The ClubDes Management made our annual pilgrimage north to warmer climates this week and despite the reprise from the daily grind it provided, it’s always good to be back, or as Junior so eloquently put it “The best part of a holiday is coming home”.
We took a bit of a sabbatical away from technology this break, choosing not to take out laptops with us. We didn’t go completely cold turkey though, keeping our cell phones and iPods on us at all times, a choice which I became quite stoked with the morning I figured out how to surf the web on my mobile. Now I really can have streaming porn with me at all times.
Fortunately we were offline by choice and not because we’re Telescum customers relying on the XT network for anything, because it seems that little gem has finally gone tits up.
Which comes as no surprise to me, because not wanting to blow my own horn or nothing – I’m a lower rib (or two) removal away before I can fulfil that lifelong dream – but I did foresee it happening some time ago.
Not that it was hard to pick because there is a certain amount of inevitability about a company that fleeces such an obscene amount of money off its gullible customer base that sooner or later, they will fuck it up. A point only highlighted all the more when they recently rebranded with a ‘logo’ which my four year old niece could have drawn. And they paid how much for it?
If you’re not an XT user then you should still be alarmed; this is the company vying to be given the contract that will allow them to be the purveyor of New Zealand’s ultra fast broadband infrastructure...
I did once nip into an Internet cafe briefly (whilst away) to check a few things though and yet again I found myself seeking the answer to the unanswered question I always have in such a place; just what would they do if you cranked up a porn site? Would they kick you out or merely ask that you turned the volume down?
In the end I never tested the theory because I’m not that desperate for either porn or the need to know, but I can’t help but think that subliminally I always choose a seat with my back to the door for just the day I do.
You will be pleased to know, I am sure, that the world of many trying to look like mutton dressed as lamb in our ‘hot spots’, like Taupo, has not diminished. The place is full of Miley Cyrus wannabes checking themselves in each and every glass shop fronts and like minded young boys pretending they know just what they’d do if they were ever to see a woman – other than they’re Mum – naked.
Hastings, one of my old haunts, was no different, only scarier. The men there favour a haircut that is half mullet half minge and for some reason has to be part bleached, especially if you’re naturally dark haired. The girls, perhaps in retaliation to the insult that the aforementioned hairdo seems to make on their tastes, seem to have taken to wearing black business suit socks with everything, including short skirts and jandals. Nice.
Then there were the four or five gang prospects who took a liking to the mother-in-laws Mercedes that we were driving.
Much like the Internet cafe I was faced with a moral dilemma; keep my eye on the parked Merc whilst Junior had his hair cut whilst at the same time trying to pretend I wasn’t staring at the bastards scoping it out, or merely take them for the law abiding citizens I am sure they are and do nothing? Needless to say we moved it out of sight as soon as we were finished.
Yep, the best part of a holiday is indeed the getting home.
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Things You Find Whilst On Holiday
Don’t you just love the little peculiarities of holidaying? Like as soon as you bomb into the outdoor pool someone is bound to ask "How's the water?”
In my considerable experience the water is always two things; wet and cold. Even on the hottest of days, the water is cold. Admittedly there might be subtle temperature changes if said pool has been bathed in sun so hot it leaves your pink bits moist, but even so, that initial plunge is still going to be farkin cold. Still, it doesn't stop folk who never actually get in the bloody thing anyway from asking does it?
The water in the shower will be cold too, if you're silly enough to be the last of seven adults to have one each morning. A mistake you only ever make once, partly because you'll freeze your nuts of trying to soap and rinse in two minutes flat but more likely because when you tell everyone they'll laugh at you. It's at that point you realise it would probably have been easier to bomb into the pool where of course you expect the water to be cold and wet.
Holiday homes always spring a few surprises that we pampered city folk have been accustomed to. Like wildlife. Or in our case, cockroaches the size of 50 cent pieces. The old style 50 cent pieces. It's not as if this house is dirty, it’s far from that, although the previous tenants took the 'clean before you leave' rule quite liberally, if at all. No it's a flash place with all the mod cons, but somewhere, somehow, there's a small army of roaches chowing down on something because they don't get that big by sitting on the couch eating Twisties like you and I do.
One appeared out of nowhere in our en suite sink last night. I had just finished brushing my teeth, had taken a whizz and gone back to wash my hands when literally out of thin air there it was. And this was no standard roach either; this was a black Waffen SS number and it looked quite capable of running a small insect concentration camp too. It gave me a little more of a fright than usual roaches, or any insect for that matter would, simply because I couldn't fathom where the fuck it came from. One minute it wasn't there, the next it was. Perhaps it was a ninja.
