The Lost Art Of The Secret Santa

I’ve said this once but I’ll say it again: the art of the Secret Santa gift giving in the office is not what it was.

Once upon a time colleagues took the time to find out two things about the co-worker they were buying for; either what they were interested in or what would embarrass them the most. Thus the point of Secret Santa philosophy was fulfilled, it bought work mates closer together.

Now shit has just got silly. No one gives anything as thoughtful as a book of hand drawn sketches of rifles to a gun enthusiast or as amusing as a tube of KY to the 40 year old virgin anymore. Even the mandatory pack of nudie playing cards (guys for the guys, girls for buyer) has dried up quicker than Grandma.

It started when people started giving stress balls and those ridiculous plastic reindeer that shat chocolate covered raisins if you pushed down on their hind legs. A gift that serves no purpose whatsoever because even when you know what they are, who on earth is going to eat reindeer shit?

Personally I blame the advent of The Two Dollar shop and other such emporiums of tat that act as a Mecca for those that just can’t be arsed. A minute, plastic pool table for the desk is neither practical nor functional so why even contemplate buying the fucken thing? Besides if I’m that bored at work a second hand stick mag in the mens will do the trick and it’s well under the $5 limit.

For the completely unimaginative Secret Santa means buying a box of crappy wafer sticks from the Warehouse, or a bag of lollies. For the completely disorganised it’s something pinched from the stationary cupboard or the stapler from Stu’s desk.

What is amazingly to me though is that despite the frugality of the economy these days, no one has yet started giving blocks of cheese, two litre bottles of milk or preserving jars full of petrol. Secret Santa is just not that practical I guess.

Thank fully I am blessed with thoughtful team mates, or at least two of them, for my last two gifts have been AWESOME and have been clearly purchased by someone who has done their homework, realising that I am both a ninja and proficient in handling the AK47:

Not that I would ever use a firearm whilst slicing and dicing my way through a garrison of very bad men because as we all know, swords don’t run out of bullets.

Mind you my last two efforts have been pretty good even if I do say so; a six pack of dirty Rheineck and a good night in for Ron Jeremy last year and this year? A mega can of horse piss aka Red Bull for Candylane because she loves the stuff. Actually I could’ve taken a warm steamy one in a bottle and saved the $5 really for all the taste or nutritional content that rubbish has in it. Next year maybe.

So it might be too late to not give that crappy chocolate cacking reindeer now but give it some thought next year aye?

A Real Tale Of Epic Survival

54 days rowing in a seven metre boat, by yourself, across the Tasman Sea? Luxury.

It’s not like this geezer spent 21 days and nights floating down the Mekong Delta on the door from a burnt out Huey, as I did back in 1968.

Not by choice mind you but my god you didn’t hear me crying about it every time that door rolled over and dunked me in the water. It’s a little known fact that the sobs from a well endowed Caucasian man can travel two miles on a clear night. I knew it and what’s more Charlie knew it, so I did my crying on the inside.

After each dip in the Delta I had to reapply the layer of mud and excrement I had smeared on myself to camouflage myself at night. Did I make a video diary of the whole sorry occasion? No I did not. I was far too busy surviving. Sleeping with all three eyes open and the safeties off.

As for a water purifier mine was my bladder; I didn’t have any water to drink other than the thick brown stuff I was floating on, so it was that or my own urine. At least I knew where that had been. The only food I had to eat were the leeches that dined on my permanently submerged nether regions and the odd predatory bird that mistook me for a dead thing.

And oars? I dreamed of oars. All I had was the butt of the captured AK47 that I liberated from Charlie when he came looking for survivors after nailing our bird with a SAM. When I had finished with him and his platoon all I had was three rounds, the truth and the muffled sounds of a Chinese takeaway in the bushes about half a click behind me. Needless to say I got the fuck out of Dodge right there and then.

So my decision to hit the water was through necessity, not some lame publicity attempt sponsored by a watch maker and an internet provider. When I did finally make it back to the fire base no one met me on the beach with a warm bacon and egg sandwich – quite the opposite. I was mistaken for an insurgent and mortared right up till I was close enough for them to make me out as some skinny white guy covered in shit.

Now that is an epic tale of survival. But I can’t really say much more – it’s still classified.

I was in remarkably good shape when I finally came ashore...