Thursday, April 12, 2012
Like Father Like Son
Junior's whiteboard on the bedroom door and guess who got in trouble for it? Not him...
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Do Not Adjust Your Set.
My devoted faithful followers (or at the very least the five of you I’ve sent this new link to) will have perhaps wondered if you have stepped across some time and space continuum where the blog you’re now reading is very similar to one you used to read, only different. It is as we say at work; same shit, different toilet.
Fear not, an episode of Lost this aint. God I miss you Kate.
No this is just me stepping back into the shadows, out of the limelight, back inside the sanctum. Oscar Wilde once said that it was better to be spoken about that not to be spoken of at all and he was a right fruity bugger (or rather buggerer) so he should know.
In some instances I would agree with that sentiment but this blog was only ever meant to be an outlet for my over-active imagination, crazy logic and Vietnam flashbacks. How it got to be on everybody’s daily reading list I don’t know but that put me in the rather precarious position of having folk potentially mistaking my pisstaking for genuine opinion and I’m not having that. Not on my watch.
So enough already. I’m closing in the Sanctum to just a select few, like it should be. And if this gets out I know just who’s letterbox to shit in and which email address to sign up to the daily porn site.
As you were. And hey, let’s be careful out there.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Layering It On For The New Flattie
“Come support the multiple births club” the flyer at work reads.
Talk about unnecessary, a ‘club’ already exists for births; it’s called parenthood and you don’t have to be Jon and Kate to join either. And yes, a lot of the time spent in this club is shit, tough and all of it unpaid, but what bonuses there are will be the most rewarding you ever have and guess what? You don’t need to join another club for those that have popped a couple out through the beef curtains to have them experiences either. You dicks.
Speaking of clubs, changes are afoot at the ClubDes homestead next week as we welcome a flatmate for the first time.
Whether it was the fact we had a spare room worth a tasty week’s rent just gagging to be let, or the fact that the missus and I are done talking to each other after 10 years of wedded bliss who really knows, the ad went up and arrive in a few days she does.
My last experiences of flatmates, some 15 years ago now, are not favourable so I am a little apprehensive. They were the days of living with Coops older sister, who avoided confrontation by sticking post it’s to the bedroom door noting such helpful hints as “please don’t masturbate in the shower as it clogs up the drain”. Or something like that.
Usually I have a very big thing about stranger danger, especially in my own cave. I am creature of my own habits and I like my own routine so the prospect of some noob coming in and disrupting that would usually tighten the sphincter markedly. But truth be told I am quite excited about the whole thing. Yes she may be attractive but I am only looking forward to reading the articles.
Now naturally when one prepares to welcome a young lady into a house dominated by boys, talk naturally turns to the important issues like the state of the toilet, or ones attire in the early hours of the morning. Strangely it’s only the females in the household that seemed concerned about these things.
Thankfully Junior is at an age where most of what gets aimed at the carzie ends up in there. Unfortunately some of what ends up in there does tend to stick around though which presents a separate issue entirely because a quick mop up of the floor or seat with the sock, or Dads towel is not going to cut it where a good bowl dent is concerned.
It’s a strange phenomenon is the toilet dent. Theoretically it shouldn’t happen; the area is well lubed and unless we’re talking about public shitters, flushed afterwards. Mrs ClubDes, like all good women, has a technique that she swears by which is the layering of several pieces of butt wipe to catch the Cosby Kids and thus alleviate said skid marks.
I reckon that 'layers' are the female answer to everything though. Layers on the bed, layers of clothing, layers of pillows on the couch, my feelings are like layers, why paint the feature wall once when you can do several layers all different colours...
Which is fine in principal but it misses the one variable in all this; angles and height. Because anyone who has played bombers over Tokyo at the age of 12 whilst doing the business (and who hasn’t aye?) knows that get the range right and even the most mundane of bodily functions can get awfully creative, awfully quick.
So we might do the layer cake thing with the two ply but I ain’t wearing more clothes early in the morning. Besides, how do I expect our new flattie to feel comfortable waltzing around in her undies if I’m not….?
Now you can see why I've rushed around and put the hidden cameras up...
Talk about unnecessary, a ‘club’ already exists for births; it’s called parenthood and you don’t have to be Jon and Kate to join either. And yes, a lot of the time spent in this club is shit, tough and all of it unpaid, but what bonuses there are will be the most rewarding you ever have and guess what? You don’t need to join another club for those that have popped a couple out through the beef curtains to have them experiences either. You dicks.
Speaking of clubs, changes are afoot at the ClubDes homestead next week as we welcome a flatmate for the first time.
Whether it was the fact we had a spare room worth a tasty week’s rent just gagging to be let, or the fact that the missus and I are done talking to each other after 10 years of wedded bliss who really knows, the ad went up and arrive in a few days she does.
My last experiences of flatmates, some 15 years ago now, are not favourable so I am a little apprehensive. They were the days of living with Coops older sister, who avoided confrontation by sticking post it’s to the bedroom door noting such helpful hints as “please don’t masturbate in the shower as it clogs up the drain”. Or something like that.
Usually I have a very big thing about stranger danger, especially in my own cave. I am creature of my own habits and I like my own routine so the prospect of some noob coming in and disrupting that would usually tighten the sphincter markedly. But truth be told I am quite excited about the whole thing. Yes she may be attractive but I am only looking forward to reading the articles.
Now naturally when one prepares to welcome a young lady into a house dominated by boys, talk naturally turns to the important issues like the state of the toilet, or ones attire in the early hours of the morning. Strangely it’s only the females in the household that seemed concerned about these things.
Thankfully Junior is at an age where most of what gets aimed at the carzie ends up in there. Unfortunately some of what ends up in there does tend to stick around though which presents a separate issue entirely because a quick mop up of the floor or seat with the sock, or Dads towel is not going to cut it where a good bowl dent is concerned.
It’s a strange phenomenon is the toilet dent. Theoretically it shouldn’t happen; the area is well lubed and unless we’re talking about public shitters, flushed afterwards. Mrs ClubDes, like all good women, has a technique that she swears by which is the layering of several pieces of butt wipe to catch the Cosby Kids and thus alleviate said skid marks.
I reckon that 'layers' are the female answer to everything though. Layers on the bed, layers of clothing, layers of pillows on the couch, my feelings are like layers, why paint the feature wall once when you can do several layers all different colours...
Which is fine in principal but it misses the one variable in all this; angles and height. Because anyone who has played bombers over Tokyo at the age of 12 whilst doing the business (and who hasn’t aye?) knows that get the range right and even the most mundane of bodily functions can get awfully creative, awfully quick.
So we might do the layer cake thing with the two ply but I ain’t wearing more clothes early in the morning. Besides, how do I expect our new flattie to feel comfortable waltzing around in her undies if I’m not….?