If hot, humid nights in a foreign land (Gisbos) weren't already enough for me to start dreaming of Nam again, now I have Vietcong like roaches to worry about. Charlie would appear out of nowhere too. Now if three tours of Nam taught me anything it's not to fear the bush, thankfully the wife is prone to waxing hers. But we also learnt to ignore things like roaches because the jungles were full of shit like that; snakes, ants, spiders and of course, Mormons. I lost count of how many carefully planned ambushes were ruined by dudes in black suits who had pedalled their ten speeds through the bush to ask if we'd found God? I hadn't but like I always said, if we did and he was wearing black pyjamas, then the man will have to look for himself because shit would really kick off.
Gisbos, well at least our eight acres, appears to be Cicada Central on account of the millions that seem to call this place home. At night they smack themselves silly against the windows trying to get into the light. I don't know what the birds do all day around these parts but it they ain't eating the fucken cicadas, that’s for sure.
Bookcases and their contents are always an interesting place to spend some time when holidaying in someone else’s house. The one in our room has all the mandatory’s; Robert Ludlam, Bryce Courtney, cooking books, fishing magazines and the old classics that are Readers Digest mags. It also had the bonus of a condom wrapper, empty, the contents of which were hopefully discarded somewhere else other then jammed between the pages of the cookbooks somewhere inappropriate, like the white sauce recipe or the bit on how to toss your own salad. I dare not look.
The local municipality is always a good visit, at least initially, then the shops that were such a novelty the first few times just piss you off after that. You know you're in a holiday town when you notice they have shops that Granddad would spend his days driving between; The Pool & Spa shop, The second hand traders (fittingly named Mr BoJumbles), the mower repair shop and old school menswear stores. The kind that sell hankies in a box.
We used to sell hankies in a box in my first ever job at Hallensteins, Our best sellers back than were short sleeve business shirts, walk shorts and walk socks. We sold boxed hanks to the like of DougalMacs mum, who bought him home a new box of eight each week. To this day he hasn't opened them all in the hope they will be a collectable one day. He keeps them all in his Collectatorium at home, which is right next to the masterbatorium, which is right next to the kitchen. Where he keeps the Twisties.
In Gisbos the council makes money from parking meters, but only the out of townies actually pay for parking. All the locals simply park up and walk away. We do see a parkie every now and then, but she is more inclined to give cars the chalk, the international symbol of 'half an hour more', not tickets. That would never happen in Welly. But that's a holiday town for you, sometimes you'd swear that there's some ongoing joke that the locals get and you don't. Like paying for parking.
Oh and we have a pig running wild out there somewhere. Not your cute, little pink number that you can never see yourself eating, but some humongus, fuck off black Hound of the Baskervilles beast that like the roaches is certainly attracted to this place by something.
Quite possibly the father-in-laws snoring at night...
In my considerable experience the water is always two things; wet and cold. Even on the hottest of days, the water is cold. Admittedly there might be subtle temperature changes if said pool has been bathed in sun so hot it leaves your pink bits moist, but even so, that initial plunge is still going to be farkin cold. Still, it doesn't stop folk who never actually get in the bloody thing anyway from asking does it?
The water in the shower will be cold too, if you're silly enough to be the last of seven adults to have one each morning. A mistake you only ever make once, partly because you'll freeze your nuts of trying to soap and rinse in two minutes flat but more likely because when you tell everyone they'll laugh at you. It's at that point you realise it would probably have been easier to bomb into the pool where of course you expect the water to be cold and wet.
Holiday homes always spring a few surprises that we pampered city folk have been accustomed to. Like wildlife. Or in our case, cockroaches the size of 50 cent pieces. The old style 50 cent pieces. It's not as if this house is dirty, it’s far from that, although the previous tenants took the 'clean before you leave' rule quite liberally, if at all. No it's a flash place with all the mod cons, but somewhere, somehow, there's a small army of roaches chowing down on something because they don't get that big by sitting on the couch eating Twisties like you and I do.
