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...

Mt Maunganui - Land of the Weird

Welcome, then, to Tauranga, the city where laws like having to wear a helmet whilst cycling and not using your cellphone whilst driving were made to be broken.

And you and I both know that these perps would’ve gotten to that state via gateway misdemeanours like jay walking and not actually fully coming to stop at a stop sign..

Not that there’s anything new in that state of lawlessness, my history with this part of the world includes being the place where I learnt - and first got caught - shoplifting. It was the classic rookie error too, I reached above the ice cream fridge / counter thing to steal a chocolate bar, because I didn’t think the shopkeeper could see me doing so….through the glass.

It’s also the place where I had my first interracial sexual experience. I kissed the Maori girl from next door that I fancied on the cheek. I think we were 10.

See my father lived in Greerton and in the years before his eternal paternal abandonment I would holiday here with him for months on end, or whenever it suited Mother to have me back which as far as I was concerned, was always way too soon. Them were good times.

My father’s then soon to be wife was a hottie who had a thing about leaving bowls of lollies on the table as a snack. Naturally being under the age of pubes and starved of such a thing back in the real world, I gulfed them down like a kid with diabetes.

In fact everyone was forever giving me lollies. The stoners next door would buy me bags of the things just for cutting down a bush with the wooden sword Dad made me, whilst said sexy Step Mum let me pick what I wanted as a $10 mixture for one of my birthdays. And that was back in the day when things cost a cent!

We’re not staying in Greerton though, the extended ClubDes family and I. No we’re in Mt Maunganui, one of the countries hotspot's at this time of the year. Fuck knows why because this place is distinctly average. Oh sure, it has a beach but the Gold Coast it ain’t.

The holiday house we’re staying in is quaint, in an ‘everything is bloody backwards’ way, like the light switches which are in the last places you expect them to be and gates open outwards, not inwards. That kind of thing.

The owners must be grandparents too because there are kiddie locks on everything, the ones that require a degree in dexterial engineering to open them. Those things are going to be a shitter when the arthritis kicks in. Maybe just teach your kids not to go into cupboards aye?

Crimes against fashion runs into their thousands up this way and far be it from me and my Scott Disick GQ style to criticise but some people round here are dressing themselves in the dark, surely. All of which just adds to the ‘weird’ factor of the place really.

Like the Upper Hutt Posse across the road who had a skateboard and bongo drums party the first night we were here. I kid you not. There were more black metal tee shirts on show than one of those Asian run knock off shops and yes they did get the Led out around midnight, but yet somebody bought the drums…

Still, it’s a holiday which means you don’t really give a shit about those things. Besides, I pulled up alongside a mint, cherry red Dodge Charger in the main street the second day and the sight and sound of it will keep the mecaphilliac wank bank stocked nicely thanks very much.

Roll on New Year’s, maybe then I'll discover what all the fuss about this place is really about...

The missus and I are making this place look good, real good.

Speaking Of Which...

Best One Day purchase by Mrs ClubDes ever. Unleash the ninjabread!

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.

Three Long Years

I can't be a 100% sure but I think the missus is messing with me.

First we name the dog 'Charlie' and then she goes and buys Coke bottled for Vietnam from one of those one day sale sites!

And yes this photo is blurry, but trust me when I tell you the label says NUOC GIAI KHAT which, loosely translated from the Vietnamese, means YOU LOSE G.I.

Three long years, three consecutive tours and still on edge. Just saying.

Reboot.

Hows this for irony; the ClubDes desktop is broke and despite working on a technical help desk I can’t do a thing about it.

Not surprising really because I’m an ideas man, not really a doer as Mrs ClubDes is only too happy to point out. Admittedly she starts plenty of things started but seldom finishes them so we make a good pair really.

I know what’s wrong with the damn thing and no, it’s not a hard drive chock full of ‘the good stuff’. The video card is stuffed and I’ve proven it by using a loner from work that I really should have kept because no one would have noticed if I had. But I am an honest lad and didn’t.

That was about two years ago and since then have made three concerted efforts to find a replacement, mostly under harassment of not being a doer, I should add. The first involved me contacting Hewlett Packard directly only to have the will to live sucked from me by their helpless desk and their incessant need to tick every fucken box on their ‘450 mandatory checks to make before logging a fault’ list.

