Like Father Like Son

Junior's whiteboard on the bedroom door and guess who got in trouble for it? Not him...

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...

What Not To Wear This Summer (Or Ever)

Let’s take time out for a moment to take the piss out of what some folk are wearing, because someone has to.

Far be it from me to judge and all that PC shit, but I am a raging metrosexual and if there’s one thing I’m quite good at its spotting ensembles that work and those that don’t. It’s my channeling the inner gay at its finest.

Let us then begin:

1. The dress that is short at the front and long at the back, the mullet of the fashion world.

I think that this particular item owes its ‘popularity’ to the TV show on gyppos that aired a few months back. That in its self should explain why this garment is a failure on so many levels. It is the female equivalent of the sleeveless vest; neither here nor there and I don’t care how good the legs are, it just looks as silly as a fella wearing a cape.

It is the latest item in something I like to call ‘Hepatitis Chic’.

2. Retro swim shorts, especially the flouro pink ones.

I saw a teenage boy wearing a pair of this a few months back at the turf and thought that maybe it was just the first bad choice in a long line of many that kid will make over the next few years.

But then I started noticing more and more of them in various menswear stores and realised that yet another relic from the late eighties is back, the flouro fucking swim shorts. Yes, caught somewhere between a pair of boardies and good taste are faded pink togs, best worn with copious amounts of coconut oil, aviators and looking like a dick.

3. Jean Shorts (the really short ones)

Speaking of retro, these have been making a steady comeback for a few years but seem to have exploded this summer. Now I love seeing young girls wearing these as much as the next happily married man, but I do worry about the body image dramas these bring our young women who already have a shitload of that on their plates.

Put simply, some girls just don’t suit them but what is a parent to say when their young princess wants to wear what everyone else at school is, even if they’re bulging out of ends? It’s not a decision I envy having to make. And if they’re the cut off variety why would you want the inside of the pockets to hang out the leg? That just seems naff.

Still, what I know aye? Gok Wan I ain’t but I promise you this, you won’t catch Junior wearing a mullet skirt, pink togs or jean shorts, not while I’m paying for the wardrobe anyway.

As you were.

Back On Tour

I must apologise for my lack of whinging. I have been partaking in some pretty heavy time travel and only just got back next week.

In that time I had one of those momentous weekends that live long in the memory. Like this time last year I took 24 of my favourite female footballers to a tournament in Taupo and it was, in a word, emotional.

As anyone who coaches will know, tournaments are a special time anyway but our group is a pretty special one and there is nothing more rewarding than seeing those you take rise and overcome the challenges they face (on and off the field) with the confidence and skill you’ve helped to install in them.

This is particularly the case when those you coach are girls, because if there’s one thing that is really tough to do these days it’s growing up as a teen girl in the world we live in. In our group the girls are able to put those pressures aside and really grow and express themselves as equals. That’s the bit I love about coaching, I really do.

Mrs ClubDes and Junior were there with me this time round too and that made for an extra special time of it because they usually don’t get to share in that with me, so I really did have the family on tour with me, in more ways than one.

The weekend wasn't a complete success though.

No group of girls mentioned how cool my boots were this year so perhaps it's time for an upgrade. You know it is actually when he-who-lays-out-the-cones-at-training aka Bruiser has three flash pairs to your one...jammy bugger.

The Hitch Hike

Straight from the ‘I’ve seen a porno that started like this..” comes the story of JK and his boys last week picking up a hitchhiker on their way up North. Innocent enough but this was no ordinary hitch hiker, no, for she was:

1. Swiss
2. Single
3. A nurse
4. Ridiculously good looking
5. Not to mention happy to hop into a SUV with four strapping Kiwi blokes

To say she gave the lads a Toblerone is an under statement. Apparently she’d been trip hopping her way round the country using the same means of transport and had only had to turn down a ride the once. Sounds like me with the girls in my college days but then I was ridiculously good looking back then.

Hitch hiking is a funny thing. Personally I could never do it on account that I have a car and thus asking for a lift just doesn’t make sense, but even if I didn’t there is the whole stranger danger thing that would worry me too much.

What if they took a fancy to my pretty boy looks and decided to keep me, take me to some place off the beaten track and do things to me that I always dreamed would happen but never actually thought would? What if I did the same to them? It’s just a Pandora’s Box of opportunities really.

My sister did it for a long while, whilst on the run from all manner of child authorities I might add, but she absolutely swore by it. So did JK’s Swiss Miss but then like so many other things it’s probably a lot easier when you’re a sheila.

