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.

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.

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.''

Like White On Snow

How bout that snow aye?



Regular readers of this blog will know that the abnormally large portion of any discussion that we in this country attribute to the weather usually gets right on my tits, but this weeks wintry dump is the exception really. It was, in a word, sensational.



It started out in the media as a ‘one in every ten years’ occurrence and then someone must’ve thought back that far and realised, no hang on, I’ve been here ten years and never seen it this bad so it’s a ‘one in fifty years’ experience. That worked right up until some geezer older than fifty chipped in and now it’s a ‘once in a lifetime’ thing.



All of which is right up there with the school of thought that 73% of quoted percentages are made up, including that last one.



My first encounter with the white stuff was on Sunday night when I was forced to abandon the car halfway up our hill in J Town because it was impossible to go on. Progress up till that point had been only ever in two gears and a real series of short trips what with all the stopping, realigning of the passion wagon and red lining it in an attempt to get some grip.



Thus my three football girls and I had to leg it the rest of the way and despite being soaked through from the pre-blizzard downpour at practice, they still wanted to stop, make snow angels and throw the stuff at each other. That’s my girls.



It didn’t take long for all the kids in the neighborhood to get amongst it either and good on them. My son’s Massive promptly set about making the obligatory snow man and it, like so many others I’ve seen since, turned out to be more brown than white; an ethnic snowie, a half cast. Not at all like they look on movies and shit.



Junior stayed out so long one night we thought he had frostbite in his feet. I suggested that Bear Grylls would pee on his to keep them warm were he in the same situation. Not surprisingly it was not a helpful suggestion to make at that point in time.



Rather disappointingly the snow melted at our place the night before the day I decided I would mould something inappropriate on a neighbours lawn. Hopefully it starts to fall again because I’ve drawn scale plans and everything. It would be rude not to erect a four foot phallus really.



I’ll take a pic when I’m done and put it on Facebook, like every other bugger has. I love scrolling through all your photos of snow on trees and fences and the roof and the road and the car and the hills and fuck me I’m bored where are those ones of your wife in her bikini whilst you were holidaying in Fiji again?



I’m just kidding. Besides I copied those particular pics into a word document for easy access in the future. Admittedly I did post the one snow picture myself but only because it’s awesome as you will soon see.



The downside of this winter wonderland is that it has sadly, revealed us to be the country of soft cocks that we are. A bit of cold and snow and major metropolitan areas simply came to a stand still leaving the residents waiting around like the sheep that the farmers in the wops have to try so hard to save when it’s like this. Farmers on the other hand, are like slavery; they just get shit done.



There are places in the world where the residents live with this for most of the year. No, seriously.



I bet those dicks at adidas will have their trousers filled with white stuff too and I’m not talking about snow. The sudden change of the weather has suddenly meant we’re all whacking off about being cold and nobody is going on about over priced All Black jerseys anymore. Expect them back on the racks at full price any day now.



So enjoy the snow peeps, it’s a once in a lifetime experience. Until next year, that is.

What the frost?!

The All Black Rip Off

Its Rugby World Cup year, you might have noticed.

Apparently it’s going to be mega. One in three of us are not really interested, according to some poll, but that doesn’t mean it’s not going to be epic. Which includes the prices, as demonstrated by the new All Black jersey which will set you back a $190, but what price national fervour aye?

It’s not really new, in a design sense, although Ze Germans at Adidas reckon it took them two years to develop so it must contain adamantinum or something cutting edge like that. It’s black, of course, but now sports a white collar, like the jersey used to when the ABs wore their wife beating pride in the shape of a Steinlager badge on the right tit.

They say it’s a collar but it’s not in the traditional sense of the word. When your boss says smart casual dress Friday means ‘a collar’ he’s not expecting you to turn up in a tight titty tee with a white panel of fabric around the neck, no matter how slimming it is on you.

Incidentally, why has casual sex Fridays never caught on? I’ve made that suggestion at every workplace and it usually only ever results in me getting kicked out of the social club. Go figure.

Collars disappeared from rugby jerseys when some bugger realised that they were quite good for grabbing hold of, just like each others knobs. At that point it was decidedly uncool to have anything clutch able anywhere, thus in ushered the skin tight era of jerseys, which admittedly do look fantastic on the Adonis’s playing the game at the highest level, not so much on the fat fighters in the stadium watching.

Notice though, that the shorts have not got any tighter?

Now Kiwis being the must have sheep we are, lap this shit up, especially if we think we’re the first to get something. Thus Ze Germans have flogged a shit load of these jerseys all at full price, laughing all their way to the bank. It is a lovely accent is Ze German, even in moments of great humour. And they might just have continued to do so unabated, until the story broke that it’s actually cheaper to get the things online, from overseas.

Considerably so, which proves a little theory I’ve had since I started buying named, numbered and long sleeved football jerseys on line at the same price a plain, short sleeved one appears on the rack here; we’re getting shafted.