One appeared out of nowhere in our en suite sink last night. I had just finished brushing my teeth, had taken a whizz and gone back to wash my hands when literally out of thin air there it was. And this was no standard roach either; this was a black Waffen SS number and it looked quite capable of running a small insect concentration camp too. It gave me a little more of a fright than usual roaches, or any insect for that matter would, simply because I couldn't fathom where the fuck it came from. One minute it wasn't there, the next it was. Perhaps it was a ninja.
If hot, humid nights in a foreign land (Gisbos) weren't already enough for me to start dreaming of Nam again, now I have Vietcong like roaches to worry about. Charlie would appear out of nowhere too. Now if three tours of Nam taught me anything it's not to fear the bush, thankfully the wife is prone to waxing hers. But we also learnt to ignore things like roaches because the jungles were full of shit like that; snakes, ants, spiders and of course, Mormons. I lost count of how many carefully planned ambushes were ruined by dudes in black suits who had pedalled their ten speeds through the bush to ask if we'd found God? I hadn't but like I always said, if we did and he was wearing black pyjamas, then the man will have to look for himself because shit would really kick off.
Gisbos, well at least our eight acres, appears to be Cicada Central on account of the millions that seem to call this place home. At night they smack themselves silly against the windows trying to get into the light. I don't know what the birds do all day around these parts but it they ain't eating the fucken cicadas, that’s for sure.
Bookcases and their contents are always an interesting place to spend some time when holidaying in someone else’s house. The one in our room has all the mandatory’s; Robert Ludlam, Bryce Courtney, cooking books, fishing magazines and the old classics that are Readers Digest mags. It also had the bonus of a condom wrapper, empty, the contents of which were hopefully discarded somewhere else other then jammed between the pages of the cookbooks somewhere inappropriate, like the white sauce recipe or the bit on how to toss your own salad. I dare not look.
The local municipality is always a good visit, at least initially, then the shops that were such a novelty the first few times just piss you off after that. You know you're in a holiday town when you notice they have shops that Granddad would spend his days driving between; The Pool & Spa shop, The second hand traders (fittingly named Mr BoJumbles), the mower repair shop and old school menswear stores. The kind that sell hankies in a box.
We used to sell hankies in a box in my first ever job at Hallensteins, Our best sellers back than were short sleeve business shirts, walk shorts and walk socks. We sold boxed hanks to the like of DougalMacs mum, who bought him home a new box of eight each week. To this day he hasn't opened them all in the hope they will be a collectable one day. He keeps them all in his Collectatorium at home, which is right next to the masterbatorium, which is right next to the kitchen. Where he keeps the Twisties.
In Gisbos the council makes money from parking meters, but only the out of townies actually pay for parking. All the locals simply park up and walk away. We do see a parkie every now and then, but she is more inclined to give cars the chalk, the international symbol of 'half an hour more', not tickets. That would never happen in Welly. But that's a holiday town for you, sometimes you'd swear that there's some ongoing joke that the locals get and you don't. Like paying for parking.
Oh and we have a pig running wild out there somewhere. Not your cute, little pink number that you can never see yourself eating, but some humongus, fuck off black Hound of the Baskervilles beast that like the roaches is certainly attracted to this place by something.
Quite possibly the father-in-laws snoring at night...
Friday, January 16, 2009
Bring On The Beach and Sandy Cheeks
Those four of you who frequent this blog for the articles and not just the pictures will have noticed an earlier than usual update this week. We're off on holiday for two weeks so we thought it best to give you something to pass the time whilst we're away, so please, enjoy.
We will have the laptop with us but who knows what type of primitive intraweb these rustic holiday spots have. If we can't access wireless porn or download our usual plethora of amusing pics than you may just have to make do with a few candid Polaroids of Bruiser and I whipping it out and whipping through a few of the ol dick trick routines that used to go down so well at parties. That was until he caught one in the eye and we hung up our manbags as a result...
But you know one thing's for sure - someone, somewhere - quite possibly Bruiser even - is going to get on my tits and when he or she does, you'll be the first to know about.
And hey, ClubDes is always open, only you'll have to help yourselves to the drinks.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Good Times In The Gold Coast - Part Two
Australia is a big place. It has big motorways packed with big cars driven by big wankers. We weren’t surprised to hear on the wireless whilst driving around that Gold Coast drivers were found to be the worst in Australia. My wife ran a red shortly after just to add to the statistics.
The speed limit on most of the open motorway is 110kmh, which means that every guy who fancies himself as the next Peter Brock – which is half the male population and that’s being conservative – drives it at 130kmh. You may recall that the legendary Brocky died after wrapping his race car around a tree, I think the Gold Coast highways could do with a few strategically placed trees actually, do us all a favour.