I see a lot of guys hitching and it makes me laugh at the state of them. Perhaps it’s a result of the lifestyle but asking to share the confined space of a car with someone when you look and possibly smell like road kill, is not a good marketing strategy I would have thought. Still, someone must take the chance.

Then there’s the awkwardness of it all like what happens when the conversation runs out or simply never starts. At what point would my Jonas Brothers / Oasis / Metallica iPod mix become an issue and who would have to kick who out. And Junior put the Jo Bros on there anyway.

The only time I’ve ever contemplated picking up a hitchy is when faced with the Tui ad scenario that JK had the other day but even then, knowing my luck, her minger of a boyfriend will exit from the bushes where he was hiding the whole time and want to sit up front with me. Chances are they’ll be from one of those fruity countries too, like Sweden and he’ll have cut off jean shorts on as well which will just add to the irony of it all.

Speaking of which, the missus and I watched ‘Love And Other Drugs’ a wee while back and yes, Anne Hathaway does spend a good deal of the movie naked but then so does Jake Gyllenhal and every time I closed my eyes for a long time after wards I saw his naked thighs.

I think I'll go back to imagining that porno I saw that started like JK's story...

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?!

Its A Dog Eat Dog World

I almost didn’t write this because I don’t want to be one of those people that whacks off about their pets, but we now have a dog.

Now I’m not really a dog person. For a long time the only thing remotely ‘dog’ that I was ever interested in was doggy style, but that pretty much dried up when I got married so it was inevitable I guess that we would eventually get a dog.

Okay so I’ve always like the look of some dogs but then I feel the same about Asian schoolgirls; it doesn’t necessarily mean I want to own one. Some dogs, I admit, are quite smart and quite cute but I have always felt that essentially, your average dog is a dumb animal as it relies on man to amuse it and thus lacks the individuality of a good cat.

We already have cats and the process of getting them went something a little like this: cat one was cute and cuddly for a bit, highly amusing then annoying and by default, boring, so we got another. Once she’d gone through that same evolution process it was time for a dog, or so the missus reckoned.

It probably should be noted that this was flawed logic from the start as both Mrs ClubDes and Junior are allergic to cats. Yet we have two.

At this point I played the Daddy card and said no. Contrary to the grandiose plans of her indoors, our house is not huge nor is our yard and as there was no way in hell I would allow us to get a small dog (the cats of the dog world), we sure as heck weren’t getting an animal that was 90% muscle sinew, 10% dog called Satan.

But then we met Charlie.

Who was actually called Freddie whilst at the SPCA but who calls a dog Freddie, seriously? He was neither mop nor Clydesdale in size, rather somewhere in between and although he was dead scared of me initially – an impression I try to cultivate in everyone I meet for the first time – he was rather handsome and the other two vote holders in the house adored him, so what else was I to do but cave.

So now we have a dog (and have had for a few months now). Someone at the SPCA must’ve seen us coming because he is for the most part, a nutter, so he fits in perfectly in our little corner of suburbia. Oh and sure we’ve had all the wonderful things they never tell you about before you get a dog; the whizzing on the bed, the cacking everywhere, the chewing of everything and the occasional social erection but who hasn’t done those things whilst out on the piss aye?

The twice a day walkies rule that I laid down as being a pre-requisite for getting him fell by the wayside after a couple of weeks, as did the ‘not on the furniture’ rule that Mrs ClubDes decreed. But then we all know rules are meant to be broken, that’s why the wife and I no longer use the safety word…

There is a downside to all this and that is now I am a dog owner I get a lot of dog talk from other owners and requests for doggy dates etc. These are people I remove from Facebook immediately because my feelings on dogs have only changed ever so slightly; I love ours but I have no intention of hanging out with yours.

Or your Asian schoolgirl for that matter.

Charlie, the exhibitionist.

Something In The Water?

It is a little known historical fact that during the Second World War the English troops had an additive blended into their tea leaves that was supposed to suppress sexual arousal and thus keep the men focused on making war, not love. True story.

They tried the same thing on us in Nam but we Long Range Recon types were too busy drinking our own pee to have time for tea. Besides, Charlie could smell both a mile away.

Now we don’t knowingly add anything to our char here at ClubDes but there must be something in the water because a few of our regulars have spawned recently and it’s a beautiful thing.