The second involved Chef because he’s quite clued up and not just with food. He was very helpful and we got to the point where we tested two replacement cards that were new, but faulty. And about there he left it, possibly because I lost interest and he picked me, quite correctly I might add, as a hopeless case.

So we come to the third, most recent attempt which started with me emailing the deets through to HP the other day. ‘Deets’ by the way is short for ‘details’. I get this new found abbreviated jargon from coaching my girls who are all totes about the abbreviation. ‘Totes’ is short for ‘totally’, btw, which is short for…..oh forget it.

They emailed me back stating that although our desktop was no longer supported but did provide a link to an approved supplier that may have the part. They didn’t, because the desktop is no longer supported. Funny that.

Unsupported? My Grandmas nungas are unsupported and why not at her age aye, she’s earned the right to free boob if she wants, but it’s a bit fucken cheeky of HP to say the same about a bit of kit that I bet somewhere, right now, some Asian family is getting paid 50 cents a day to put together and dispatch. Now this is no Commodore 64 from 1984 either, it’s about four years old.

They want me to buy a new one, that’s why it’s not supported no more. But it’s a fine line playing that game because I’m so slutted with them I’m not going to buy HP ever again. I’ll instead buy some other brand that will undoubtedly go the same way in four years time. And you thought porn on the internet was free aye? What a fucken liberty.

It’s a conspiracy is what it is. I’ve always felt the same about Sony who I truly believe have a big red button on the wall somewhere at Sony HQ that when pressed, kills off all the previous incarnations of the Playstation meaning, if you have one, that you now have to upgrade to the new $800 model. That button sounds like a cash register when pushed.

Thankfully I have one more option and it, or rather he, works on the help desk, so I know he’ll know his shit. Unless he’s an ideas man, like me then I really am stuffed.

So no pressure Puffer, but it’s your cock up, my arse.

I'm pretty sure I know what the problem is...

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.

Things To Do At Easter When You're Bored

Well my Easter weekend sucked, how about yours?

You see we’re renovating. I say ‘we’ but really it’s the missus who does all the work, I’m just on clean up duty and here’s one of the things they don’t tell you about redecorating; it’s fucken messy, amongst other things.

It’s actually a shit of a job and personally I can’t understand why anyone would even start but then they don’t tell you that in all the TV shows and ads that make it look so appealing. It’s all so easy when it’s someone else money, time and labour.

It’s not our first foray into the DIY. We’ve done a few rooms now and yep, every single one sucked just as much as the other and yes, it might very well be one of those things where you’re supposed to sit back once it’s all done and enjoy it but I don’t; I just recall how bloody back breaking it was and wonder just what the fuck we were thinking to start all this?

Because once you’ve done room you have to do them all. Because now they don’t match, or in the often seen worst case scenario, you’ve stuffed the first one up so bad you have to fuck ‘em all up to match.

This past weekend was the turn of the open plan lounge kitchen ensemble. Not the kitchen refit mind you, because that particular bonding experience is still to come, no this was just walls and ceilings. Which meant sanding. By the shitload.

Of course I know a thing or two about being caked in fine sand. The five weeks we spent in Khe Sanh back in the summer of ’69 (piss off Bryan Adams) left us with more sand in our crack than a fattie on the beach. Of course it was hot too so we literally sweated our tattoos off so it didn’t take long for the sand to harden and in some cases, seal the buttocks right up but that was a mixed blessing cause it meant you avoided having to take a dump (cause Charlie could smell a dump a mile away, especially if you had had the rat for dinner) and the accidental games of stand up sodomy that happened in the officers mess.

To her credit Mrs ClubDes did tell me to piss off for the weekend but I did what most fellas do whenever the other half offers any advice, I considered it, briefly and assumed I knew better and didn’t. Thus the long, wet weekend was spent with the family camped into two rooms, only one of which had a TV. It was like a hotel, only without the exotic locale outside.

Now I love the fam more than life itself but in that enclosed environment things started to get very David Bain I don’t mind telling you.

Of course it meant passing through the dust storm that was the main living area anytime we wanted to eat or drink but that’s okay, I like my tea like I like my cheeks; sandy. Speaking of which, have you seen there’s a new flavour of tea called ‘New Zealand Breakfast’? So now you can sit and have your breakfast, in New Zealand and drink a tea that supposedly tastes like you’re drinking...tea...in...New Zealand.