Now you can see why I've rushed around and put the hidden cameras up...Sunday, March 4, 2012
The In Joke Continues...
Speaking of which, this weekend I watched both Batman Begins and The Dark Knight again. That’s six hours of solid wood and it made me think how many of the ‘Best Film’ winners of the last 10 years could do that to a strapping young man like myself?
It doesn't make for pretty reading. The in joke that is acting and award giving continues alright...
The Departed: Full of wood.
It doesn't make for pretty reading. The in joke that is acting and award giving continues alright...
2012: The Artist – No pulse, no will to live, no wood.
2011: The Kings Speech – The film you’d watch if distinctly not wanting to crack one.
2010: The Hurt Locker – A war movie yes, but no wood.
2009: Slumdog Millionaire – Curry, curry and more curry. No chubby.
2008: No Country for Old Men – Yes. Javier Bardem alone would do this, but not in a gay way.
2007: The Departed – Fuck yes. Two and a half hours of bursting blue veinage.
2006: Crash – Yes.
2005: Million Dollar Bay – Butch chicks boxing. Hmmmm. Tough call. Clint Eastwood though so yes.
2004: Lord of the Rings – Only if you’re into dwarves.
2003: Chicago – Watching this will give you a vagina. Fact.
The Departed: Full of wood.Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Not A Real Job...
So movie award season has come and gone again and thank fuck for that.
Only the fashion industry surpasses their movie counterparts for gratuitous self congratulation and yet both are one big inside joke that we common folk don’t get. So you made two, maybe three decent movies in a year? Get over it.
I think things like the Academy Awards should be held every four years, like every other actual celebration of achievement i.e. sports. Because swanning around for three months in makeup speaking the lines someone else has written for you is not something worth celebrating every year, it really isn’t.
But like fashion, it’s the industry built upon the industry that laps this shit up. What would that silly bitch from TV3 do for example, if there were no award ceremonies for her to swan around at pretending she’s on txting terms with the A list? Heaven forbid they might have to replace her slot with something newsworthy.
What would the E Channel do without the source for their endless drivel about who wore what and then did whom? What would Ryan Seacrest do for fucks sake if he didn’t have The Dictator accidentally pouring Kim Jong’s ashes all over his perfect suit? Mind you, I’d tune in to see something like that every year, the highlight of this years ceremony.
What would we do as a nation if our small minds couldn’t get excited about the fact that some NZ company is up for ‘Best Catering’ or something on Tintin? Weta would still win shit but then they’re awesome. Where else would Brett McKenzie get to play the quintessential simple Kiwi boy? Again.
And just on that, why is it that actors continue to perpetuate the whole Muppet myth long after the cameras have stopped rolling? Why do they even buy into it in the first place? We all know they’re puppets, heck even the puppets know they’re fucken puppets, so why pretend they’re great actors or performers and it’s an honour working with them?
But just in case you needed further proof that the whole thing is arse then look no further at the latest post ceremony viral sensation: Angelina Jolie's superimposed right leg everywhere. It’s garnering more interest and hits than the awards themselves. Yep. Somebody is laughing but it ain’t you or me.
One of the most nominated flicks this year was a black and white silent film. That's right, two hours of silence in a room full of people masticating. Least they could have done was coloured the damn thing. But it's a novelty isn't it? No one is going to say a bad thing about it because it dares to be different. It dares to be bold. It proves the industry has run out of ideas is what it is.
Oh and the speeches and the tears and the emotion. Don't you just want someone to break it all up by yelling out "But it's not a real job, you cunt". But they never do.
Like I said, an in joke that none of us are in on.
"Muppets I say. Farken Muppets."
Only the fashion industry surpasses their movie counterparts for gratuitous self congratulation and yet both are one big inside joke that we common folk don’t get. So you made two, maybe three decent movies in a year? Get over it.
I think things like the Academy Awards should be held every four years, like every other actual celebration of achievement i.e. sports. Because swanning around for three months in makeup speaking the lines someone else has written for you is not something worth celebrating every year, it really isn’t.
But like fashion, it’s the industry built upon the industry that laps this shit up. What would that silly bitch from TV3 do for example, if there were no award ceremonies for her to swan around at pretending she’s on txting terms with the A list? Heaven forbid they might have to replace her slot with something newsworthy.
What would the E Channel do without the source for their endless drivel about who wore what and then did whom? What would Ryan Seacrest do for fucks sake if he didn’t have The Dictator accidentally pouring Kim Jong’s ashes all over his perfect suit? Mind you, I’d tune in to see something like that every year, the highlight of this years ceremony.
What would we do as a nation if our small minds couldn’t get excited about the fact that some NZ company is up for ‘Best Catering’ or something on Tintin? Weta would still win shit but then they’re awesome. Where else would Brett McKenzie get to play the quintessential simple Kiwi boy? Again.
And just on that, why is it that actors continue to perpetuate the whole Muppet myth long after the cameras have stopped rolling? Why do they even buy into it in the first place? We all know they’re puppets, heck even the puppets know they’re fucken puppets, so why pretend they’re great actors or performers and it’s an honour working with them?
But just in case you needed further proof that the whole thing is arse then look no further at the latest post ceremony viral sensation: Angelina Jolie's superimposed right leg everywhere. It’s garnering more interest and hits than the awards themselves. Yep. Somebody is laughing but it ain’t you or me.
One of the most nominated flicks this year was a black and white silent film. That's right, two hours of silence in a room full of people masticating. Least they could have done was coloured the damn thing. But it's a novelty isn't it? No one is going to say a bad thing about it because it dares to be different. It dares to be bold. It proves the industry has run out of ideas is what it is.
Oh and the speeches and the tears and the emotion. Don't you just want someone to break it all up by yelling out "But it's not a real job, you cunt". But they never do.
Like I said, an in joke that none of us are in on.
"Muppets I say. Farken Muppets."Monday, February 20, 2012
Getting On My Tits
My god some stuff round here gets on my tits.
1. Like ads for ad space which always promises that many millions will see your ad if it’s placed at the very same point that you’re reading it.
Only it won’t will it, because there’s no real ad there, only the promise of a real ad. Clearly there aren’t enough real ads to fill the space because their promises are complete bollocks. These types of ads are always above mens urinals as it happens, the last great untapped bastion of captive advertising.
2. Packaging that is ‘new and improved’.
So you haven’t done anything with what’s actually inside the cardboard box around the outside? No? Fuck off then.
3. ‘Welcome to your new Blackberry’
Which is not a lifestyle, not a luxurious property within some gated community and most definitely not something that came about from your man’s milk. It’s a phone. That’s it. Just a fucken phone.