In fact there’s so much of it going on we’re even contemplating opening a Daddy Day Care and bringing these kids up, old school. Hey, it worked for us fellas and let’s face it, we’re awesome.

So, introducing then, the newest members of the ClubDes Massive:

1. Coops & Nat

Welcomed baby Eva into the world last month. Here is a pretty fair representation of what will happen at the end of her one and only date and that’s even before she gets to the letterbox...


2. Skids & Stace

Two brilliant minds, albeit one with misguided football loyalties, combined to produce Angus aka The Chose One on account of his birth date being exactly 10.10.10. Signs of the boy’s genius have already started to surface; he is already claiming to have invented the question mark.


3. Big Gay Ray & Natties

Already have the one bundle of joy in Paige and now have the wonderful news that a little brother too, is on the way. They’ve even decided to name the young fella after my junior which is a nice touch. Sadly ‘Big' or ‘Gay’ probably won’t feature in the names of any kids we have in the future...

Breaking All Sorts Of Rules...

I must apologise for my lack of recent postings; I have been in the middle of some pretty serious time travel and didn’t get back till early next week.

My thanks to one D G McPherson from Lower the Hutt* who wrote listing my inaction, several times in fact, often fluctuating between threats if I don’t post soon, ridiculous claims of having “boned 500 hot babes” whilst I hadn’t and the occasional candid Polaroid, which was a nice touch I thought.

It’s not like I haven’t had anything to write, because you know me, I always do.

Case in point, the girl I know who has just got married and whose new husband has taken her last name as well as his. Which is fine, I can talk, I did something similar. But hers is hyphenated on account of her parents having done the same thing so now the dude has three last names...

Now all emasculation jokes aside, that’s not really right is it? And don’t even get me started on the guy at work who took his wife’s last name and replaced his completely.

But for all round awkwardness you can’t beat the encounter I had across the road the other day with a neighbour, the father of a boy that Junior that hangs out with on occasion and who met me at the door with what looked for all the world, like an erection in his track pants.

Not as in a ‘hang your coat on this’ tent types, but more one of those ones you tuck to the side in the hope that by the time you make it to the front door from your bedroom it would’ve disappeared.

Only it didn’t and here I am, almost a month later, not sure what was the more disturbing; the fact that it hadn’t or that he shook my hand when he got there. And what was he doing in the bedroom to get one whilst three teenage boys were in the house anyway?!

And to think this all came about because some inconsiderate prick had parked his car on the opposite side of our tight little road, directly across from our driveway meaning I couldn’t reverse into it without conducting a 73 point turn.

The driveway that is, because backing into his motor would’ve been dead easy and the day the passion wagon finally gives up the ghost I am going to bumper boat the shit out of his and every other poorly parked ride.

So, forced to park ours further up the road I had done so in front of Mr Inappropriate Arousal’s house. I had gone up to the door to tell him that if it was in the way I would move it but then I’m old school like that; I respect the unwritten rule that says although technically the front of house parking space is free to all, it remains the domain of the geezer in said gaff.

Note that nowhere in that particular gentlemen’s agreement does it mention that it’s ever cool to come to the door with a semi.

Maybe the real reason for my absence (not to be confused with abstinence but there’s every chance it’s to blame for that too) is the trauma of having witnessed that. Now if I really could time travel I think I’d rewind that particular clock and complete that 73 point turn...

*Lower, the skanky sister of Upper the Hutt, cousins of Jabba and distant relatives of the most famous of all The Hutts; Pizza.

Very creative DG Macca, very creative.

Chip Off The Old Block

Sometimes, like all Fathers, I wonder if I’m on the right track with Junior.

A couple of recent conversations with his Aunty leads me to believe I am. It has just the right blend I think, of sarcasm, pessimism and mis-information:

Aunty: "How's school going Junior?"
Junior: "Oh, really awesome"
Aunty: "So you like your teacher?"
Junior: "No, she's a dick"
Aunty: "So...You like your classmates?"
Junior: “No, they're all idiots"
Aunty: "So... What's awesome about school?"
Junior: “Nothing. It sucks"

Conversation 2:

Aunty: "Want some breakfast Junior?"
Junior: "No thanks"
Aunty: "Ok"
Junior::"Can I have some cereal please?"

That’s my boy.

Wake Me Up When December Ends

Three days into the Christmas holidays and already I’m bored shitless.

That can’t be right can it? What’s even more concerning is that I’ve started drinking earlier and earlier into the day to get through the boredom. Yes, I’m turning into one of 'those' Dads. Now that really can’t be right.