The AB jersey, lame faux collar or not, is our national jersey. It shouldn’t cost NZers nearly $200 to buy one. By all means, flog it to the Japs for that much but make it affordable for kids up and down the country to own one, for fucks sake. Football fans can own an All Whites jersey for $150, so what’s the diff?

Adidas reckon that they’re price comparable with other jerseys, like those of the Warriors. Who gives a shit, if someone is silly enough to pay that for a club jersey then mark those suckers up I say. Even the Warriors training jersey costs that much! Maybe they’ve got The Bad Mutcher running the merchandising at the club because nobody beats his meat. It says so on the radio ad.

They reckon that selling them here that much keeps NZ business in the black (no pun intended). What, like Rebel Sport, who will send their profits off to their Australian shareholders? Oh and the price hasn’t changed since 2009 they claim, like it’s a good thing. Pull the other one Adolf; it was a fucken rip off then too.

I like Adidas stuff. I own a fair bit of it and I won’t buy any other brand of football boots other than Ze Germans. Yes, I am aware of how the company convinced football to sell it’s the soul back in the seventies for a bunch of tracksuits and tricolour footballs and how the game has been paying for it since, but I also know they know their shit.

Including, it would seem, how to fleece an unsuspecting National populace. Buy online peeps, The ‘Das wins either way but at least you can have the satisfaction of not being taken for a sucker.

Rugby players like it tight these days...

Kickin' It With My Girls

Just when I thought that memorable weekends were a thing of the past I have two of my Top Five, ever, in the one year.

First was Melski’s and Emski’s wedding in May. Second was just this weekend past and our taking my girls football team to the world famous in NZ McCartney tournament in Taupo.

Now I’ve coached a lot of football, seven years worth to be exact, but I’ve never had a team that has left me with such a sense of reward as my girls have this season. Don’t get me wrong, I love my boys too, not in an NAMBLA way mind you, but girl’s football is different to that of the boys.

Oh and I recommend you don’t Google that particular acronym unless you really want to see the Department of Internal affairs confiscate your hard drive in a 6am dawn raid.

Girls approach the game differently. They play in the true spirit of the game where with the boys stuff gets real serious real fucken quick and pretty soon no one is really enjoying themselves. Unless you’re winning, then that’s pretty cool.

My girls still have that same desire to win but they go about it differently. They look at the game holistically and understand that to win they all need to play well as a team. Boys will always try and do it alone. Always.

My girls also soak stuff up like a sponge. If I teach one of them a turn I know I’ll see it executed the very next game, do the same with my boys and I’ll be waiting weeks before they decide that they’ll give it a go.

And I had forgotten how much fun girls in a group are, particularly between the ages of 11 and 14 like mine are. Needless to say once someone mentioned that they’d be carrying my balls on the road trip up it became the running joke that I could never quite live down. And here was I thinking I had heard every in-your-end-o comment that could be made regarding balls in a bag...

On the field they did me proud, off it they were just as impressive. Not that they were the only ones; an early highlight of the weekend was a group of older girls calling out to me “nice boots”. Oh yes. You know you’ve made good in the footballing world when shit hot female footballers dig your F30’s..

There is one added advantage of having 11 & 12 year old girls in the car; they don’t mind the songs you have on your iPod that you chose in the hope it would somehow help you regain your youth, because they sing along to Lady Gaga and Ke$ha just as loud as you do. The Jonas Brothers track did raise an eyebrow though, admittedly.

So girls, heaven forbid none of you ever read this because this blog is filthy and clearly written by someone very immature, but if you are or do, you should know that you rocked my world this weekend.

I hereby adopt you all as my own.

Compression Suits, Corduroys, Roman Sandals & Me

I saw a guy out walking today; he was clad head to toe in a compression suit.

Compression suits are all the rage amongst anyone who thinks they look like a superhero when out exercising, or just some dick out walking on a Sunday. Sports stars wear them of course, but then they’re paid to and because they’re all the rage they cost a shitload, which makes them even more sought after. No surprises there.

The idea of a compression suit is nothing new. I’ve known guys who’ve worn wetsuits under their rugby gear and back in the day lycra bike shorts were all the rage, especially for wearing under shorter shorts thus making it visible to anyone who cared to notice, that you were wearing them.

Elite players at the time claimed that bike pants supported the quadriceps and hamstring muscles and thus reduced the chance of injury. I reckoned they stopped your balls from popping out of the short over shorts and that was the real reason them fellas wore them. Still, I had to have some.

My parents were never going to buy me any; in fact they took great delight in purchasing the shortest football shorts they could find and this at a time when long shorts were back in vogue. They weren’t the slash up the side numbers that gay joggers love to wear, but they were fucken close to it.

To this day I can’t imagine where they found such short smugglers but knowing my mother she probably had them custom made. So I took matters into my own hands.

My favourite pair of track pants back then was a pair of the adidas numbers that had stirrups, oh yeah. I loved wearing them despite being oblivious to the fact that they left nothing to the imagination in the meat and two veg department. Although to be fair, my produce department never really blossomed till I was about 20 so girls back then really would’ve had to use their imagination.

