Three Long Years

I can't be a 100% sure but I think the missus is messing with me.

First we name the dog 'Charlie' and then she goes and buys Coke bottled for Vietnam from one of those one day sale sites!

And yes this photo is blurry, but trust me when I tell you the label says NUOC GIAI KHAT which, loosely translated from the Vietnamese, means YOU LOSE G.I.

Three long years, three consecutive tours and still on edge. Just saying.

The Unluckiest Break

Sometimes it amazes me how rudimentary we are in these highly technological times.

The young fella next door broke his leg playing football the other day and is now sporting a cast that starts at the foot and finishes so high up the thigh you just know Nursie must’ve plastered the underside of his baubles. The break itself is below the knee so if ever there was a case for inappropriate medical touching then that has to be close.

And it is one of them thick plaster jobs that you just know is going to make doing anything, like sleeping, nigh impossible. Not to mention the compound fracture he’s likely to sustain banging his wrist against it every time he has a wristey and given that he’s 15, it’s on for six weeks and he’s immobile for much of it, that’s a lot of solitaire.

Eventually they’ll cut it off and apply one of those snazzy fibreglass jobs but it always surprises me that the basics in life are still that; basic. If you break a bone then there is no quick and easy means of fixing it and you’re fucked. Basically.

I’ve never broken a bone. I’ve claimed to but only because it was a good means of hiding the fact that I was and am, extremely soft. Once such time was when I deflected a cricket ball, travelling at some velocity I might add, from me balls, with my little finger.

Some smug bastard in the team had the audacity to call that potentially life changing moment a ‘missed catch’. Admittedly it was a classic case of what they in the cricket fraternity call an ‘in and out’ though; my testes detracted in with fright and the ball fell out from the vacant area they once hung.

My finger wasn’t broken of course but it sure felt like it.

I tapped it to the phalange next to it and everything, for dramatic effect, but it really was only sprained. Still, my street cred went up that particular period in the neighbourhood and I was King Dick there for a while too, untill Dennis’s brother went and upped me by splitting the webbing on his hand whilst trying to catch a cricket ball.

The show off.

Canada, Oh Cana-duh.

Week three of the RWC is all done then all that early talk about the worlds minnows closing the gap on the big boys seems complete arse now doesn’t it? Putting 50 points on someone doesn’t make for a riveting competition no matter which way you look at it.

Of all the minnows in the Rugby World Cup the one country that I probably have the softest spot for are the Canadians.

My father – he of the abandon his only son when he was 10 fame – lived there for a long while. He sent me a Canadian flag once and I’ve still got it somewhere because it’s a wonderful reminder of the loving bond between a father and son, is a flag of somewhere I’ve never been to.

Around the same time our family (on Mothers side) was accosted by a bunch of Canadians who had taken to a bit of family treeing and worked out that they were related to us. And this before the days of the interweb so who really knows what they found.

My grandparents being, well, grandparents lapped that shit up and it wasn’t long before the recollections of things like Christmases past were altered in the telling to include a mention of the Canadian branch of the family.

I think they mus have thought they were coming to tame the natives when they came over too because they bought with them trinkets, like badges, all of which had ‘Alberta, Canada’ plastered all over them. Because everybody loves wearing a badge of somewhere they have never been to.

Bruiser, Coops and I had a Canadian maths teacher in 6th form who wrote on the blackboard in reverse order to any other teacher, ever. He’d start on the far side and move backwards so when you arrived late and started copying down what you though was the first block of work it was, in fact, the last.

By the stage you realised what was going out he had rubbed the first bit out (the furthest bit of the board) anyway so you were stuffed. Of course we never read what we were copying so how were we to know it didn’t make chronological sense?

He also had the very amusing habit, depending if you were the one coming in late or not, of writing and explaining panels of mathematical theory only to decree that it was all lies and we should ignore it. At which point he’d put an ‘x’ through the lot. Good times.