I’ve tried alleviating the monotony. I broke the habit of a lifetime and ventured out amongst the Bollocks Day sales and as suspected, it was a complete shit fight. All about nothing really because most retailers weren’t offering much more discounts than they had been before Chrissy but we buy it every year don’t we? Hook, line and sucker.

Junior wanted an iPad which, no one stops to tell you, is completely useless if you don’t have a PC or laptop to kick it off on. Apple is making a mint on these things of course, especially as they’re making them interchangeable and compatible only with their other products. Smart move that. Of course Apple stuff is never reduced in price, even when everything else around it is....

Its times like this I’m tempted to take advantage of sales and update the wardrobe, but there’s some things I just don’t seem to get, like shirts that have a tee shirt sewn into them. It’s almost as if they don’t think you’ll know how to dress yourself so they sew another layer into it. Or sleeves that are already rolled up for you...it’s hardly the stuff of engineering marvel is it, the rolled up sleeve?

It reminds me of a guy I used to work with at Hallensteins, back in the day. We all took turns dressing the mannequins in the shop which was a relatively mundane task because each week head office sent photos and clear instructions on how each one should look. Creativity was never a problem, shall we say.

Except when Antonio got his hands on them. He liked to layer everything because layering was his thing and this was before anyone even knew what the hell layering was. And he wouldn’t just use the odd tee shirt or two, if he could get 16 different colours under one shirt he would.

Which just fucked it up for everyone really because whilst he was doing his Queer Eye for the Straight Guy thing the rest of us would be doing menial tasks like serving the customers, or stripping down mannequins to find the last Large tee shirt he had used on one of them.

He was a top guy was Ants. Later, after I had left, he developed some pretty serious back issues that meant he couldn’t work for months. His girlfriend of about ten years and High School sweetheart took time of work to nurse him back to full fitness as he was laid flat out for most of the time. He thanked her by running off with some 17 year old part timer when he finally did get back to work.

I think the whole under tee and rolled up sleeve thing rarks me on two levels; the whole presumption that I am so simple I couldn’t possibly know how to do either and I just have a problem with being told shit that is obvious.

Like ads and promotions that try and tell me what being a New Zealander is all about. I’ve lived here all my life, I bloody know already. Those fresh of the boat might not but what the hell are they doing watching TV anyway?

So needless to say I didn’t buy anything which is a good thing because I can spend the money on beer, which I seem to be getting through a lot of these days...

Wake me up when December ends will you? Cheers.

Sex Ed; Condoms, Cucumbers & Lesbians

I know we’re all trying to save the environment and shit by car pooling, but seeing two dudes sharing a motorbike just makes me uncomfortable. Reach around anyone?

Sex Ed at school made everybody uncomfortable. I was reminded of this recently when Junior announced his class was going through puberty. The lesson, not the body changing experience, although in some cases of kids with advanced development - and I have seen them with my own eyes - I suspect it’s both.

Even the act of teaching it has changed. Why just the other day his class had to come up with as many swear words as they know for male and female genitalia. Now that’s my kind of lesson.

They even have homework; both Junior and my niece – the football prodigy – have to do an assignment on puberty and the changes it brings. Back in the day they never set us homework for sex ed because we had our own; masturbation and we all got an ‘A’.

Which reminds me of the time Maxi got caught wanking by his Nana. The poor old thing had a stroke. Maxi was surprised to find she had such a soft hand...

Things have definitely changed since our day. Our sex ed consisted of a couple of lesbian P.E teachers showing us cutaways of the various bits on an A3 bit of paper and that was it. Quite why it had to be the lesbian teachers that took the co-ed class I never did quite understand; it just made us fellas laugh the whole time and the girls awkward as Ms Man spoke with some intensity about the vagina.

The diagrams, although incredibly accurate, were quite useless. The penis for example, was drawn at such an angle it made us boys wonder if that something was not quite right with our equipment.

Now I don’t make a habit of checking out cock or nothing, but I’ve never ever seen one with quite the same bent arm action going on as those 1950s diagrams would have you believe.

As for the female reproductive system, well, it could have been a map of the solar system for all we knew. None of the heavily embellished sexual stories from our older brothers or friends mentioned anything about it looking like the Klingon Bird of Prey, for chrissakes.