There’s a lot of money to be made on the Gold Coast it would seem, no doubt in commercial property and mostly by fat Middle Eastern men, all of whom seem to drive very expensive European cars. There were so many it seemed almost as every second car was German and that’s no small thing given you’re in a country that loves it Holden’s and Fords. If you measured the place just by the cars on show at any given point in time, you could even be forgiven for thinking that maybe you were in Germany. Unfortunately it’s Kath & Kim accents that ring out around the place and not that manly German one that all Krauts, including the women, have.
It wasn’t all a car show though. Amongst all the chrome of the Mercs, the Beemers and the Audis and away from the grunt and muscle of the Holdens and Fords there are some right shit heaps doing the rounds. Driven mostly by guys who cultivate that ‘just got out of bed / the surf / my mate’s buttocks look’. Driving a death trap on wheels just adds to the charm of just such a guy I suppose, it makes him ‘edgy’.
I was surprised to see whilst at Dreamworld that a large Arab contingent had been let in. Only because Australians seem to be as paranoid about terrorism as the Yanks are. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see that burqas were on the list of banned items on the rides right alongside cameras and cellphones, but they weren't. It certainly confused the hell out of the Asian tourists though; they didn’t know whether they should take photos or run and hide.
There was no such hesitation from the group I witnessed at Movie World, who all posed for photos with a little Aussie toddler who had no idea what was going on other than she was getting a whole lot of cuddles from strangers. I was going to try the same thing but somehow I don’t think I would have gotten away with it quite as successfully. I tried flogging off my son for a few pics to the same group of tourists, promising him at least half of the ten bucks I planned to charge the Asians per cuddle, but he wasn’t having any of it.
Speaking of the Vietcong; all the sightseeing choppers that buzz the beaches in Surfers took me back a few years, to the four day weekend that Dougs, Lancey, Big Al and I had off down Long Dik Dong way in ’69. It had been several weeks since any of us had been near civilisation, let alone fresh water and I remember endless hours spent bathing and frolicking together in the sea, nude, whilst the Air Cav boys flew recon missions over the tree line in their Iroquois choppers all day long. We’d finish off the day trying to make a gymnastics pyramid on each others bare backs whilst the sun went down. War does strange things to a man, but that was not one of them.
One of the rich Middle Eastern guys I mentioned actually lived one floor above us in our hotel. His apartment was directly opposite us and the two young concubines he had living with him would spend most of the day out on the balcony sunning their ridiculous trim and taught figures till the sun went down. It made doing anything in the kitchen damn difficult because it was the closest vantage point and I was forced to stare at them the whole time. My wife thought I had prostate issues the whole trip because I always had to run off to the toilet wherever we went, when really it was on account of all the tea I was making whilst back in the apartment.
We bumped into Fat Tony and one of his hand maidens in the foyer one morning. She was pretty enough to be a waitress and he was oozing something, possibly cold hard cash, but whatever it was it wasn’t the ‘just got out of bed’ look that's for sure.
Ah Australia, the land of opportunity. Just leave your conscience at the door.
The speed limit on most of the open motorway is 110kmh, which means that every guy who fancies himself as the next Peter Brock – which is half the male population and that’s being conservative – drives it at 130kmh. You may recall that the legendary Brocky died after wrapping his race car around a tree, I think the Gold Coast highways could do with a few strategically placed trees actually, do us all a favour.
There’s a lot of money to be made on the Gold Coast it would seem, no doubt in commercial property and mostly by fat Middle Eastern men, all of whom seem to drive very expensive European cars. There were so many it seemed almost as every second car was German and that’s no small thing given you’re in a country that loves it Holden’s and Fords. If you measured the place just by the cars on show at any given point in time, you could even be forgiven for thinking that maybe you were in Germany. Unfortunately it’s Kath & Kim accents that ring out around the place and not that manly German one that all Krauts, including the women, have.
It wasn’t all a car show though. Amongst all the chrome of the Mercs, the Beemers and the Audis and away from the grunt and muscle of the Holdens and Fords there are some right shit heaps doing the rounds. Driven mostly by guys who cultivate that ‘just got out of bed / the surf / my mate’s buttocks look’. Driving a death trap on wheels just adds to the charm of just such a guy I suppose, it makes him ‘edgy’.