4. The show / movie / book that 'critics are raving about’.
Now before we endorse something with a shout out like that let’s just ask ourselves who are these critics and what is their track record like? Are they haters or do they take all the promo material they get right up the arse, because objectivity is important to me. Or maybe I’ll just make up my own mind, fuck you very much
5. Kendra Wilkinson
Has not one, but two books on the shelves. What could she possibly have to write about that would fill a post-it let alone two paperbacks?! You might know her as one of the three stooges who hooked up with Hugh Hefner, starred in the reality show of it and the subsequent spin off after being upgraded by The Hef, for something younger and dumber. You might know her on account that she regularly gets her massive mammaries out. Or you might not know her at all. Chance would be a fine thing.
6. Printouts posted to shared noticeboards about shitty bosses.
Which are almost as big a waste of space as the person who anonymously put it there. It’s no different than writing - and sketching as a visual aide - on the toilet wall at school about just how massive Bruisers testes are when you were 10. Mind you, they were. But what purpose does it really serve other than to give someone a chubby for their perceived hard core defiance of authority?
My feelings on such matters are that if it’s a problem, do something about it. Unfortunately if your only plan of attack is to pin an unfunny print out up in the work place, during work time, using work stuff, then you’re part of the fucken problem. Why not grow a pair and man up?
A big pair, like Bruisers.
My toilet wall drawings of Bruiser were uncannily anatomically correct..
1. Like ads for ad space which always promises that many millions will see your ad if it’s placed at the very same point that you’re reading it.
Only it won’t will it, because there’s no real ad there, only the promise of a real ad. Clearly there aren’t enough real ads to fill the space because their promises are complete bollocks. These types of ads are always above mens urinals as it happens, the last great untapped bastion of captive advertising.
2. Packaging that is ‘new and improved’.
So you haven’t done anything with what’s actually inside the cardboard box around the outside? No? Fuck off then.
3. ‘Welcome to your new Blackberry’
Which is not a lifestyle, not a luxurious property within some gated community and most definitely not something that came about from your man’s milk. It’s a phone. That’s it. Just a fucken phone.
4. The show / movie / book that 'critics are raving about’.
Now before we endorse something with a shout out like that let’s just ask ourselves who are these critics and what is their track record like? Are they haters or do they take all the promo material they get right up the arse, because objectivity is important to me. Or maybe I’ll just make up my own mind, fuck you very much
5. Kendra Wilkinson
Has not one, but two books on the shelves. What could she possibly have to write about that would fill a post-it let alone two paperbacks?! You might know her as one of the three stooges who hooked up with Hugh Hefner, starred in the reality show of it and the subsequent spin off after being upgraded by The Hef, for something younger and dumber. You might know her on account that she regularly gets her massive mammaries out. Or you might not know her at all. Chance would be a fine thing.
6. Printouts posted to shared noticeboards about shitty bosses.
Which are almost as big a waste of space as the person who anonymously put it there. It’s no different than writing - and sketching as a visual aide - on the toilet wall at school about just how massive Bruisers testes are when you were 10. Mind you, they were. But what purpose does it really serve other than to give someone a chubby for their perceived hard core defiance of authority?
My feelings on such matters are that if it’s a problem, do something about it. Unfortunately if your only plan of attack is to pin an unfunny print out up in the work place, during work time, using work stuff, then you’re part of the fucken problem. Why not grow a pair and man up?
A big pair, like Bruisers.
My toilet wall drawings of Bruiser were uncannily anatomically correct..Sunday, February 19, 2012
Gareth Says; Up Yours, Norway.
Move over Colin Meads, NZ has a new authority figure on everything; multi millionaire, philanthropist, the very nasal Gareth Morgan.
Gareth pissed off a bunch of Norwegians last week when he went on record as saying that he wouldn’t rescue one of their sailors if the guy just happened to be drowning in the same spot of Arctic water the two plan to be in next month. Morgan is going as part of an expedition, the Norwegian because he’s a waster with a death wish and has track record of spectacularly fucking things up.
Gareth is dead right, like he usually is. The man made has many millions from mastering the things that put Coops and I to sleep in Economics class back in College and you just know that he didn’t get that much wedge from being often wrong. Like most people with a ridiculous amount of coin he’s not afraid to speak his mind when he feels strongly about something and I for one like that.
More recently he’s gone in on bailing out The Phoenix and naturally his fan base just went up by a couple of thousand because if there’s one thing football fans love more than a rich benefactor its one who’s not afraid of a good sound bite. He even took his top of when they were one nil up with 10 minutes to go, what a guy.
He’s called the Norwegian guy a bottom feeder which I think is one of the funniest expressions around but then I would, the word ‘moist’ cracks me up too. Naturally this has soured the atmosphere a bit in gay ol Norway in much the same way that if I walked into your house and took a shit in your fridge you might not be too happy about it and it might sour the atmosphere.
But let’s not take fridge shitting out of its cultural context.
As a fellow blogger tells me, in Uruguay for instance there are no such prejudices. Shitting in someone's fridge can be seen as a friendly act like meeting a friend in the street, raising the right hand and enunciating the words "Hello my old friend". Fridge shitting is a national pastime and its exponents are much loved, known colloquially as "turd fairies".
It's only when we displace the amicable deposition of frozen ordure into a NZ context that it is likely to be seen in a negative light, due solely to the triumph of PC sandal-wearing do gooders who knit their own muesli. The freaks.
Of course even in Uruguay in some circumstances shitting in the fridge can be offensive, for example on the cold meats shelf or into a recently made trifle. Bum mince left by the turd fairy which has dripped into the lunch boxes for the kids tomorrow is also not seen in a good light. But if one is careful to deposit ones chilled choc logs into, for example, the egg holders, then the owner of the fridge door will smile on opening it in recognition of a beneficent auspice.
So please let's not get these things out of context or out of proportion.
Hey, Gareth wouldn’t and he’s always right, so get fucked Norway.
Gareth has shown a lot of guts in bailing out The Phoenix...
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The "But it's somebody elses" Excuse Fails. Again.
Dad plays porn instead of Smurfs at kid's party.
Police aren't filing charges against a father who briefly played a pornographic video instead of The Smurfs at his child's birthday party.
Tremonton Police Chief Dave Nance said the man had rented a copy of The Smurfs from a Redbox kiosk and loaded the disc into his laptop. But when he turned the projector on for the children, pornographic images flashed on the screen.
Authorities got involved when the father complained somebody had tampered with the DVD. Police found nothing wrong, saying the porn was probably on the laptop.
Nance says officials aren't pursuing charges because the incident was apparently an accident.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Heart Shaped Cable
Ah Valentines Day, that bastion of anonymously expressing one’s love for the stranger who’s kept your wank bank well stocked for months.
