on me that for those less intelligent than we – present reading company included - that the joke would have no meaning.

Someone needs to sort it out once and for all; otherwise jokes about curry munchers may be lost to us forever.

Grown men, who’ve spent the last 15 years perfecting the Rubik’s cube, do not impress me much.

So now they can now solve it in less than 20 seconds?! Way to go guys, you mastered a toy. That’s a hell of a long time and years wasted just so you can impress a bunch of 10 year olds. Did you not even think to try the internet to figure out how it's done?

And as if to justify their achievements they even have tournaments to see who can solve the thing fastest and when, as is often the case with things that are only interesting the first few times you do them, shit gets boring, they crack it up a notch and move on to the really daring stuff:

1. Blindfolded solving
2. Solving the Cube with one person blindfolded and the other person saying what moves to do, known as "Team Blindfold"
3. Solving the Cube underwater in a single breath
4. Solving the Cube using a single hand
5. Solving the Cube with one's feet

It took me all of about an hour to solve my first Cube of Rubik and I have never needed to redo it again. I pulled it apart with a screwdriver and glued all the pieces back together in order. I couldn’t believe it was that easy.

I’ll tell you what fellas, solve it whilst your dick is stuck in a blender and I might be impressed. I’ll even waive the whole time limit thing.

This is how you solve the Cube of Rubik.

Toothbrushes & Invisibility

Have you ever wished that you could go back to school as an undercover brother, like 21 Jump Street style?

I have, but only so I could score all the girls that I didn’t first time round because I was too sexually inept. In that particular day dream of mine it wouldn’t take long for word to get around the female faculty, about me, the new guy, who knows things and by ‘things’ I don’t mean Classics.

Which was a weird subject anyway wasn’t it, Classics. But it did seem to attract all the hot girls so in hindsight I wish I had given away Economics which was a complete sausage fest, for Classics which was full of goddesses learning about, well, goddesses.

Actually I have always had a similar motivation when choosing my super power; invisibility. That way I could follow girls home, sneak into their rooms and watch them undress. And to think people I know say I have a one track mind….

One of the reasons I’d have to go back in time to do the 21 Jump Street thing is because most of those same girls I fancied then have not aged at all well. I know this thanks to the wonder that is Facebook where long held, unfulfilled sexual fantasies can be killed off in a single profile photo.

Thanks to the two degree’s of separation thing I managed to stumble across one of my first true loves the other day. Admittedly the ‘true love’ bit was probably all on my side and I don’t really recall her reciprocating any of it, although we did have a very intimate snack of peanut butter and jam on toast the one time.

Back then I thought Lisa M was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and now that I think about I can’t help but think that by then, she probably was. I asked her out once, but she said no, probably because at that stage we hardly knew each other.

Which was not my first failure at going steady with someone back in the day, nor was it my last. It’s a fault all us fellas have deep in our hard code, that at that age, we all assume girls will fall for some guy they’ve never heard of nor spoken to simply because we have had the lusties from afar for them for ages.

These days society has a name for it: stalking.

I was reminded of these things just yesterday whilst at a funeral. The father of ClubDes founding member and resident savant, Marco, passed away and what a loss to the world he will be. It’s people like him that really did make the world go round and he will be missed greatly.

Funerals usually bring together a lot of old friends and acquaintances and this was no different. The Bruiser and I were reminiscing about one girl in attendance who had quite the reputation of being a floozy back in the day and a quick reference to Stalkbook confirmed that some things never change.

Floozy is a euphemism of course and not me showing my age by using the language of an 80 year old woman. It’s just that I’m conscious a mutual friend of hers and mine might read this and I’d hate to think of them thinking less of me for calling her a slut.

It got me wondering though if she carries a toothbrush in her hand bag. Have you noticed that every bugger devoid of some original idea is trying to reinvent the humble toothbrush these days? The latest advances in cutting edge toothbrush technology are to have made them smaller and in some cases, put a hole in the handle.

The case for miniaturisation seems to be so that you girls can slip them into your little black purses when you're at events where little black dresses are worn and oral hygiene is high on your priority list when looking to work the room. Or score a root.

Which is great news for we the clueless sex, because if the girl chatting you up at your next party disappears to brush her teeth then you know it’s on. Only you won’t really because she won’t tell you that’s what she’s doing; she could be disappearing for a big steamy one or simply trying to get away from you. Who would really know?

Now if only you had that power of invisibility…

Compression Suits, Corduroys, Roman Sandals & Me

I saw a guy out walking today; he was clad head to toe in a compression suit.