I was surprised to see whilst at Dreamworld that a large Arab contingent had been let in. Only because Australians seem to be as paranoid about terrorism as the Yanks are. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see that burqas were on the list of banned items on the rides right alongside cameras and cellphones, but they weren't. It certainly confused the hell out of the Asian tourists though; they didn’t know whether they should take photos or run and hide.
There was no such hesitation from the group I witnessed at Movie World, who all posed for photos with a little Aussie toddler who had no idea what was going on other than she was getting a whole lot of cuddles from strangers. I was going to try the same thing but somehow I don’t think I would have gotten away with it quite as successfully. I tried flogging off my son for a few pics to the same group of tourists, promising him at least half of the ten bucks I planned to charge the Asians per cuddle, but he wasn’t having any of it.
Speaking of the Vietcong; all the sightseeing choppers that buzz the beaches in Surfers took me back a few years, to the four day weekend that Dougs, Lancey, Big Al and I had off down Long Dik Dong way in ’69. It had been several weeks since any of us had been near civilisation, let alone fresh water and I remember endless hours spent bathing and frolicking together in the sea, nude, whilst the Air Cav boys flew recon missions over the tree line in their Iroquois choppers all day long. We’d finish off the day trying to make a gymnastics pyramid on each others bare backs whilst the sun went down. War does strange things to a man, but that was not one of them.
One of the rich Middle Eastern guys I mentioned actually lived one floor above us in our hotel. His apartment was directly opposite us and the two young concubines he had living with him would spend most of the day out on the balcony sunning their ridiculous trim and taught figures till the sun went down. It made doing anything in the kitchen damn difficult because it was the closest vantage point and I was forced to stare at them the whole time. My wife thought I had prostate issues the whole trip because I always had to run off to the toilet wherever we went, when really it was on account of all the tea I was making whilst back in the apartment.
We bumped into Fat Tony and one of his hand maidens in the foyer one morning. She was pretty enough to be a waitress and he was oozing something, possibly cold hard cash, but whatever it was it wasn’t the ‘just got out of bed’ look that's for sure.
Ah Australia, the land of opportunity. Just leave your conscience at the door.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Good Times In The Gold Coast - Part One
The ClubDes family took a break in that northern most of New Zealand outposts last week, The Gold Coast. It’s a great place and has a lot going for it; its hot, dry, has beautiful beaches, beautiful people and is almost devoid of Emos. I only spotted the one the whole time we were there and even he was tanned!
It’s one of those places where girls in bikinis greet you almost the moment you step off the shuttle. Man they’re everywhere and hey that’s okay by me. I don’t mind if they’re at the fair on the waterfront, in and around the hotel, in the mall and of course on the beach, so long as they extend the same courtesy to me and my thong.
Functionality doesn’t appear to be high on the list of prerequisites though when girls in Oz pick their cozzies. Many of the young ladies who I witnessed spending the day at Wet’n’Wild spent most of their time readjusting or holding up small bunches of fabric that just couldn’t maintain the support that one needs when being fired down a tube of pulsating water at some ridiculous speed. As it was I spent half the day trying to retrieve my board shorts from my anus so I’d be genuinely surprised to find any young lady that didn’t need exploratory surgery at the end of the day to recover their skimpy little bikini bottom from their bottom.
One young lady in particular had on a fantastically frilly number that no doubt looked great in the pages of the magazine from which she picked it out of, but really had no place being in a wave pool. I spent the entire ten minutes of one such wave session trying to keep an eye on my son only to be distracted by her arse crack which would appear after every passing wave. Unfortunately she was in the direct line of my sight the whole time, but fortunately it was not the kind of sight that required me to be at least up to my waist in the water. I’m surprised the lifeguards didn’t ask her to get out before a small child was sucked up in there.
But the need to imitate each other that I noticed seemed to afflict most Aussie girls didn’t end with their choice of bikini. Aussie girls really only do the one look and its best described as falling somewhere between high fashion and trying to look like the girls of The Hills. Many young ladies I noticed – and this is during the day mind you – had such a thick layer of make up on that I can only imagine that it had been applied with a trowel and would have to be removed by a water blaster.
Many girls had on extremely short skirts, commonly just an oversized mens shirt worn with a belt, that they then had difficulty remaining comfortable with while wearing, often trying to pull them down whilst walking. Needless to say sitting down or getting up in one was a complete write off and as such I saw more breakfasts than I recall ordering. Wearing elevated heels to make the legs look longer didn't seem to help much either.
