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.
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.
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.
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