Compression suits are all the rage amongst anyone who thinks they look like a superhero when out exercising, or just some dick out walking on a Sunday. Sports stars wear them of course, but then they’re paid to and because they’re all the rage they cost a shitload, which makes them even more sought after. No surprises there.

The idea of a compression suit is nothing new. I’ve known guys who’ve worn wetsuits under their rugby gear and back in the day lycra bike shorts were all the rage, especially for wearing under shorter shorts thus making it visible to anyone who cared to notice, that you were wearing them.

Elite players at the time claimed that bike pants supported the quadriceps and hamstring muscles and thus reduced the chance of injury. I reckoned they stopped your balls from popping out of the short over shorts and that was the real reason them fellas wore them. Still, I had to have some.

My parents were never going to buy me any; in fact they took great delight in purchasing the shortest football shorts they could find and this at a time when long shorts were back in vogue. They weren’t the slash up the side numbers that gay joggers love to wear, but they were fucken close to it.

To this day I can’t imagine where they found such short smugglers but knowing my mother she probably had them custom made. So I took matters into my own hands.

My favourite pair of track pants back then was a pair of the adidas numbers that had stirrups, oh yeah. I loved wearing them despite being oblivious to the fact that they left nothing to the imagination in the meat and two veg department. Although to be fair, my produce department never really blossomed till I was about 20 so girls back then really would’ve had to use their imagination.

Despite my love of them, the need far outweighed the means and so I took to the trackie daks with scissors, thus creating my own pair of thigh warming, ball hugging under shorts. Incidentally Coops had done the same with an old pair of his, so we both looked like a right couple of gay German footballers in our cut off adidas track pants.

We thought they were the shit too. My parents, rather predictably, did not.

They were furious, which I found odd because they hated the stirrup track pants with a passion and often threatened to throw them out if I was caught sneaking them to school to wear instead of my corduroys, again.

Yes, corduroys. Yet another humiliating, spastic garment my sadistic mother made me wear to school so that I could be laughed at even more than I was as the only kid wearing roman sandals...

Their punishment? They took away the short shorts and made me wear only the cut offs which, without the stirrups to stretch them out and down, made the top half of a pair of super tapered adidas track pants tighter than a man’s anus. So much so I could’ve worn nothing to football from the waist down, painted the whole crutch area black and still would’ve revealed less, then I did when wearing the cut offs.

In retaliation I took to my last remaining pair of track pants, of the parachute pant type, and made knee length shorts out of those. They looked fucken ridiculous but thanks to their puffy exterior and warm, fleecy inner lining I had my dignity back, somewhat.

As for the original cut offs I told my parents that someone had stolen them from my bag. They hadn’t of course and I kept them hidden away only to wear on occasions when I longed for the touch of the over locked inner seam against the underside of my scrotum.

Which, if we’re being honest here, is the real reason we fella’s like to wear things like compression suits; it’s the feel of them up against the wife’s retired wedding present that really gets us going and not this bullshit about them aiding recovery. To wit - do we wear them when recovering? No we do not.

Maybe that’s the reason why the walker had such a big smile on his face...

Grandad's compression suit was way ahead of it's time...

Marie vs. Miley

The thought of Miley’s camel toe got me to thinking just how we fellas got our jollies before female musicians decided that nip slips and pole dancing was more important to their act than power chords and catchy lyrics.

It just so happened that whilst watching J2 – quite possibly the most boring music channel ever – I was given just the reminder I longed for; Marie Fredriksson.

Marie was the lead singer of Swedish twosome Roxette and my god did she have it going on. Sure, her spiky, sometimes mullet like hair made her a bit boyish, but that was okay because her band mate, Per Giselle, was a bit effeminate for a fella. So between the two of them they had the whole androgynous look covered really.

Coops and I spent much of the early Nineties rockin out with our cocks out to Roxette and we weren’t alone. How many of you spent many an afternoon in front of the mirror lip synching ‘Fading Like A Flower’ imagining that Marie was singing it to you and you alone...?

You might very well laugh at the thought of loving Roxette now, go on, I don't care. But I’m willing to bet my left one that if 'Joyride' came on the car wireless it wouldn’t be long before you caught yourself whistling the chorus too.

Marie was a top class lady, especially on stage where the only skin she bared was not that of a magnificently waxed crutch, but a bit of thigh, a bare foot or two and the occasional flash of décolletage*.

And you know what? That’s all we needed because her rhymes were bottomless and her flows unstoppable, everything else was a bonus really.

Miley, you would do well to learn from Marie, you nubile young thing you.

*Look it up, you tit.

Marie and Per - fruity Swedish rockers.