I realise now of course that such horrendous diagrams were most likely to have been drawn by a celibate monk so as to scare young minds off ever contemplating trying to get past the undies. Oh how he must have dreamed of the day that lesbian P.E teachers unleashed them on a frightened student faculty...

A few years later and, conveniently after we had all left college, Sex Ed suddenly became hands on.

Young girls were given condoms to pull on over all matter of root vegetable, usually cucumbers which just ruined it for fucken everybody. From that point on sexually awakened girls expected to find a cucumber each and every time, whilst boys spent their nights weeping uncontrollably with the impending inadequacy that moment would bring.

My dear friend and daughter I never had, Sam, a college girl, tells me that sex ed at her age is still very much hands on but thankfully there’s not a cucumber in sight. Hers is a single sex school which at least makes the whole process easier; at least there aren’t half a class room of boys feeling inadequate because their penis doesn’t resemble a tap. Or a cucumber.

Still, I guess I can be thankful that schools make an attempt at least because let’s be honest, no teen in their right mind is going to ask Mum and Dad about it so that leaves only avenue, porn and as I’ve mentioned several times before, that particular medium has a lot to answer for in mis-educating young male minds.

On second thoughts, maybe a couple of lesbians and a cucumber aren’t so bad after all.

Birthdays; Then & Now

Birthday’s aye? The shit right up till your 21st, just plain shit for every occasion thereafter.

Actually my 21st was quite shit, now that I think about it. Mine doubled as work dinner, which was planned first I might add and although I promised to do a very lady-like 21 shots, I didn’t. My boss at the time bought me a Playstation game – PS1 back in those days – which I thought was the shit until I found out it was a freebie he had been given by a supplier.

Still, it was the thought that counts I suppose.

Only at some point the thoughts stop. And birthdays are no more of a celebration than they are something you have to write on the calendar each year. Yesterday was my birthday and although Mrs ClubDes and Junior made a fuss, nothing much else happened.

Not that I expected it to be headline news but no matter how low key things have gotten you always hope that this year will be as exciting as the time you got an HMX, an underwater walkman or Castle Grayskull. It’s that expectation that makes the day suck a whole lot more when it doesn’t come to fruition.

I really should know better. After all my philosophy on life is that the eternal pessimist is never disappointed...

So as I counted away the minutes at work on a day where my importance was no more enhanced than that of any other, I still had hope that Facebook, of all things, would save my day. For I knew that when I got home and logged in I would be welcomed by a virtual wall of birthday greetings. Now that would be the shit.

Only it was complete shit, because a few months ago I removed my birth date from my profile to make it harder for someone to steal my identity. With that gone, no bugger got a reminder that yesterday was my birthday. Online safety, it would seem, is not without a sense of irony.

Admittedly it wasn’t all grim. Choppa whipped out a slab of banana cake upon my arrival, with candles no less. Maxi promised me that Lisa Lewis was on her way (she wasn’t. The bitch.) and Bruiser got me really bailed up with talk of buying me G.I.Joes for a present. He really is the mother I always wish I had.

So I’ve decided that next year, my 35th, will be the shit. I’m going to hold an all expenses paid party to which I will invite all 64 of my Stalkbook friends, most of the people I work with, old Veitnam buddies and everybody that is anybody in my magnificent life.

I will even fly in mates from overseas and I’ll make the joke that the only time you get this many friends in one room is at a funeral. It will be funny on so many levels. The dress code for the night will be tight, revealing, or both.

It will be held at some venue like Queens Wharf only not quite as gay. It will be something of a cross between an old school sports disco, a rock concert and a dance party. There will be tables, couches and a dance area. Upstairs there will be a gaming area for Junior and his mates to hang out and watch the adults get pissed below and it will be there that Big Gay Ray will spend most of the night, breaking the spirit of many a 11 year old on the PS3.

There will be a constant stream of food and piss, all served by ridiculously good looking waitresses that I will have handpicked and that Almo will spend the night hitting on. Matty T will have them all mentally organised into his Top Ten and DougalMac will try to get subtle cell phone photos of them all.

At some point The ClubDes House Band will make an appearance comprising of me and other muso mates. We will rock out with our cocks out on a handful of songs like “Waking up in ClubDes” and other likeminded anthems that put lead in my pencil. I won’t sing much myself, because I am quite shit, but I’ll do one or two numbers like “Jessies Girl” that only KB will get.

At some point the juniors of the world will be sent home and the party will really start a rockin’. The entire night’s playlist will be from my iPod and it will be good, damn good. There will be lights, smoke and free taxi rides home and for many, many months afterwards we’ll all talk about it as the night we really did party like it was 1999.