So feeling slightly emasculated but yet relieved that this type of thing is one of the only times I can honestly play the sick note and not have to do the graft, I was reduced to the clean up, which is not the smartest move for someone with respiratory issues. Who would’ve thunk it aye?

Thus Easter weekend finished with one almost completed living area (we still have to paint the fucker) and me on oxygen. The lesson to be learned here class is if you’re contemplating home improvement, don’t. Ever.

Besides, there has to be a better way of having a 48 hour running argument with a lot less effort.

One Day Royal Wedding Tat

There was a box on the doorstep again today. There’s always a box on the doorstep at our place.

Mrs ClubDes is addicted to one of those websites that offer great deals for just one day. You know the ones, how could you not, they’re fucken everywhere. Why even Trade me have started one now too, because having you buy a garage load of second hand tat just isn’t enough for them it would seem.

These sites tap into a distinctly Kiwi bit of our subconscious; that we’re getting a bargain and on that particular day and that particular item, we are. Because we love the bargain, the mate’s rate, the cashie and hey, if it’s fallen off the back of the truck then it probably wasn’t meant to be there in the first place.

Me misses loves a two for one bargain too, especially at the supermarket. Now I do my fair share of the grocery shopping and not just because I’m a metro sexual man, but because I hate the thought of spending more than we really need to. When I go shopping we get everything we need and under budget. When she indoors does it we get double what we need and we’re over budget. Her theory being that we’ll save money next week. We never do.

Now I was quite shit at Economics at school because let’s be honest, it’s a shit subject. Coops and I did it because it sounded like manly subject, did Economics, but it was a waste of a year in terms of learning anything. In terms of a laugh it was epic because we had a teacher who was well worth a wind up just to get a reaction.

He was a small man so that straight away meant the duster went to the top of the board at the start of class, every time. The hilarity of him having to jump to reach it with his finger tips never got old. He was the kind of guy who I always suspected would be quite the fella to know out of class, but a stickler for shattering dreams in it.

He did have our respect on one hand though; he was reportedly playing economies of scale with the good looking economics teacher who was well high on our list of teachers we’d let take advantage of us if they were so inclined. It was a short list.

So how I came to be good with money is a mystery. I suspect my mother has something to do it because she spent it like nobody’s business. Had there been a One Day Sale or Trade Me back in the day she would have kept both sites running. She would buy bulk everything, even if we didn’t need it simply because it was bulk, so it had to be cheaper. Right?

Wrong motherfucker, as I said to my mother several times. Well, not really, but I was thinking it. The one day sales and two for ones work because they entice you to buy something you wouldn’t have. Yes it might be a bargain but you weren’t really looking for it so the sneaky buggers have taken your money without even really trying.

Still, at least it’s not Royal Wedding rubbish which has really cranked up production with the big day only a week away. Are you sick of it yet? I wonder if when they get to that bit in the service when the dude calls for anyone who sees any reason for them not wed some bugger stands up and shouts “Yes, ‘cause we’re fucken over it already!”

Kate Middleton is a good looking girl though and in terms of the Monarchy she is definitely bring sexy back. She looks great on a pizza too which is not something you can say about every girl. There’s even the Kate and Wills teabags which is great for those who have ever wanted to be tea bagged by a couple and not forgetting the Princess Kate doll too, of course, which must have the sexual deviants whipping out their ten quid and willy all in one swift movement.

Actually, I wonder if I can get one of those on One Day Sale...?

Massages, Haircuts & Touching My Bits

So I went to a hair salon the other day.

Not a barber, a salon. Which I am normally dead against – for reasons you know I’m about to go into – but Mrs ClubDes talked me into because she had a voucher. We love vouchers. Vouchers mean you cut the mark up of a good or service down from ‘over inflated’ to just plain ‘inflated’. It’s quite possibly the only form of deflation I like....

Now I like the teat of some lady I’ve only just met in my face as much as the next guy, but aside from that and I’m not a big fan of hair salons. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen every episode of Tabitha’s Salon Makeover. Twice. Or maybe it’s just that I have this thing about other people touching my personal bits.

Like massages. I love them. Strictly above the waist and with everybody in the room but me clothed, but I can never seem to relax enough to let anyone give me one. Needless to say I’m terrible at orgies too.

The last time I did have a massage was with some middle aged Swedish bird who asked me at the end if there was ‘anything else she could do?’ in a way that was distinctly porno.