Nothing says ‘I love you’ more than a creepy bunch of flowers. Not that the flowers are creepy of course, but the cryptic card or in most case, no card at all, never quite has the same affect on a woman as it does in the movies. Funny that.
I’ve given my fair share of them bunches in my time. What a hopeless romantic I was back in the day. Unfortunately one man’s romantic is another womens stalker and much money was wasted freaking girls out in the pursuit of lustiness. Luckily that can be done for free on the internets these days.
One such story involved me sending a rose to an older girl at college in the mistaken believe that she would fall for the pimply younger boy in the fitting adidas track pants, the ones with stirrups. I sent it anonymously of course because I didn’t want to appear desperate and then proceeded to send her cryptic notes along the lines of “I’ll wear this top tomorrow, or be carrying this so you’ll know it’s me”. Yep, I was making her work for entry into my wonderland.
Eventually she found out my name but didn’t know me by sight so to speed up the pre-coital process I made Bruiser, the go between in this match made in heaven, call me by a different name. It was a stroke of genius and one that would ultimate leave me alone with the stroking. Again.
Needless to say that when she did eventually find out who I was she was disappointed on so many levels (story of my life). Admittedly she did get a nice rose out of it but by then it had wilted up and died, like my love for her. Yeah I fancied her but she was also a complete slut and I don’t mean to cast aspersions on her character, she really was. It would never have worked out between us.
These days I’m not so inclined. Every time I send the missus mystery flowers she knows it’s me on account of the frugal size of the bunch, or that I got them from the supermarket. We used to do alternative giving’s like CDs and stuff but you know how it is, after a few years together you’re pretty much in agitate, not placate, mode with each other.
Lancey spiced up his Valentines this year by blocking the toilet at home and leaving it for his missus. Not intentionally mind, but he got sidetracked by its girth, his inability to flush it and the need to get to work and tell me about it. Some four hours later and he hasn’t heard anything from the home front, no call, no txt*. Maybe he should’ve done it in a shape of a heart?
I for one like it though, it’s different. Nothing says love more than leaving something akin to the Cook Strait cable in a filled bowl for the missus to clean up. It’s true love when you’ve reached that level of comfort. In the early days you would’ve done everything to clear that sucker, including grabbing the whisk from the kitchen draw…
No Valentines day is not for us and let’s be honest, is just another Americanised holiday that appeals to teenagers, the desperate to be American and retailers who make a mint out of fleecing all of them. Fuck that, I’d rather have a blocked toilet.
*Lancey eventually did get that call and it cost him a dozen red roses. That's the most expensive dump he's ever had.
Nothing says ‘I love you’ more than a creepy bunch of flowers. Not that the flowers are creepy of course, but the cryptic card or in most case, no card at all, never quite has the same affect on a woman as it does in the movies. Funny that.
I’ve given my fair share of them bunches in my time. What a hopeless romantic I was back in the day. Unfortunately one man’s romantic is another womens stalker and much money was wasted freaking girls out in the pursuit of lustiness. Luckily that can be done for free on the internets these days.
One such story involved me sending a rose to an older girl at college in the mistaken believe that she would fall for the pimply younger boy in the fitting adidas track pants, the ones with stirrups. I sent it anonymously of course because I didn’t want to appear desperate and then proceeded to send her cryptic notes along the lines of “I’ll wear this top tomorrow, or be carrying this so you’ll know it’s me”. Yep, I was making her work for entry into my wonderland.
Eventually she found out my name but didn’t know me by sight so to speed up the pre-coital process I made Bruiser, the go between in this match made in heaven, call me by a different name. It was a stroke of genius and one that would ultimate leave me alone with the stroking. Again.
Needless to say that when she did eventually find out who I was she was disappointed on so many levels (story of my life). Admittedly she did get a nice rose out of it but by then it had wilted up and died, like my love for her. Yeah I fancied her but she was also a complete slut and I don’t mean to cast aspersions on her character, she really was. It would never have worked out between us.
These days I’m not so inclined. Every time I send the missus mystery flowers she knows it’s me on account of the frugal size of the bunch, or that I got them from the supermarket. We used to do alternative giving’s like CDs and stuff but you know how it is, after a few years together you’re pretty much in agitate, not placate, mode with each other.
Lancey spiced up his Valentines this year by blocking the toilet at home and leaving it for his missus. Not intentionally mind, but he got sidetracked by its girth, his inability to flush it and the need to get to work and tell me about it. Some four hours later and he hasn’t heard anything from the home front, no call, no txt*. Maybe he should’ve done it in a shape of a heart?
I for one like it though, it’s different. Nothing says love more than leaving something akin to the Cook Strait cable in a filled bowl for the missus to clean up. It’s true love when you’ve reached that level of comfort. In the early days you would’ve done everything to clear that sucker, including grabbing the whisk from the kitchen draw…
No Valentines day is not for us and let’s be honest, is just another Americanised holiday that appeals to teenagers, the desperate to be American and retailers who make a mint out of fleecing all of them. Fuck that, I’d rather have a blocked toilet.
*Lancey eventually did get that call and it cost him a dozen red roses. That's the most expensive dump he's ever had.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
24 Sevens
Is anyone bored with the whole annual Sevens party yet?
Just me it would seem, or maybe the guy who got done for a streak but then he's not allowed there anymore so he might be done with it too.
My days of drinking 24 cans in a day are of course, long gone, but even I have to admit that in these, my mature killjoy days, that that’s a pretty good effort. Oh sure, it then lead the poor guy to go do something ridiculous like run onto the field in his gruts to try and tackle a 90kg Samoan, but it’s a fine advertisement for excess alcohol consumption: Beer. It gives you balls!
And the shits… but that last phrase would probably never catch on. It doesn’t do remorse either apparently, the fore mentioned guy received a two year ban from the stadium something he only feels ‘a little bit stink’ about.
Despite this overwhelming example of its many merits, getting pissed was a big ‘no no’ on the agenda of the organising committee for this year’s tournament and as such they took some radical steps; they offered prizes for the best costume and encouraged fans to get to the stadium earlier so as to hopefully drink less before arriving.
Amateurs.
Clearly no one on that particular committee has been shit faced whilst dressed in a toga because if they had they would’ve known that neither of those two initiatives would make much difference. For one, most people, when faced with dressing up need to be pissed senseless to handle the perceived embarrassment of looking like a tit and as such, if forced to arrive earlier will simply drink the same amount in a shorter space of time. Case in point, Mr 24 Cans himself.
What they could’ve done was banned the selling of alcohol at the ground, now THAT is an initiative. But these days the hand that giveth the beer earns far too much money from it to ever allow it to be taketh away so there’s no chance of that happening. But still, if anyone down at the Cake Tin was really serious about doing something about it that would be a pretty tasty start.
