Canada, Oh Cana-duh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Canned Gina & Bottled Chubby?

Tbag, our man in Cana-duh has filed his first report and just as he's always done since that night in the Mekong where we had to spoon under the one poncho we had between us, he knows what I like.

Like canned Gina. Lovely. And if you turn your head and look at the 'G' side on it kinda looks like....oh never mind. But not to be outdone, or sexist, there's also a Chubby. In a bottle.

Which beggars the question really; what came first, the Chubby or the Gina....?

An Ode to TBag - Last of the Retro Dressers

Sad days round these parts last week with the leaving of one Tim ‘T-Bag’ Borlase, the last of the retro dressers.

The origins of our hirsute hero are shrouded in secrecy, half truths and a Cold Chisel soundtrack. We first met back in ‘Nam where I came across the young T Bag fishing whilst nude. He claimed it made him one with the water and although others thought it made him look crazy I could see his nuts and it didn’t bother me one bit. That’s where he got his nickname, incidentally.

But then the waters around Nam were warm and moist, just like the jungle. I didn’t know it then but it wouldn’t be the first time I caught him naked around fish. Perhaps it was the war, perhaps it was a fetish, who really knows but even in the middle of a war zone the guy loved to fish and still does. If he’s not actually fishing then he’s either watching programmes or reading magazines, about fishing.

Ironic then that he should be on his way to Canada where the salmon are nervous and the beer is like making love in a boat; fucking close to water.

In some parts of that country they speak French. Celine Dion is from Canada. She speaks French and English but lets face it, she sounds awful in either language. Wolverine is from Canada too and although he is a borderline feral personality with six razor sharp claws that pop out of his hands at will, I’d rather meet him quite frankly. Sadly he’s a fictional comic book character, so no real chance there. Dion on the other hand is very real *shiver*.

Once, in a tender moment shared in a communal warm shower, TBag revealed to me that he had grown up on the very square streets of Palmerston North. A little known fact about Palmy is that it has NZ's highest population of ugly people, a fact confirmed to me one time by the missus who had the misfortune to be ’out on the town’ there one night.

I had a mate called Palmy once. He was a wanker.

It was there that Timmo developed his appreciation of all things passion wagon. He covets a good wagon did our TBag and as a four doors and a hatch man myself, I respect that. But then who wouldn’t really because wagons are the original all purpose vehicle; kids, pets, groceries, sports equipment, firewood, dogging…the wagon has it all covered.

We have two such fine specimens at The Club, aptly named Passion Wagons Mk 1 and 2. Mk1 is made by Hyundai and crafted from hardened Korean steel, just like the huge, globe circling ships they build. Despite knowing this I do have a nagging suspicion it will crumple like a potato chip were we involved in a collision tomorrow, but then it is built for speed with no electrics and no such luxuries as side impact airbags.

Mk2 is a Mazda which for some reasons Americans pronounce the same way they do ‘asthma’, like a kid with a lisp. It’s from the country that gave us Ninjas, The Kamikaze and guys who like to kill blonde European girls and hide their bodies in a bathtub full of sand on their balcony. It too is built for speed, has all the electrics and airbags you could want, but yet is currently sounding like a World War One biplane as it attempts to start each morning. Bloody electrics.

Anyhoo, our Timmo has made like a Christian and pulled out which leaves us with a void where once there was a good looking guy in flared trousers and a bomber jacket with WWF badges on his sleeve.

It’s only been a week but just like Nam the withdrawal symptoms have kicked in, so much so I found myself watching a fishing show on TV whilst rocking back and forth in the foetal position. It was that one with the guy in the wheelchair, who seems very nice, but a small part of me does want to see what happens if he were to accidentally roll off the end of the boat at some point…

So farewell Timmo. Our gain is Canada’s loss, or something like that. And hey, never forget what that wise old VC bugger in Tan Son Nhut said to us that time we captured him:

“Ông đã đi ngủ với một gã ăn mày ngứa, tỉnh dậy với một ngón tay có mùi”

TBag and one of his passion wagons. That's not a blue cod in his pocket either...

Father Issues? Not Me.

I had myself quite the cathartic moment this week.

It came to me with the news that T-Bag is off to Canada to be with his good looking missus which is a far better excuse than the one he tried to use in ’68 when trying to dodge the draft for Nam. Back then he wanted to be a Mountie, now he’s just off for some mounting.

It reminded me that my long last father is in Canada somewhere and that I’ve hardly ever mentioned him to you lot. My mother on the other hand, she of the nut bar variety, gets load of mentions on account of her being a silly bitch and because I just couldn’t make up some of the shit she’s come up with.

Like the time she painted the kitchen of our house GREEN. Not just green mind you, but that bright almost fluorescent shade which is always used to demonstrate nuclear waste green. She also renovated the place. It was a state house. Years later my Grandfather bought her a house and to prove the green kitchen was no fluke, she painted the entire concrete floor battleship grey. Now Granddad had been in the Navy but even he struggled to figure that one out.

My father skipped the country when I was about 10 for reasons I’m not exactly sure. I’d like to think that it was because he tried and failed to get custody of me but it’s probably something much less romantic i.e. he’s a douche.

I still remember with some clarity the actual custody hearing itself. It took place in some relic of a town hall time building where the floors were so shiny I could see right up the dress shorts my mother had made me wear. Dress shorts. Now there’s an oxymoron if ever there was one. No one wearing shorts is doing so to dress up.

Both paternal and maternal sides of the family were there that day and I was ushered between the two of them as they met with those making the decision. It was quite the intimidating process for a boy my age and I was fair bricking it the whole time. I was asked twice who I wanted to live with and when in the room with my mother I said her and when with my father I said him. Let’s be honest, had Adolf Hitler been there I would’ve given him my vote too.

And speaking of which – have you heard of Godwins Law? It’s brilliant. He theorises that every chat stream / online discussion / forum will eventually lead to someone making a comparison, usually quite outrageously and incorrectly, to Nazi Germany. He’s fucken right too. I do it all the time.

Anyhoo, Father didn’t get custody of me, obviously and did a runner not long after. He was a runner actually, well into his marathons and shit and it’s that which has enabled me to track him across the years over a little thing called the Internet.

All connection to my father pretty much died when my Grandfather on his side of the family did about 15 years ago. Unfortunately he ended up with Alzheimer’s and the end, like so often for sufferers, was a blessing. Before that he had remarried a strictly Christian lady who disliked cursing and burping. Something I found out the hard way.

But then he’d never been the same since my grandmother and his childhood sweetheart had died some 10 years before that. I remember the day because of the way my step father, a man of extraordinary tact broke the news to me after getting of the phone: “That was your dick of a father. Your grandmother is dead. Don’t cry about it”.

The final chapter in this story of happy families starts with Facebook which my my uncle used to contact me and eventually fill me in on my father’s actual story. Turns out he married some world famous psychologist who has forbidden him all contact with NZ and his family. Ha. 25 years ago he shot the gap to escape an over bearing control freak (my mother) only to run into the arms of another. Fate it would seem is not without a sense of irony.

Oh and he’s not actually in Canada anymore, so don’t bother asking after him Timmo.

My Father and his dress shorts, last seen in Hawaii (true story).