It will be the shit.

P.S. The cost of which, even at this early stage, is looking like it’ll be something like a million bucks. I’d better start the whip round tomorrow...

Bruiser did try to spark things up for my birthday...

The Threeway.

Tell the truth now; how many times have you read a headline like this online:

Drunk Teen ‘Forced Into Sex Act’

And thought “Oh yeah, I’ll have a look at that...!”

Usually in the hope there will be a pic or two. Only there isn’t and to really top things off and make you feel really stink for hoping it was filthy, is the first paragraph which list’s the ‘act’ as occurring between some dirty old bugger and some stoned boy.

Had it been a dirty old man and some drunken girl, well, that wouldn’t be as bad. All of which reminds me of a quote from Ja’mie King, inadvertent star of that kaleidoscope doco on Australian life; Summer Heights High:

“I’d rather be a paedophile than lesbian”.

I jest, of course. But then should we be super surprised that another teacher has been implicated in a sexual relationship with an underage student? Especially when the old parent – teacher interview is these days called a ‘three way’?!

True story and it’s called a three way because it’s the parent, the teacher and the child. Now I don’t know about you but if I’m remotely involved in any way in a three way, I sure as hell don’t want any kids about.

Rather worryingly, Mrs ClubDes is quite excited about the whole thing, on account of Junior’s teacher being quite the hunk of spunk. She hasn’t exactly been shy in telling people she’s having a three way tonight.

A. Three. Way. Further proof then that teacher’s these days are 5% shaping young minds and 95% rooting their way through rooting each other...

Ja'mie King; her breasts would've been bigger but she had an eating disorder in Year 8.

Breaking Stereotypes Fail.

Some ethnicities just don’t want to help themselves do they?

Now I’m no racist; oh sure, I don’t trust carneys and no, I wouldn’t be happy with Gyppos moving in on the front lawn and okay, I have some unresolved issues with Asians and AK47’s, but I am on the whole, as racially tolerant as the next frightened Caucasian.

Yet sometimes I wonder if some of the minorities who we share this country of ours with are determined to turn me. And why do they have such an aversion to being proven wrong? Granted, nobody likes to be proven wrong but these guys take that shit personally.

Example One:

I was attending Junior’s football game the other day, a rare occasion for me as I coach another team and their games are seldom at opposite times.

Ten minutes in and the tone for the game is set when a bunch of taxi drivers – and I’m not using the term as a racial stereotype, there were literally three taxis parked up to watch the one boy – started laying into the ref, our ref, because young Imran had just been knocked to the ground in a hard, but fair, tackle.

It didn’t seem to matter to them that Imran was the biggest boy on the field and quite possibly 16, not eleven like the rest of the boys. Nor did it seem to matter that Imran was playing a contact sport in which there is quite frequently, contact. No, any time Imran went over, which was often, the Wellington Combined section of the crowd would launch into the same anti ref tirade that got real boring, real fucking quick.

One of the Dad’s in my son’s team, all seven foot of him, decided to have a quiet word with the contenders for ‘father sof the year’ and suggest to them that they consider just what effect their words were having on the boys.

He might as well have suggested that they all go and suck their mother’s cocks given the response he got. Which was all rather predictable really, but given that he is a very successful lawyer of many years experience and they, well, taxi drivers, things got sorted real quick. An argument over who gets the next spot on the rank this wasn’t.

Needless to say it was a mis-match on and off the field. Imran fell over a few more times before the games end, our boys won the game and the entire sorry contingent left with some dirty looks our way, having done there bit for closer community relations.

Example Two:

Being the modern, new age Dad that I am, I like to drop my son off at school each morning. It’s a dicey bit of logistics on a dry day, but when it’s persisting down it’s like that bit on Star Wars where Luke attacks the Death Star in his X Wing.

Right outside the entrance to Junior’s school is a crossing and next to that, a bus stop. Having dropped him off I pulled out into the traffic. A bus had stopped in the opposite lane and was off loading the several hundred kids these things seem capable of holding in the mornings, which meant they were all drifting across the crossing, in small groups.

Amongst all this, some dude – let’s call him Kamahl – made the decision to squeeze in behind the bus and pedestrian crossing all the while trying to turn across my lane into the driveway. Had his car been, say, a pushbike, it wouldn’t have posed a problem but now it was pissing with rain and I couldn’t see kids behinf him entering the crossing on his side of the road. Real cool.