In one of my previous blogs I referred to a study done last year that showed Australian girls as being some of the highest scorers, internationally, who feel under increased pressure to conform. And I’m beginning to understand why. Twenty years ago, when I was a horny teenager, the world got its collective rocks off over naturally beautiful Australian women like Elle McPherson. Aussie soaps like Neighbours and then Home & Away etc had us fellas running home to have a quick wank after school before the sister got home because the girls on those shows were like no one else on TV. But now it seems Aussie girls, or at least those on the Gold Coast, appear to have lost that sense of identity and are busy trying to all be like American girls.
Aussie fellas only do the one look and it’s that ‘just got out of the surf’ look, which put another way is the ‘just got out of bed look’. Given the distinct lack of surfers I actually saw surfing I suspect it’s more of the latter but the girls over there don’t seem to mind, which just goes to prove my theory that these days it’s getting easier and easier for guys to do nothing and still pull chicks – even in Aussie.
It’s one of those places where girls in bikinis greet you almost the moment you step off the shuttle. Man they’re everywhere and hey that’s okay by me. I don’t mind if they’re at the fair on the waterfront, in and around the hotel, in the mall and of course on the beach, so long as they extend the same courtesy to me and my thong.
Functionality doesn’t appear to be high on the list of prerequisites though when girls in Oz pick their cozzies. Many of the young ladies who I witnessed spending the day at Wet’n’Wild spent most of their time readjusting or holding up small bunches of fabric that just couldn’t maintain the support that one needs when being fired down a tube of pulsating water at some ridiculous speed. As it was I spent half the day trying to retrieve my board shorts from my anus so I’d be genuinely surprised to find any young lady that didn’t need exploratory surgery at the end of the day to recover their skimpy little bikini bottom from their bottom.
One young lady in particular had on a fantastically frilly number that no doubt looked great in the pages of the magazine from which she picked it out of, but really had no place being in a wave pool. I spent the entire ten minutes of one such wave session trying to keep an eye on my son only to be distracted by her arse crack which would appear after every passing wave. Unfortunately she was in the direct line of my sight the whole time, but fortunately it was not the kind of sight that required me to be at least up to my waist in the water. I’m surprised the lifeguards didn’t ask her to get out before a small child was sucked up in there.
But the need to imitate each other that I noticed seemed to afflict most Aussie girls didn’t end with their choice of bikini. Aussie girls really only do the one look and its best described as falling somewhere between high fashion and trying to look like the girls of The Hills. Many young ladies I noticed – and this is during the day mind you – had such a thick layer of make up on that I can only imagine that it had been applied with a trowel and would have to be removed by a water blaster.
Many girls had on extremely short skirts, commonly just an oversized mens shirt worn with a belt, that they then had difficulty remaining comfortable with while wearing, often trying to pull them down whilst walking. Needless to say sitting down or getting up in one was a complete write off and as such I saw more breakfasts than I recall ordering. Wearing elevated heels to make the legs look longer didn't seem to help much either.
In one of my previous blogs I referred to a study done last year that showed Australian girls as being some of the highest scorers, internationally, who feel under increased pressure to conform. And I’m beginning to understand why. Twenty years ago, when I was a horny teenager, the world got its collective rocks off over naturally beautiful Australian women like Elle McPherson. Aussie soaps like Neighbours and then Home & Away etc had us fellas running home to have a quick wank after school before the sister got home because the girls on those shows were like no one else on TV. But now it seems Aussie girls, or at least those on the Gold Coast, appear to have lost that sense of identity and are busy trying to all be like American girls.
Aussie fellas only do the one look and it’s that ‘just got out of the surf’ look, which put another way is the ‘just got out of bed look’. Given the distinct lack of surfers I actually saw surfing I suspect it’s more of the latter but the girls over there don’t seem to mind, which just goes to prove my theory that these days it’s getting easier and easier for guys to do nothing and still pull chicks – even in Aussie.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Cheque Book Loyalty
ClubDes has opened its doors again this week after a brief hiatus away in the very unlike Las Vegas town of RotoVegas. I’ve never been to Las Vegas but unless it’s full of Asians and hories and stinks of arse then I reckon I’m safe in assuming the two are quite unalike.