There was also the small issue, being in NZ, of him not being able to pronounce anything in Maori, for example our classmate Irihapiti which as read out from the roll each week as Eerie hap eye tie. Later just shortened to Eerie.

Not too mention the four foot two Asian in the flared trousers (short backward square to you cricketers) who’s name was Kan Hau but you know how it is with Asians, last name first and all that but not on the roll. So the convo went a little like this:

Teech: Hau? Hau Kan.
KH: Kan sir, here.
Teech: Pardon me?
KH: Its just Kan sir.
Teech: But on here it says Hau.
KH: Yes sir, that’s my first name. But in Korean we say last name first.
Teech: So your name is Hau Hau?
KH: No its just Kan.
Teech: So it’s just Kan Kan?
KH: No its just Kan.

Everyone had to change seats by this stage as most were wet.

I even had a pretty serious case of the lusties for a girl I went to school with who had spent time in Vancouver, of all places and was into ice hockey, big time. I don't remember exactly but I'm pretty sure that my attraction probably had something to do with he-who-shall-not-be-named (Father) was also living in Vancouver and that's just messed up.

These days my connection to the land of the maple leaf and sauce is through the original draft dodger, T-Bag. He’s loving it over there and no doubt sharing the Rugger with the locals. The Canucks even had their first win the other day, against Tonga and I’m not sure if the party will still be going, but if it is you can bet our man Borlase will be right in the thick of it.

He certainly won't be reading this because in an ironic twist of fate, he can't, not at work anyway:

Top Five - Things I’m Over Right Now.

So much so I can't even bring myself to find pictures of them...

1. Bruno Mars. We’ve had quite enough of the same song six different ways, fuck you very much.

2. Likewise anything referring to or featuring Mick Jagger. How ironic is it that the guy from Maroon 5 with the ridiculously high voice sports so many tattoos he gives the impression he might in all actuality, be ridiculously hard. He’s not but he looks like he should be. And have you seen the abomination of a song that Mick has lent himself to?! Don't.

3. Flags on cars, even the half bra things that some have wrapped around their side mirrors. Still, it makes for accurate racial abuse when kicking off at someone for cutting you off because they were unsighted by said flag draped across the back window. Maybe we should make them mandatory in that sense?

4. Zara Phillips, her broken nosed, cauliflower eared husband and that woman in that bar. The bouncer mind you is a totally fascinating cat and him I’d like to see more of because we all know we should never underestimate the predictability of stupidity. Go Tindall!

5. Facebook. Even before the changes, it's just shit. It might be better if it let me decide what features I want but you know what? I doubt it.

The Flashing Mob

The Rugby World Cup has bought a lot of good things to these shores in recent weeks but it’s bought some downright average stuff too and I’m not just talking about Scarlett Johansson’s nudie pics which are.

Like our lip syncing – or should that be blowing – of the ceremonial Maori horn at the state of each game which is by all accounts, fake. It’s a soundtrack being played over the PA from what I’ve seen of it. Good one. Listeners at the ground can also buy their genuine plastic greenstone tikis on their way out too, made of course, in China.

And then there are the flash mobs laying down the haka everywhere. They’re about as flash as my old man’s burgundy Cortina ever was, even after he put the mags and louvers on the back window.

Now the Haka is a formidable sight, when done by semi naked Maori Warriors or buff bustards in any sort of departmental uniform i.e. Police, Army etc. But not when it’s done by a bunch of fat guys in track pants, half casts and skinny teens in skin tight denim shorts and jandals wearing their skateboarding caps on a jaunty angle.

The flash mob thing is so passé anyway. I’m starting something new. I’m kicking this shit up a notch and I’m starting the mob that flashes. Those that wish to be forerunners in this new social phenomenon can meet me in Manners Mall, Friday 1800 hours for the first en masse flash. I'm hoping we'll have more knockers on show than a joiners shop and for the onlookers to see more knobs than a locksmith does.

You know you want to.

Yeah, real tough boys, real tough.