So we did what all good folk do in this type of situation; we had a verbal altercation from the safety of our cars. I mentioned that his not waiting till the other side of the crossing was clear was endangering the children, but the suggestion was drowned out by his claiming to be “not on the crossing. I am not on the crossing!”.

He was right of course, he wasn’t. But he was still endangering kids, still in the wrong and still a complete fuckwit. But then what can I say, some ethnicities just don’t want to help themselves and break down the stereotypes do they?

Backing Up The Back Up

The owner of my local servo – bless him – has two blank VHS tapes on his shelf for sale. I nearly bought them myself because I haven’t got the heart to tell him that no one makes so much as a sex tape on VHS these days.

It reminded me of the mega VHS collection that Bruiser and his older brother had back in the day. They were quite possibly the first proponents of what we’ve come to know today as making a ‘back up of a back up’.

The O’Brien boys were before their time when it came to dubbing VHS. They had two recorders and copied every new release they could get their hands on, recording through one player whilst watching it through another. Older brother Terry’s long Sparky apprenticeship was worth its weight in gold the day he set that up, that’s for sure and it wasn’t long before that second recorder soon paid for itself.

Imagine your standard floor to ceiling bookcase full of VHS tapes. They had two of them. All uniformly labelled and sorted in alphabetical order. It was a beautiful sight and it meant that all of us never had to pay for a single rental for quite some time.

I recall Bruiser took to playing one during an English class at school because the teacher at the time had a bad dose of vaginal thrush, or something. I don’t really recall why. But the ironic humour that was the ‘piracy is a crime’ message at the start of the movie was not lost on anyone...

Now these days I have some antiquated standards around the whole piracy thing. It is a real test of character to resist taking up the lads on their many offers of a ‘back up of a back up’, especially with the exorbitant cost of seeing a movie at the theatre these days, but I manage to, just.

But I caved this week when T Bag offered me a download copy of Cold Chisel on CD. I accepted. Sure, I felt bad but the bastards aren’t on iTunes so it serves them right really. I do fancy a bit of The Chiz, especially the song Khe Sanh which details the troubles of a Vietnam vet. You had to be there really and T Bag and I were.

It came on whilst I was driving and shit got emotional. I had to pull over for a good, uncontrollable cry which was awkward because at that point in time I was driving Junior to school.

One medium I am happy to have a ‘back up of a back up’ in is TV. Programs make their money by paid for by networks who in turn sell the advertising time to fund them. So the way I see it is that cast and crew have already been paid for their efforts, so rather than be shafted by the TV channels into watching them when they decide, downloading them is watching them when I choose to.

Even then I’ve resisted the urge to get ahead of the telly on one program; Lost, which comes to a climactic end this weekend and my god has it got me moist with arousal. On one hand I am an excited young man to finally find out the islands secrets and yet, on the other hand, I feel slightly sad that the biggest mind fuck in quite some time is going to be over in just under 24 hours.

Lost has been like the girlfriend that you could never quite figure out yet the sex was just too good to walk away from. At least until you found someone filthier.

Maybe all this talk of ‘backing up a back up’ is not such a bad idea after all. Just imagine if the record company for example, lost their master copy of The Chiz. Wouldn’t they be grateful to learn that I had a back up of a back up that they could borrow? The fuck they would!

I might email them and let them know...

Terry spent the money he made from flogging his back ups well...

All That Sparkles...

Shit in my mouth, when did we get rid of Sparkles?

2008, apparently. That’s when the last run was made of one of the best boiled lollies of all time. Snifters are gone too, as are Tangy Fruits which were not only the best thing to suck on at a movie (other than your girlfriend), but made the best projectile for when the onscreen action got a little slow.

The reason for their premature retirement was lack of demand, which is a goddamn lie because there is always at least one prick I want to throw something hard at when watching a movie...

I only found this out the other day whilst mursing Junior who was home with the spews. Eating was not an option for the young fella but sucking on a sweetie was so off to the corner dairy we trundled. Well, we drove. Who walks anywhere these days aye?

Dairies, like servo’s, have become the biggest rip off merchants in town. Once upon a time you could send a kid down to the local shop with a lady godiver (fiver) and it would take them a week to spend it all, but not anymore.