Incidentally my favourite Sevens story only exists thanks to the mindless consumption of liquor so I am somewhat grateful for the ever ready presence and availability of the demon elixir.
On Yer Bike Stu tells of the time he and a colleague were musing over just who would take the double pass to the Red Zone somebody else was offering up on the cheap. Stu eventually and somewhat regretfully, turned it down and let the colleague take it. Imagine his disappointment then when she arrived at work on Monday to tell him all about the whale of a time she’d had.
The guy sat directly behind her had arrived inebriated in his caveman costume, sans any form of underwear and proceeded to spend the next eight hours spilling, vomiting and urinating down the back of her chair. At some point in the evening he took to exposing himself and more than once attempted to teabag her on the back of the head....
Needless to say she’s never been back since and I for one empathise. Nobody wants to see a drunken mans junk. Why just the other week at Hixies stag do we were horrified to see a couple of hairy plums poking out of the undies from another stag there that night. He had been dragged on stage for the ritualistic humiliation on offer from one of the lovely ladies that he had been shouted by his very good mates.
Admittedly he was wearing ladies underwear but that’s no excuse. I didn’t pay my $10 to see gnads on stage, that’s a whole different strip club. Not even 24 cans would prepare a fella for that.
Just me it would seem, or maybe the guy who got done for a streak but then he's not allowed there anymore so he might be done with it too.
My days of drinking 24 cans in a day are of course, long gone, but even I have to admit that in these, my mature killjoy days, that that’s a pretty good effort. Oh sure, it then lead the poor guy to go do something ridiculous like run onto the field in his gruts to try and tackle a 90kg Samoan, but it’s a fine advertisement for excess alcohol consumption: Beer. It gives you balls!
And the shits… but that last phrase would probably never catch on. It doesn’t do remorse either apparently, the fore mentioned guy received a two year ban from the stadium something he only feels ‘a little bit stink’ about.
Despite this overwhelming example of its many merits, getting pissed was a big ‘no no’ on the agenda of the organising committee for this year’s tournament and as such they took some radical steps; they offered prizes for the best costume and encouraged fans to get to the stadium earlier so as to hopefully drink less before arriving.
Amateurs.
Clearly no one on that particular committee has been shit faced whilst dressed in a toga because if they had they would’ve known that neither of those two initiatives would make much difference. For one, most people, when faced with dressing up need to be pissed senseless to handle the perceived embarrassment of looking like a tit and as such, if forced to arrive earlier will simply drink the same amount in a shorter space of time. Case in point, Mr 24 Cans himself.
What they could’ve done was banned the selling of alcohol at the ground, now THAT is an initiative. But these days the hand that giveth the beer earns far too much money from it to ever allow it to be taketh away so there’s no chance of that happening. But still, if anyone down at the Cake Tin was really serious about doing something about it that would be a pretty tasty start.
Incidentally my favourite Sevens story only exists thanks to the mindless consumption of liquor so I am somewhat grateful for the ever ready presence and availability of the demon elixir.
On Yer Bike Stu tells of the time he and a colleague were musing over just who would take the double pass to the Red Zone somebody else was offering up on the cheap. Stu eventually and somewhat regretfully, turned it down and let the colleague take it. Imagine his disappointment then when she arrived at work on Monday to tell him all about the whale of a time she’d had.
The guy sat directly behind her had arrived inebriated in his caveman costume, sans any form of underwear and proceeded to spend the next eight hours spilling, vomiting and urinating down the back of her chair. At some point in the evening he took to exposing himself and more than once attempted to teabag her on the back of the head....
Needless to say she’s never been back since and I for one empathise. Nobody wants to see a drunken mans junk. Why just the other week at Hixies stag do we were horrified to see a couple of hairy plums poking out of the undies from another stag there that night. He had been dragged on stage for the ritualistic humiliation on offer from one of the lovely ladies that he had been shouted by his very good mates.
Admittedly he was wearing ladies underwear but that’s no excuse. I didn’t pay my $10 to see gnads on stage, that’s a whole different strip club. Not even 24 cans would prepare a fella for that.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Football Fashionistas
The Phoenix are riding high this season and I for one am well impressed.
Not because I have any desire to have long warm showers with the lads but because they’ve got a lot of haters arund the place which is a shame really because of all our professional teams here in Welling Town, they by far, do the bizzo season in and season out.
This week they donned an all black strip which each player is auctioning of for his charity of choice. It’s a nice touch but you have to wonder if the fellas are doing themselves any favours in the mastermind stakes by allowing this to appear on each of their auctions:
The adidas strip was designed by players Andrew Durante, Tim Brown and Leo Bertos using adidas’ online customization tool miTeam.com.
Um it’s black. With adidas stripes. That are white.
I don’t think the fashion houses of Paris and Milan have anything to worry about just yet with these guys. Still, that’s why they’re footballers I suppose.
Andrew 'Dainty' Durante: Footballer, Fashionista, Good with colours.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Ron Weasels on ESPN. Well Wanky.
And now a little something form the ‘I couldn’t make this shit up’ file.
A few posts ago I made the rather witty comparison that Ed Sheeran, singer of the deeply moving ‘The A Team’ looked a lot like Ron Weasels from the Harry Potter films. I linked the two because they are of course, gingas.
Now usually I don’t link back to my own work because I think that’s an extremely wanky thing for anyone to do, but just this once I’m going to otherwise this rather serendipitous follow up is not going to work if you haven’t read the original.
That’s the second time in as many weeks as I’ve used the term serendipitous. Now that is wanky.
Imagine my surprise then when JK told me that he walked in on his brother watching the latest Ed Sheeran music video which stars, wait for it, Ron Weasels. Or rather Rupert Grint, the actor who plays him. Jeez he had it tough right from the start didn’t he; not only did his parents make him a raging fire crotch but then they went and named him Rupert…
Luckily JK wasn’t fazed by walking in on this, unlike my family who found me downloading a naked picture of Ronan Keating almost the very same day. They still don’t believe it was for this post.
Fuck, that’s the second link I’ve used now. Wanky. Very wanky.
Anyhoo, the video is very well done and well worth a look if you fancy Ed Sheeran, Ron Weasles or simply want to marvel in my omnipotence. Honestly, I must have ESPN or something to have picked this one.
Allow me to link you. Wank.
Ed and Rupert, as seen on my ESPN.
A few posts ago I made the rather witty comparison that Ed Sheeran, singer of the deeply moving ‘The A Team’ looked a lot like Ron Weasels from the Harry Potter films. I linked the two because they are of course, gingas.
Now usually I don’t link back to my own work because I think that’s an extremely wanky thing for anyone to do, but just this once I’m going to otherwise this rather serendipitous follow up is not going to work if you haven’t read the original.
That’s the second time in as many weeks as I’ve used the term serendipitous. Now that is wanky.