It’s called Rotovegas because it pulls the tourists, has the bright lights, has the shows etc. It really should be called RotoAnus though, on account that it smells like one and you'll be paying top tourist dollar through yours at every attraction you visit. They really should give a discount to those that can rock up with a NZ passport I reckon because $50 for a three second tumble in a ball of bubble wrap is a bit cheeky. Even if you do add a bucket of tepid water to lube it all up, quite frankly I’ve had more fun flushing whilst I sat on the shitter.
Still, there’s always the joy of handling your extended family’s washing whilst on a shared holiday to look forward to. There’s nothing quite like a spot of ‘compare the gusset stains’ as you hang everything on the line each morning. I couldn’t help but notice as I did, that my brother in law Bruiser single handily keeps the Asian sweat shop industry running with his excessive label bashing; Calvin Klein grundies, Nike bike shorts and adidas outer shorts. And that was just one days washing!
But then I can understand why he layers up like he does. It’s all down to a traumatic event he had whilst wearing the stubbies that were compulsory PE attire back in our college days. It was no coincidence that those that decided on the dress code back then were a bunch of homoerotic men who called themselves the Board of Trustees and all of whom longed to see all young men clad in thigh revealing, ball hugging short shorts. These shorts were unnaturally high cut and gave new meaning to the term ‘the cut lunch’.
Many of us didn’t know whether to laugh or applaud the day Bruisers left plum broke free of the flimsy mesh netting and came to rest on the polished hardwood floor. The young Bruiser was advanced stage of physical development for a boy of his age and whilst we longed for the day our manbags resembled walnuts in a sock, his were coconuts on a tree. They still are he assures me, just a little less milk than there used to be. I’m happy to take his word for it.
There’s nothing better than a game of backyard cricket to bring the family together whilst on holiday, that is until some Captain Hard Out prick bowls a few beamers and stuffs it up for everyone. Personally, I bring a test match attitude to the crease in such fixtures and give nothing away until I’ve reached an epic hundred or the game has ended due to boredom, which ever comes first.
I enjoy playing the game but I stopped watching cricket or rather specifically New Zealand play cricket, several years ago. If you want to see delusion in action, than look no further than the way cricket is marketed to the masses in this country. Cricket in New Zealand relies solely on the past reputation of guys who played 20 – 30 years ago to get the support it does. Martin Crowe was the last really good player we had and even though he played on one leg with no hair for the last few seasons, was still a cut above fully fit players. It was about this time that tossers like Adam Parore started believing that they were really, really, really ridiculously good looking, not to mention good at cricket and it’s about then that the bullshit started and I turned off.
Cricket these days is a lottery, plain and simple. Countries play each other so often no one keeps count. The result should be decided at the toss prior to play and everyone can save themselves the eight hours in between. NZ would benefit from this because we might win more games than we actually do and it would have the added bonus of removing the one certainty in world cricket today: everyone will get their personal best figures whilst playing NZ.
So no surprise to see Shane Bond took the money and ran like he did this past week. I wasn’t surprised but that doesn’t make it right, but then I remember a time when ‘loyalty’ meant more than a crumpled bit of cardboard that if stamped 27 times means you get a free coffee. Loyalty is watching the next four seasons of Lost, no matter how ridiculous it gets, because you took the time to watch the first three. What else are you going to do when it’s on anyway? Have a wank?
Bond is it doing it for the money which is the way of the world isn’t it? Fair enough, but I say he’s a prick for doing so, albeit a rich one now and by walking away from your country you kick in the pink bits every coach, volunteer, supporter and administrator who gave up their time in helping you get where you are today. There payback was watching you do the bizzo for the national team so unless you’re cutting them in on your dirty money than you are what you are, you prick.
I live in hope that if he every turns up in RotoAnus they fleece him for everything he’s got.
It’s called Rotovegas because it pulls the tourists, has the bright lights, has the shows etc. It really should be called RotoAnus though, on account that it smells like one and you'll be paying top tourist dollar through yours at every attraction you visit. They really should give a discount to those that can rock up with a NZ passport I reckon because $50 for a three second tumble in a ball of bubble wrap is a bit cheeky. Even if you do add a bucket of tepid water to lube it all up, quite frankly I’ve had more fun flushing whilst I sat on the shitter.
Still, there’s always the joy of handling your extended family’s washing whilst on a shared holiday to look forward to. There’s nothing quite like a spot of ‘compare the gusset stains’ as you hang everything on the line each morning. I couldn’t help but notice as I did, that my brother in law Bruiser single handily keeps the Asian sweat shop industry running with his excessive label bashing; Calvin Klein grundies, Nike bike shorts and adidas outer shorts. And that was just one days washing!