Now I didn’t do a lot in my 5th Form economics class other than wind up our four foot two, flared trousers wearing teacher - the short, backward square Mr Moriaty. But I did pick up that if you sold many more of the same items, only slightly cheaper, than your competition, you’d make the most money. Maybe they don’t teach that in Bombay schools.

Still, there is a sense of comfort that comes with knowing the corner dairy is still the only place where the lady behind the counter will use the same hand to take your cash, wipe her nose, whack hubby off and pass you the unwrapped liquorice strap you just bought.

So imagine my surprise when she told me that they no longer make Sparkles. I stood there dumbfounded amongst the crappy, tasteless, gelatine based candy and wondered just which shitty, foul tasting, rubber based lolly from Guatemala I’d have to buy in its place.

Junior, who was just gagging to get out of the place, quite literally, picked up on a pack of Cola flavoured Mentos. Sure, Mentos is a fine suckle, in its own right, but it’s a sad, sad day when cola flavoured mints have to take the place of Sparkles. Which were the most popular off all the lollies given to Grand kids by Grandparents back in the day.

Anyhoo, they helped do the trick and he’s back at school this week, just in time to complete the 4km cross country run that every kid has been forced to prepare for this term. What is it with schools these days and their incessant need to force exercise amongst the student faculty? It seems as if the ClubDes brethren spend half of their school life’s running or jumping.

Which would be great if they were fatties and were that the case I’d be totally behind the movement if they were, but neither is. My two are about as likely to become morbidly obese in the next few years as I am and I can’t help but wonder what the teachers are doing all this time their students are running? Surfing and saving pornographic images I bet.

So maybe we should give the skinny kids a rest, bring back Sparkles and give them a handful to eat. Because no one ever got fat eating Sparkles.

The departed.

Fundraising Chocolates & Norwegian Fuckwits

It’s been fundraising month at Junior’s school which has meant I’ve been the annoying guy at work trying to bully you into buying over priced chocolate.

I’ve hated what it’s made me become. Not because I want to sell the most, but because for every box I can offload on my colleagues I can rest easy in the knowledge its one less my son has to try and peddle door to door to rain coat wearing, internet surfing strangers.

It’s a strange world we live in where schools, the place you used to learn about stranger danger, now subliminally promotes it by heaping ‘sell at all costs’ activities on kids. Nobody actually says to go knock on some sexo’s door mind you, but it’s implied when they start rewarding kids who move the biggest quota.

Some little shit sold 40 odd boxes last year and apparently he’s on track again to do so this year. You would think the folk he sold that to a mere year ago would have seen him coming this time round, but no. The smarmy bastard.

Needless to say my boy had grandiose dreams of shifting a similar amount. He wanted to not only knock on doors, but stand outside a supermarket selling something that the punters could buy cheaper inside. For me, the protective father yet who wants to give his son the room to grow and experience life, it was a lose lose situation.

So I turned to peddling the shit. Thankfully both I and Mrs ClubDes have wonderfully supportive colleagues and between us we moved enough choc tinnies to appease our offspring, who, it turns out, must share a class with likeminded parents because he has surged to the top of the selling charts in his room.

So that solves one problem. But are you, like me, just a bit weary of the whole chocolate fundraiser thing? It’s near impossible to work through any workplace these days without someone trying to flog you some morbid obesity causing sugar saturated product, all in the name of the children. How much more chocolate can the workplace around you take, for fucks sake?

Norway probably has some room for chocolate. It certainly has a shortage of intelligence, especially amongst the good ol boys that came over recently and nailed a few of our endangered birds whilst on a hunting trip. Makes a change from equally helpless and harmless whales I suppose.

It would appear that the fruity fish eaters knew what they were doing and had prior knowledge of just what they could shoot and what they couldn’t. The wankers made a video while they were here, just to capture for prosperity what a bunch of hard core survivalists they were.

Eventually our Government decided the fuckwits would be charged, but only if they come back to NZ. Yeah, good one. They might be thick but they ain’t that thick. Thomas, Bennie and Bjorn aren’t coming back any time soon and will be laughing about this one in their fire fed hot tubs for quite some time.

But I have a solution.

Let’s send an expedition of our own to shoot a few fat birds over in sleepy old Norge, because it would be rude not to really. Corporal Willie Apiata can lead the touring party now he’s back from ObamaStan and he can take as many of his bad ass mofo mates as he needs to strangle a few Norwegian Blue’s as they sleep in their Norwegian wood houses. Shit em right up.

Now that’s a trip I’d gladly sell more fundraising chocolates for....