Imagine my surprise then when JK told me that he walked in on his brother watching the latest Ed Sheeran music video which stars, wait for it, Ron Weasels. Or rather Rupert Grint, the actor who plays him. Jeez he had it tough right from the start didn’t he; not only did his parents make him a raging fire crotch but then they went and named him Rupert…
Luckily JK wasn’t fazed by walking in on this, unlike my family who found me downloading a naked picture of Ronan Keating almost the very same day. They still don’t believe it was for this post.
Fuck, that’s the second link I’ve used now. Wanky. Very wanky.
Anyhoo, the video is very well done and well worth a look if you fancy Ed Sheeran, Ron Weasles or simply want to marvel in my omnipotence. Honestly, I must have ESPN or something to have picked this one.
Allow me to link you. Wank.
Ed and Rupert, as seen on my ESPN.Thursday, January 26, 2012
Australian X Factor
Is a show where former nobodies who became manufactured pop stars try to make….more manufactured pop stars.
Only without the intercourse which, quite frankly, is a blessing because as much as I want to see Ronan Keating’s bum I’d rather not see Mel ‘Scary Spice’ Brown in any such action, fuck you very much. Bitch be scary alright.
So how does that work exactly? The four judges built their ‘careers’ based on what someone else told them to think, wear and sing. They had images moulded for them by somebody else who then made a lot of money from that very cultivation. How then does that put them in a position to mentor anyone?
At least Keating has had some experience in this type of thing; he went from boy band massive to finding hot new boy bands. He would be the judge everyone would want I would think because he has some semblance of knowing what he’s doing and just to prove the point, it was his guy who won last years show. Where is that guy now? That’s irrelevant.
I don’t even know who the blonde judge is, that’s how big she made it.
And being Australian no one has a bad thing to say about no bugger, ever. Even when the judges try to be the teeniest bit critical it turns into a boo fest from those hundreds in the studio audience that know better, that’s why they’re all rock stars and not rent a crowd.
Worst of all? It’s on four nights a week and the winner's video is already all over the music channels. The show has no point. This theory can be safely applied to any show with 'X Factor' in its title.
Oh and don't Google image Ronan Keating because nobody deserves to see this:
Hey at least it wasn't a pic of Scary Spice with a milkshake *shiver*
Only without the intercourse which, quite frankly, is a blessing because as much as I want to see Ronan Keating’s bum I’d rather not see Mel ‘Scary Spice’ Brown in any such action, fuck you very much. Bitch be scary alright.
So how does that work exactly? The four judges built their ‘careers’ based on what someone else told them to think, wear and sing. They had images moulded for them by somebody else who then made a lot of money from that very cultivation. How then does that put them in a position to mentor anyone?
At least Keating has had some experience in this type of thing; he went from boy band massive to finding hot new boy bands. He would be the judge everyone would want I would think because he has some semblance of knowing what he’s doing and just to prove the point, it was his guy who won last years show. Where is that guy now? That’s irrelevant.
I don’t even know who the blonde judge is, that’s how big she made it.
And being Australian no one has a bad thing to say about no bugger, ever. Even when the judges try to be the teeniest bit critical it turns into a boo fest from those hundreds in the studio audience that know better, that’s why they’re all rock stars and not rent a crowd.
Worst of all? It’s on four nights a week and the winner's video is already all over the music channels. The show has no point. This theory can be safely applied to any show with 'X Factor' in its title.
Oh and don't Google image Ronan Keating because nobody deserves to see this:
Hey at least it wasn't a pic of Scary Spice with a milkshake *shiver*Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Slot My Overhang
From: Almo
Sent: Wednesday, 25 January 2012 15:36
To: ClubDes; Chef
Subject: Training and Process moves to the front in 2012
Kia Ora,
I have a couple of items on my list which are processes which I want to move at some stage this year. I have listed these below.
• Completion of text support and procedures
• Messaging support and procedures
• Telco request support and procedures
You may very well note that some of these are overhanging from last year that I didn’t manage to complete then. So what I wanted to do was canvas what the training schedule is looking like so we can slot these items in. Then I can start trying to work to these dates.
Nga Mihi,
Alan
From: ClubDes
Sent: Wednesday, 25 January 2012 15:42
To: Almo; Chef
Subject: RE: Training and Process moves to the front in 2012
您大同性戀同性戀
Thank you for your very cultural greeting.
I shall leave the canvassing to Chef and will occasionally slot my overhang in through the door. Please show me your date.
美好的 一天，你針鋒 相對
ClubDes
Sent: Wednesday, 25 January 2012 15:36
To: ClubDes; Chef
Subject: Training and Process moves to the front in 2012
Kia Ora,
I have a couple of items on my list which are processes which I want to move at some stage this year. I have listed these below.
• Completion of text support and procedures
• Messaging support and procedures
• Telco request support and procedures
You may very well note that some of these are overhanging from last year that I didn’t manage to complete then. So what I wanted to do was canvas what the training schedule is looking like so we can slot these items in. Then I can start trying to work to these dates.
Nga Mihi,
Alan
From: ClubDes
Sent: Wednesday, 25 January 2012 15:42
To: Almo; Chef
Subject: RE: Training and Process moves to the front in 2012
您大同性戀同性戀
Thank you for your very cultural greeting.
I shall leave the canvassing to Chef and will occasionally slot my overhang in through the door. Please show me your date.
美好的 一天，你針鋒 相對
ClubDes
Monday, January 23, 2012
Tips for the Ladies?
Life works in mysterious ways sometimes.
In a remarkable bit of serendipity I found myself propping up the bar in a strip club this weekend, only days after posting a piece about how useless I would be in the company of such ladies.
My reason for being there was a stag do, I’m not quite sure what the Asian tourist couple were doing there but it was the oddest sight of all night; him with his back pack on looking very excited and animated, she not so but yet, there she was, still there supporting her man and his Caucasian girl fantasy. And who says Asian bride subservience is a bad thing aye?
A strip club is a lot like a casino in that it presents a fascinating microcosm of life at its simplest. It doesn’t get much simpler or primal then men gathering around to watch ladies take their clothes off and say what you will about the art of it, that’s what they’re there for; no one is critiquing the pole routine or wardrobe selections.
If you’re like me and I am quite magnificent, so you’re probably not, then it’s a bit of an emotional experience. Being there with a group of men this time (as opposed to lesbians my last visit) I found myself at times reverting to type and freely offered my opinion on the performers main points.
Sometimes, usually following such a moralistic discussion, I felt like a seedy old man, standing at the back and casting aspirations on the promiscuity of someone who spends most of their working hours wearing nothing.