The Prank Call Lives On

Just in case we were in any doubt, further proof this week that big business blows. Like the companies that make the milk telling us that it is OUR fault it’s not cheaper, because we don’t shop around enough. Wankers.

What about the little fact that all the supermarkets are owned by only two companies? There’s your competition right there. Servos are so expensive with things like bread and milk you might as well buy petrol and pour that on your weetbix. But again, big business owners, so no real surprise and we all know the tight buggers that run the corner dairy are not going to undercut no bastard.

Small businesses on the other hand, don’t blow. I was reminded of something a few weeks ago when I saw the story of the Nelson fish & chip shop that is losing money thanks to some noob that keeps ringing and placing a huge order that he never collects.

This story struck a chord with me because 20 years ago I was that kid and as funny as it was back then I realise now, as a fully pubed adult, that somebody inevitably suffers with a prank such as this and in the case of a small business it’s usually the owner.

Still, it’s bloody funny. Well at least it was back in the day when Willie G and I used to wag school and call up all the local takeaway shops. Quite why alarm bells weren’t ringing in these places when a kid - admittedly a deep voiced one at that - was placing a huge order in the middle of the day I shall never know.

Not that we were content just placing fake orders; in a similar vein we’d often ring people and in our best pigeon Mandarin claim that the person listed in the phonebook had a tab with us which now needed to be paid. Quite what the Golden Dragon in Naenae did with all the money that confused strangers came in and paid on nonexistent accounts we’ll never know, but we should probably have asked for a cut.

Incidentally I’ve always had a deep voice and from an early age and it was in no way related to the size, or sling, of the man berries because they let me down on both counts right throughout my teens. I mean they’re enormous now, obviously, that’s what the wheelbarrow beside my desk is for…

Like most kids my age in Third Form I had very little interest in school or authority and had a peer councillor, Steven, our Seventh Form class prefect who did an okay job but to be fair was more interested in getting his hands on our other class prefect and I don’t blame him, she was tidy. During one of the many him-me-Guidance Counsellor session’s that only exist to employ such people in schools, Steven endeared himself to me by blurting out halfway through a very heavy conversation about just why I was such a little shit “But he has such a deep voice….its so funny”.

By far the biggest and bestest phone prank we pulled (and I say ‘we’ only to try and deflect some of the blame now that I feel genuinely bad about it) was the time we phoned in a 30 kid birthday party for a mate at Maccas. Again, pubescent boy on the phone making detailed plans regarding another pubies party, hello?

But pulled it off we did and a couple of days after the ‘party’ date had come and gone our mate was telling us that Mum & Dad had been called by a furious Maccas Manager and been given an invoice for 30 unclaimed Happy Meals! Yes, it was still hilarious, but we did feel a tinge of regret so we didn’t tell our mate it was us who’d made the call. Everyone else we told of course, just not him.

So I feel for the guy in Nelson and his unclaimed phantom orders, like I do my mate. Still, there is a small part of me that is stoked to see the prank call is alive and well.

A Question of Sport #2

More unanswered question from the wonderful world of sport. What? You don't like sport? You should.

Rugby


The World Cup has started – you might have noticed – and undoubtedly the highlight to date, so far as NZ is concerned, is the moment Sonny Bill Williams All Black jersey lost a sleeve and he had to remove it. What a fabulous advertisement for the $220 jersey that adidas spent years developing aye? I thought it was made of some fantastic fabric that hadn’t even been invented yet? And now we know why it costs so much; it comes with a guy to help you take the damn thing off.

Apparently the jersey is now being sent to China for testing to see what went wrong. China. I'd say that's your answer right there...

