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...