And yet most of the time I wondered about the stuff I usually wonder about in situations like that – not that I get myself into many situations of its kind, unfortunately – like what motivates them to do it, how do they feel about being leered over and manhandled by the punters, is it easy money…that kind of thing.
Unfortunately it’s not the kind of discussion one can easily have when tucking some house money into the thin g-string worn by the young lady giving you a bit of frottage, or as she motor boats you with her exposed nungas, so naturally I held my tongue. And my cash as it happened because I didn’t feel the urge to tuck it anywhere but my back pocket.
I did give it all to Magenta as I left but only because I admired her tattoos and that seemed a good enough reason for a stranger to give her money I figured. She was quite lovely to talk to too but I don’t think Magenta is her real name…
Life at it's simplest; the strip club.
In a remarkable bit of serendipity I found myself propping up the bar in a strip club this weekend, only days after posting a piece about how useless I would be in the company of such ladies.
My reason for being there was a stag do, I’m not quite sure what the Asian tourist couple were doing there but it was the oddest sight of all night; him with his back pack on looking very excited and animated, she not so but yet, there she was, still there supporting her man and his Caucasian girl fantasy. And who says Asian bride subservience is a bad thing aye?
A strip club is a lot like a casino in that it presents a fascinating microcosm of life at its simplest. It doesn’t get much simpler or primal then men gathering around to watch ladies take their clothes off and say what you will about the art of it, that’s what they’re there for; no one is critiquing the pole routine or wardrobe selections.
If you’re like me and I am quite magnificent, so you’re probably not, then it’s a bit of an emotional experience. Being there with a group of men this time (as opposed to lesbians my last visit) I found myself at times reverting to type and freely offered my opinion on the performers main points.
Sometimes, usually following such a moralistic discussion, I felt like a seedy old man, standing at the back and casting aspirations on the promiscuity of someone who spends most of their working hours wearing nothing.
And yet most of the time I wondered about the stuff I usually wonder about in situations like that – not that I get myself into many situations of its kind, unfortunately – like what motivates them to do it, how do they feel about being leered over and manhandled by the punters, is it easy money…that kind of thing.
Unfortunately it’s not the kind of discussion one can easily have when tucking some house money into the thin g-string worn by the young lady giving you a bit of frottage, or as she motor boats you with her exposed nungas, so naturally I held my tongue. And my cash as it happened because I didn’t feel the urge to tuck it anywhere but my back pocket.
I did give it all to Magenta as I left but only because I admired her tattoos and that seemed a good enough reason for a stranger to give her money I figured. She was quite lovely to talk to too but I don’t think Magenta is her real name…
Life at it's simplest; the strip club.Friday, January 20, 2012
Bottom tattoo sells for $12k
Thank fuck for that. Because I was seriously worried that the silly bitch wouldn't get a good price for it and make herself look even more ridiculous than she seemed...
Can this then please be the last front page / lead news story of its kind, ever?
And editors everywhere, just in case there is any doubt in future as to what constitutes this kind of non event ask yourselves this simple question:
Q. Does it involve a try hard Hutt chick desperate for some attention?
If the answer is yes then the other answer you’re looking for is most definitely a no.
This Is A Black Out
Wankipedia blacked out its pages this week in protest against some proposed bill that had something to do with film and music piracy.
Quite why the six poindexters who write the stuff on Wankipedia thought that their actions would save the world of free and illegal downloads I don’t know, their site offers neither, but hey, each to their own I guess.
The bill probably proposes the same thing that all the other ones that get put forward by governments around the world do; let’s shut down the means of getting copyrighted shit for free. Naturally, all those that do pinch the stuff suddenly get up in arms about potentially not being able to. What a fucken surprise.
‘Imagine a world without free knowledge’ is the heading on the black out Wankped page. ‘For over a decade we have spent millions of hours building the largest encyclopaedia in human history’ it goes on to read. ‘US Congress is considering legislation that could fatally damage the free and open Internet’. Stirring stuff, I hope someone doesn’t have to use this chair after me…
Only I don’t really see the correlation between say, downloading a movie / song illegally and writing anything on a wiki. Oh sure, if you plan to write the synopsis of the movie you just pinched for free then you’re affected. But hey, if a fat kid falls in the woods and no one is there to see it is it still funny? You know it is.
Ironically the wiki black out page has links to Facebook, Google and Twitter, none of which decided to do the same to theirs.
I’ve gone on record about this stuff before but I shall repeat it because I love the sound of my own voice. I believe you should pay for something that someone with far more creativity than you and I have created. Now I don’t agree with paying an extra two hundred percent on top of what the artist gets, just so that every bastard in the manufacturer-to-consumer chain gets his pound of flesh, but you should pay something.
For instance, I won’t pay $35 for a CD because very little of that goes to the cardigan and scarf wearing writer of the song, but I will buy the song I want off iTunes for $1.50. Nor will I pay $20 to see a movie just to cover the wages of the waster at the candy counter that have their pubes, but not their heart, in filling my box of pop corn.
If you’re one of those geezers that doesn’t even believe that they should pay that then you can fuck off. Black out your page if you want but I’m not buying your argument or your desperate cries for solidarity when you’re faced with the prospect of losing something that was never yours to have for free in the first place.
You can stick that on your blacked out wank page too.
This was a pic of the most beautiful girl you've ever seen, naked. But as I copied it illegally from a porn site I didn't pay for I felt it only appropriate that I black it out...
Quite why the six poindexters who write the stuff on Wankipedia thought that their actions would save the world of free and illegal downloads I don’t know, their site offers neither, but hey, each to their own I guess.
The bill probably proposes the same thing that all the other ones that get put forward by governments around the world do; let’s shut down the means of getting copyrighted shit for free. Naturally, all those that do pinch the stuff suddenly get up in arms about potentially not being able to. What a fucken surprise.
‘Imagine a world without free knowledge’ is the heading on the black out Wankped page. ‘For over a decade we have spent millions of hours building the largest encyclopaedia in human history’ it goes on to read. ‘US Congress is considering legislation that could fatally damage the free and open Internet’. Stirring stuff, I hope someone doesn’t have to use this chair after me…
Only I don’t really see the correlation between say, downloading a movie / song illegally and writing anything on a wiki. Oh sure, if you plan to write the synopsis of the movie you just pinched for free then you’re affected. But hey, if a fat kid falls in the woods and no one is there to see it is it still funny? You know it is.
Ironically the wiki black out page has links to Facebook, Google and Twitter, none of which decided to do the same to theirs.
I’ve gone on record about this stuff before but I shall repeat it because I love the sound of my own voice. I believe you should pay for something that someone with far more creativity than you and I have created. Now I don’t agree with paying an extra two hundred percent on top of what the artist gets, just so that every bastard in the manufacturer-to-consumer chain gets his pound of flesh, but you should pay something.