Despite my love of them, the need far outweighed the means and so I took to the trackie daks with scissors, thus creating my own pair of thigh warming, ball hugging under shorts. Incidentally Coops had done the same with an old pair of his, so we both looked like a right couple of gay German footballers in our cut off adidas track pants.

We thought they were the shit too. My parents, rather predictably, did not.

They were furious, which I found odd because they hated the stirrup track pants with a passion and often threatened to throw them out if I was caught sneaking them to school to wear instead of my corduroys, again.

Yes, corduroys. Yet another humiliating, spastic garment my sadistic mother made me wear to school so that I could be laughed at even more than I was as the only kid wearing roman sandals...

Their punishment? They took away the short shorts and made me wear only the cut offs which, without the stirrups to stretch them out and down, made the top half of a pair of super tapered adidas track pants tighter than a man’s anus. So much so I could’ve worn nothing to football from the waist down, painted the whole crutch area black and still would’ve revealed less, then I did when wearing the cut offs.

In retaliation I took to my last remaining pair of track pants, of the parachute pant type, and made knee length shorts out of those. They looked fucken ridiculous but thanks to their puffy exterior and warm, fleecy inner lining I had my dignity back, somewhat.

As for the original cut offs I told my parents that someone had stolen them from my bag. They hadn’t of course and I kept them hidden away only to wear on occasions when I longed for the touch of the over locked inner seam against the underside of my scrotum.

Which, if we’re being honest here, is the real reason we fella’s like to wear things like compression suits; it’s the feel of them up against the wife’s retired wedding present that really gets us going and not this bullshit about them aiding recovery. To wit - do we wear them when recovering? No we do not.

Maybe that’s the reason why the walker had such a big smile on his face...

Grandad's compression suit was way ahead of it's time...

The Fruity All Blacks

All Black fans might’ve seen that something fruity is afoot with the team’s training kit this season. Then again rugby fans are big masturbators so maybe they haven’t.

Adidas have seemingly gotten around the fact that the AB’s, unlike so many of the other teams they supply, never change the look of their jerseys. Ever. It’s black mofo, and what’s more it’s written into the contract that Ze Germans can never change that particular aspect of dressing the ABs, which is a damn good thing because if there’s one thing sports clothing companies like to do it’s fuck shit like that up.

But they seem to have found a loop hole; the training jersey.

This season Adidas, in conjunction with shirt sponsor Powerade, appear to be dressing the team like giant bottles of the stuff. So now they don’t look so much like mega walls of chiselled granite as they do large containers of sugary piss water.

In the week leading up to the first test against the Irish they wore Powerade blue. In the second week, leading up to the first test against the Welsh they still wore the blue, but had a day where they wore all white, supposedly paying homage to the All Whites before their game against Italy.

Coincidentally, lemon flavoured Powerade, is white.

Now they’re wearing an aquamarine number that not surprisingly, makes them look like a bottle of Powerade. Which made me wonder just how many colours there are in the Powerade rainbow and more importantly, just how gay will this trend will go?

Be concerned rugby fans, because if I’m on to something then it’s about to go as gay as the volleyball scene in Top Gun:

Rene 'Dude with a chicks name' Ranger clad in Powerade aqua

Powerade, although fruity by nature, contains no fruit whatsoever.

Spreken Ze Deutsch?

Sometimes, you have to wait a long time before you talk to someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.

Think about just how many people you converse with during the course of the working day and I bet that like me, you probably get the impression that most of them couldn’t organise a decent shit. But every so often you come across that type of someone who just optimises oral efficiency; a German.

You just can’t beat a good German (the two World Wars aside, of course). Of all the Nordic accents theirs is the one that sounds the most like a well tuned V12 twin turbo engine; humbly reserved most of the time but with the ability to verbally thrash you within an inch of your life should you deserve it.

Others from that part of the world just don’t carry the same authoritarian tone that the Ze Germans have. Sure, the Swedish accent is quite inviting - on a nubile blonde with pony tails - but coming from their fellas it just sounds, well, fruity. The Dutch all sound like yokels and as for Finns / Danes and Norwegians, well, who can really understand what they’re saying anyway.

Let’s face it, Germans, like slavery, get shit done and the next best thing to actually being one (don’t mention the war) is to talk to one on the phone. Try it sometime, its pants wettingly good. But you can't use mine, try instead looking through the phone book for the most German sounding name you can find i.e Schultz, Hitler and give them a call.

Other Germanic things that leave me feeling like a little girl:

Jurgen Klinsmann - Best German ever to have played for Spurs.

Messerchmitt BF 109 - Best German fighter I ever had to shoot down.

BMW M3 - Best German motor I am yet to own.

Adidas football boots - The Germans make the best boots (funny that).

Heidi Klum - Best German bird ever.

The Tiger Tank - The best tank ever, was German.

Michael Schumacher - Mr Formula One, is German.

The Scorpians 'Wind of Change' - Best one hit wonder German band, of all time.