On the same subject the English – who I’ve happened to draw in the work sweepstake – had similar issues with the numbers on their jerseys, which started to peel off en masse with the slightest breeze. Some comfort then to know that Nike’s sweatshops, also based in China, don’t do quality any better then adidas. In a remarkable coincidence, England was wearing their new black strip too, the idea for which they pinched from us, so it serves the unoriginal bastards right doesn’t it? Perhaps they’ve finally realised white is the colour of surrender, that’s why we don’t wear it…

Tennis


That guy Serena Williams was at it again this week too, proving that she can’t handle the jandal when she starts to lose to a whitey and just confirmed that you can take the diva out of Compton, but she still sulks like one when things don’t go her own way. Do you think she’ll look back on these comments with a sense of irony?

''Don't even look at me,'' shouted the 29-year-old up at Asdaraki (Chair Umpire).

''If I see you in the corridor don't even walk past me because - you're out of control, you're out of control. You're totally out of control, you're a hater and you're just unattractive inside. Who would do such a thing? And I never complain. Wow. You’re a loser.

I get a code violation for expressing who I am; we're in America last time I checked. Am I going to get violated for (asking for) water? Really don't look at me. I promise you don't look at me. Don't look my way.''

Leaving Drinks?

Candylane: You going to his leaving drinks?

Noshow: Nah. You?

Candylane: Nope.

Noshow: I didn’t even sign his card. Went to his morning tea and ate all the food though.

Candylane: Oh we all did that.

Noshow: Admittedly I did just shake his hand as he stopped by on the way out but I had been playing with myself under my desk beforehand so the joke’s on him...

Freaks, Geeks & A Sexo

One of the best weekends away I had with a bunch of strange men – the others were a disaster that I’d rather not speak about – was Coopsies stag do. The theme for which was ‘Freaks, Geeks and a Sexo’.

Coops, being the groom (and a sexo) was of course, the sexo. The rest of us were, well, self explanatory really but we made quite the sight, especially as we got changed at the top of the Rimutaka Hill and stayed in costume the whole weekend. Coops was the star of course, resplendent in his leather vest, chaps, bikers cap and studded dog collar.

Some of us stayed in costume that was. I saw more male genitalia that weekend than I have the entire time my arse has faced South but that’s what you get really when you mix men in raincoats (and only raincoats) with alcohol.

Mind you, when a couple of them decided to try teeing off with a golf cub in the hands of one and the tee held between the buttocks of another, even before the drinking really starts, you know you’re in for a special, special weekend.

I was reminded of freaks and geeks when I finally got round to watching ‘The Social Network’ the other day. I know it came out some time ago but that’s just how I am with movies, I treat them like I do the hot girl across the street who so wants you to check her because she knows how hot she is. I don’t play that game. I am immune to their power and I never look. Not while they’re looking anyway.

Likewise I very seldom go and see movies when they come out despite their hotness. Besides it works the same anyway; once you’re one of the first to see it you try and tell everyone about it only you can’t, because they haven’t seen it and by the time they do, you’ve forgotten all the little details anyway. Just like the hot girl across the street.

The Social Network is a film about that social network, Facebook and how it came to be. It’s full of geeks because it’s the story of one major poindexter making a website that apparently is quite popular. Only the geeks in this make believe version look way better than they do here in the real world. How does that work? Two of the principal characters are The Winkelvoss twins, who in the film, are ironically played by just the one good looking guy. Very convincingly too, I might add.

Now grown twins, especially men, freak me the fuck out. I don’t know what it is but to me there’s something spectacularly scary about two guys being the exact copy of each other and these two aren't just doppelgangers; they're ex Olympian rowers too, so they’re huge carbon copies of each other.

I have the same fear about what it would be like if you met your body double face to face. Six degrees of whatever aside, these things aren't suppose to happen because it's just too damn freaky. I did meet mine once and it was grotesque; he was into the Venga Boys...

Twins are supposed to be cute and depending what kind of websites or magazines you like to read the articles in / on, sexy. I never did understand the whole twins fantasy though because at the end of the day they’re sisters; they’re not going to want to be with each other in that way any more than you want to be with your Mum, in that way.

At least I don’t think so. If I knew some sexy twins I would even be willing to take that particular experiment to test the theory. Oh sure, it would be pleasant, but I wouldn’t enjoy it.