For instance, I won’t pay $35 for a CD because very little of that goes to the cardigan and scarf wearing writer of the song, but I will buy the song I want off iTunes for $1.50. Nor will I pay $20 to see a movie just to cover the wages of the waster at the candy counter that have their pubes, but not their heart, in filling my box of pop corn.
If you’re one of those geezers that doesn’t even believe that they should pay that then you can fuck off. Black out your page if you want but I’m not buying your argument or your desperate cries for solidarity when you’re faced with the prospect of losing something that was never yours to have for free in the first place.
You can stick that on your blacked out wank page too.
This was a pic of the most beautiful girl you've ever seen, naked. But as I copied it illegally from a porn site I didn't pay for I felt it only appropriate that I black it out...Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Skip The Light Fandango
One of my favorite tunes on the wireless at the moment is a lovely wee ditty called ‘The A Team’ by a fella named Ed Sheeran.
You’ve probably heard it and / or seen the music video, it’s quite good. Unfortunately despite the title it has nothing to do with the most awesome and possibly best TV series ever of the same name…
It’s one of those songs that talks about angels and stuff and will undoubtedly be played at weddings by couples who haven’t listened well enough to realise the song is in fact about a homeless girl who sells herself to pay for her drug habit. Hence the line ‘she’s in the Class A team’ which has nothing to do with how popular she is / was at school. It really is deep on so many levels.
Apparently this is not a new phenomenon. In the 70’s the big wedding song of choice was ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ by Procol Harlem which talks about skipping the light fandango and other fruity things one does when one has a more than casual relationship with Charlie. Or cocaine as it’s sometimes called.
Not to be confused with ‘the’ Charlie, or soldier of the North Vietnamese Army who I had more than a casual relationship with back in ’69. He certainly wasn’t up for turning cartwheels across the floor or jizzing all over sixteen vessel virgins. Well maybe, who knows how Charlie unwound after a long day of being invisible. He was a man of mystery after all.
The writers of that particular song have long denied that it is actually about drug use but hey it was the sixties after all so who really knows aye? They sure wouldn’t. Sheeran on the other hand makes no such ingenuous claims; his song is what it is and he wrote it after doing a performance in a homeless shelter. What a guy.
I remember the very sexy Dido saying something similar about a song of hers at a concert me and the missus attended once. Hers was about locking herself and a drug addict mate in a room and going cold turkey till she was better. Naturally it was a huge wedding song at the time.
Incidentally my mate Marco bumped into Dido whilst in a cheese shop in London town one time. He reckons she was quite rude but that’s what you get for entering a cheese shop Marco, you tit. Might have been a fish shop actually, but that’s irrelevant.
So if your mate is about to pick The A Team as her song to walk down the aisle to, as she marries her favorite cat, then show her the vid on The YouChube. There are actually two clips, one of which is just Sheeran playing his guitar in the recording studio. You’ll know it because, well, he’s playing his guitar in the studio and he looks a lot like the ginga off Harry Potter. And it’s a bit gay. That’s not it. Pick the other one.
I’ve seen it a couple of times now and each time it reminds me of why I could never be a frequent flyer with working ladies because I am just too damn paternal. The one and only time I visited a strip club I spent the whole time wanting to take all the poor girls home and just give them a damn good cooked meal.
I don’t recall feeling that the time I saw a similar themed New Year’s show in The Hutt a few years earlier where a very talented young lady did remarkable things with a ping pong ball and a light stick. Not at the same time mind you because that really would be talent wouldn’t it? But then that was just tacky.
In the case of the girl featured in The A Team video I would run the poor girl a long hot bath, buy her some new stockings and let her have a good nights sleep, maybe even make her breakfast in bed the next day.
Oh sure, it won’t pay for her drug habit but at least she won’t need Ron Weasley to write a song about her for fucks sake.
Stuck in her daydream, been this way since 18...
You’ve probably heard it and / or seen the music video, it’s quite good. Unfortunately despite the title it has nothing to do with the most awesome and possibly best TV series ever of the same name…
It’s one of those songs that talks about angels and stuff and will undoubtedly be played at weddings by couples who haven’t listened well enough to realise the song is in fact about a homeless girl who sells herself to pay for her drug habit. Hence the line ‘she’s in the Class A team’ which has nothing to do with how popular she is / was at school. It really is deep on so many levels.
Apparently this is not a new phenomenon. In the 70’s the big wedding song of choice was ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ by Procol Harlem which talks about skipping the light fandango and other fruity things one does when one has a more than casual relationship with Charlie. Or cocaine as it’s sometimes called.
Not to be confused with ‘the’ Charlie, or soldier of the North Vietnamese Army who I had more than a casual relationship with back in ’69. He certainly wasn’t up for turning cartwheels across the floor or jizzing all over sixteen vessel virgins. Well maybe, who knows how Charlie unwound after a long day of being invisible. He was a man of mystery after all.
The writers of that particular song have long denied that it is actually about drug use but hey it was the sixties after all so who really knows aye? They sure wouldn’t. Sheeran on the other hand makes no such ingenuous claims; his song is what it is and he wrote it after doing a performance in a homeless shelter. What a guy.
I remember the very sexy Dido saying something similar about a song of hers at a concert me and the missus attended once. Hers was about locking herself and a drug addict mate in a room and going cold turkey till she was better. Naturally it was a huge wedding song at the time.
Incidentally my mate Marco bumped into Dido whilst in a cheese shop in London town one time. He reckons she was quite rude but that’s what you get for entering a cheese shop Marco, you tit. Might have been a fish shop actually, but that’s irrelevant.
So if your mate is about to pick The A Team as her song to walk down the aisle to, as she marries her favorite cat, then show her the vid on The YouChube. There are actually two clips, one of which is just Sheeran playing his guitar in the recording studio. You’ll know it because, well, he’s playing his guitar in the studio and he looks a lot like the ginga off Harry Potter. And it’s a bit gay. That’s not it. Pick the other one.
I’ve seen it a couple of times now and each time it reminds me of why I could never be a frequent flyer with working ladies because I am just too damn paternal. The one and only time I visited a strip club I spent the whole time wanting to take all the poor girls home and just give them a damn good cooked meal.
I don’t recall feeling that the time I saw a similar themed New Year’s show in The Hutt a few years earlier where a very talented young lady did remarkable things with a ping pong ball and a light stick. Not at the same time mind you because that really would be talent wouldn’t it? But then that was just tacky.
In the case of the girl featured in The A Team video I would run the poor girl a long hot bath, buy her some new stockings and let her have a good nights sleep, maybe even make her breakfast in bed the next day.
Oh sure, it won’t pay for her drug habit but at least she won’t need Ron Weasley to write a song about her for fucks sake.
Stuck in her daydream, been this way since 18...
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