But then I can understand why he layers up like he does. It’s all down to a traumatic event he had whilst wearing the stubbies that were compulsory PE attire back in our college days. It was no coincidence that those that decided on the dress code back then were a bunch of homoerotic men who called themselves the Board of Trustees and all of whom longed to see all young men clad in thigh revealing, ball hugging short shorts. These shorts were unnaturally high cut and gave new meaning to the term ‘the cut lunch’.
Many of us didn’t know whether to laugh or applaud the day Bruisers left plum broke free of the flimsy mesh netting and came to rest on the polished hardwood floor. The young Bruiser was advanced stage of physical development for a boy of his age and whilst we longed for the day our manbags resembled walnuts in a sock, his were coconuts on a tree. They still are he assures me, just a little less milk than there used to be. I’m happy to take his word for it.
There’s nothing better than a game of backyard cricket to bring the family together whilst on holiday, that is until some Captain Hard Out prick bowls a few beamers and stuffs it up for everyone. Personally, I bring a test match attitude to the crease in such fixtures and give nothing away until I’ve reached an epic hundred or the game has ended due to boredom, which ever comes first.
I enjoy playing the game but I stopped watching cricket or rather specifically New Zealand play cricket, several years ago. If you want to see delusion in action, than look no further than the way cricket is marketed to the masses in this country. Cricket in New Zealand relies solely on the past reputation of guys who played 20 – 30 years ago to get the support it does. Martin Crowe was the last really good player we had and even though he played on one leg with no hair for the last few seasons, was still a cut above fully fit players. It was about this time that tossers like Adam Parore started believing that they were really, really, really ridiculously good looking, not to mention good at cricket and it’s about then that the bullshit started and I turned off.
Cricket these days is a lottery, plain and simple. Countries play each other so often no one keeps count. The result should be decided at the toss prior to play and everyone can save themselves the eight hours in between. NZ would benefit from this because we might win more games than we actually do and it would have the added bonus of removing the one certainty in world cricket today: everyone will get their personal best figures whilst playing NZ.
So no surprise to see Shane Bond took the money and ran like he did this past week. I wasn’t surprised but that doesn’t make it right, but then I remember a time when ‘loyalty’ meant more than a crumpled bit of cardboard that if stamped 27 times means you get a free coffee. Loyalty is watching the next four seasons of Lost, no matter how ridiculous it gets, because you took the time to watch the first three. What else are you going to do when it’s on anyway? Have a wank?
Bond is it doing it for the money which is the way of the world isn’t it? Fair enough, but I say he’s a prick for doing so, albeit a rich one now and by walking away from your country you kick in the pink bits every coach, volunteer, supporter and administrator who gave up their time in helping you get where you are today. There payback was watching you do the bizzo for the national team so unless you’re cutting them in on your dirty money than you are what you are, you prick.
I live in hope that if he every turns up in RotoAnus they fleece him for everything he’s got.
Friday, January 18, 2008
The Cut Lunch (Perfect for a road trip)
ClubDes is taking the magic to the masses for the next two weeks and where we're going they still have the Internet, but only in cafes where you have to wait in a queue behind several tourists all of which will spend the next hour downloading 637 almost identical images of themselves doing touristy things from their cameras to send to the family back home. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but you've seen one bush walk you've seen them all we reckon so save that shit for when you're at home with your own PC aye? Some of us are trying to discreetly download porn here and get a little of our own bush action and you pricks are slowing down the network!Seeing as patience is not one of our stronger points, we at ClubDes won't be playing that game, that's not how we roll. So we'll be taking a break from the blog for the next two weeks and will be back in the first week of Feb with a whole new spotlight on passion wagons, the usual witty repartee and who knows, we might even get a few up skirts whilst on holiday. That or some sneaky bikini shots from the beach or maybe even the pic of our chopper we like to take on other family members cameras without their knowledge. There's nothing Grandma likes more than when she's getting her prints done and finds a big ol' cock amongst them.
There might even be the odd paragraph of brilliance because you never know, we might just get a seat between Sven, Klaus and TingTong at the nearest Internet cafe and you know us, two weeks in a city where us locals are in the minority is bound to piss us off more than once.
Until then, up yours.
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