So long as it was the Winkelvoss boys, they're some freaky geeks them two *shiver*.

That's a huge bitch...and your brother too.

Any Which Way But Libya

There's a lot of heavy shit going down in Libya, you may have noticed.

The natives are uprising against the oppressive ruler Muammar Gaddafi who has been King Dick round those parts since 1969, the very same year me and the Recon lads were finishing up in Vietnam. But more on that coinkidink a little further on.

Gaddafi always looks so comical to me, almost as if he’s not real. He swans around in his magnificent sarongs and uniforms like a raging poof and going from the images of the interior decorating he had going on his Palatial Palaces that the rebels have recently liberated I don’t think I’m far from wrong.

All genocide jokes aside though Gaddafi is a bad ass and not in the cool Samuel L Jackson sense of the term. Aside from all the death and suffering the guy has reigned over he’s a complete douche as best described by this passage from wankipedia:

By his own estimation, Gaddafi considers himself an intellectual and philosopher. He is known for a flamboyant dress sense, with a strong taste for safari suits and sunglasses. He changes his clothing several times each day, and according to his former nurses, "enjoys surrounding himself with beautiful things and people." He hired several nurses to care for his health, all of whom were beautiful young Ukrainian women.

Since the 1980s he has travelled with his Amazonian Guard, which is all-female, and reportedly is sworn to a life of celibacy (although Dr Seham Sergheva reported in 2011 that some of them were subjected to rape and sexual abuse by Gadaffi, his sons and senior officials).

In 2009, it was revealed that he does not travel without his trusted Ukrainian nurse Halyna Kolotnytska, noted as a "voluptuous blonde". Halyna's daughter denied the suggestion that the relationship is anything but professional. Gaddafi frequently made sexual advances on female journalists, and successfully bedded a few in exchange for interviews.

Gaddafi's former aides have said he is "obsessive" about his image. He gave gold watches with images of his face to his staff as gifts. In 2011, a Brazilian doctor told the Associated Press that he performed plastic surgery on Gaddafi in 1995 to avoid appearing old to the Libyan people.

So all power to the people I say, lets knock the bastard off. And I do love seeing the rebels on TV firing their various ordinances in the air in celebration. It does slightly amuse me though that they never once give thought to where that bullet or rocket propelled grenade is going to land but hey, what’s a couple of deaths by friendly fire when you’ve had over 30 years of brutal oppression aye?

I do have just the one criticism and as a former military man myself I feel qualified to make it of these guys:

Who despite risking their life for their country have no idea about functional footwear in the war zone; sandals on an anti aircraft gun goddammit? And Rambo in the front is sporting that bandolier of ammo in such a way that I just know he's going to fuck it up for everybody the moment he needs to drop some rock'n'roll on the Amazonian Guard. What a rookie.

These guys wouldn’t last two minutes in HotDamnVietnam. And how do they tell each other apart if they’re all wearing civvies? At least Charlie had the decency to wear black pajamas in 1969…

The only gay in the village...?

The Only Two Things Our Army Needs...

From: ClubDes

Sent: Tuesday, 30 August 2011 13:08

To: AJ; Chef; Supes; Almo; DG Macca

Cc: Bruiser; Tbag

Subject: NZ soldiers' rifles fail to hit their target



Comment # 9. I am so right.



http://www.stuff.co.nz/dominion-post/news/politics/5528642/NZ-soldiers-rifles-fail-to-hit-their-target



From: Almo

Sent: Tuesday, 30 August 2011 13:15

To: ClubDes, AJ, Chef; Supes; DG Macca

Cc: Bruiser; Tbag

Subject: The only two things our army needs...





And





From: AJ

Sent: Tuesday, 30 August 2011 13:19

To: ClubDes, Almo, Chef; Supes; DG Macca

Cc: Bruiser; Tbag

Subject: RE: The only two things our army needs...



Or just this…