No, I tell a lie. The last massage I got was from a guy who was very good but he seemed to confuse my telling him at the start of the festivities that I had low body fat percentage so ‘he could take it easy with the pressure’ to mean ‘please, push as hard as you can because I like it rough’.

A friend of mine was training to be a masseuse a couple of years ago and she offered to give both the missus and I one on the cheap. I nearly took her up on it too, only I walked in on her giving another mate one once and either she was lactating or she’d inadvertently dipped her nipples in the lotion as she’d worked the back. I couldn’t quite bring myself to look at her in the eye after that.

Usually the missus cuts my hair. Sure, it takes her about two hours but she cuts it the way she wants, which is of course, the way that I want it and it costs us nothing, except the usual threat to stop midway through when I complain how long it’s taking.

Which just highlights another reason I’m not a big fan of salons in general because when it comes to paying for shit, like haircuts, I’m as tight as a nuns nasty...

But like I said, we had a voucher and my current look (imagine Sawyer off Lost) is beyond the amateur but well meaning cutting skills of Mrs ClubDes, talented as she is. Truth really be told she couldn’t be arsed and I don’t blame her, so off to the salon I went.

And you know what? I kind of liked it. I got a shampoo and a head massage, which turned me on a little and a kick ass cut that was quick and exactly like the four photos I had printed off the Internet and said that Mrs ClubDes had bought in for me as a reference.

I even found myself digging the gay stylists play list he had pumping out across the place and almost joined in the conversation with he and the Sheila next to me about Anne Hathaway who, I fancy a great deal but shall not be doing it with if she continues to show her fruit jubes in every movie she makes from this point on, fuck you very much.

As relaxed as I was at that point I kept that one to myself.

I wasn’t even annoyed when we found out at the end that our voucher was no longer valid; I had had a good time damn it, a scalp massage, a perfect hair cut not to mention not one, but two boobs to the face.

Hell, on that basis I might even go again.

Tabitha can do whatever the hell she likes with my bits.

The Eternal Optimism Of A New Year

It always surprises me just how far off their tits some people will get in celebrating the arrival of the New Year.

I know why it’s such a big occasion, but I’ve never understood why nobody heralds in the arrival of a big month for them, quite like they do a new year. If you knew April, for example, was going to be a massive month for you then why wouldn’t you party like it was 1999 on the last day of March?

Because nobody really knows what lies ahead, that’s why. It’s a celebration of eternal optimism is New Years as demonstrated by the newsreader I watched who, at 6pm on January the 1st, claimed “2011 was already shaping up to be a better year than the last”.

How did he know at that point in time? The year was less than 24 hours old for fucks sake. Did he say the same thing last year, before the earthquakes, floods, volcano eruptions and mining disasters? Boy did he get that one wrong.

The inference perhaps, was that after all that shit went down anything has to be better. Perhaps, but Armageddon – the doomsday not the decidedly average comic convention - could be right round the corner. Who would really know aye?

I haven’t partied like it was 1999 since, well, 1999. It is a story I have told here before so I won’t go over it again besides it was such a tragic affair things are getting hazy and I may have inadvertently started to embellish each retell in my favour. I do recall it ended with a sympathy shag and for once I wasn’t the one dishing out the sympathy...

Needless to say then that Mrs ClubDes and I didn’t see 2011 in spectacular style. Admittedly we did live life on the edge and watched two movies in one night but that was about as hard core as it got. I was up at midnight, but only because some dickhead down the road decided to wish all and sundry a drunken happy News Years from the balcony of his house.

Naturally, being the voyeuristic neighbour that I am, I went and had a look, curious as to what all the yelling was about. Fortuitously the street lights in our little cul-de-sac have been out over the last few days so even as a skinny guy with a Neapolitan tan, standing outside in his grundies, I was shrouded in the darkness that was as black as a black man’s cape.

Oh how I would have loved to have been afforded that kind of cover back in the bushes of Nam. Some of the locals had even hoarded some fireworks from Guy Fawkes and proceeded to let them off. Hey, it was no Sydney Harbour Bridge (or Khe Sanh for that matter) but it was a nice touch.

And doesn’t cul-de-sac sound like that thing the doctor does when he cups them and asks you to cough?

Of course the true downside of a New Years piss up is the clean up the day after the night before and if ever there was a metaphor for my argument that the year ahead is not really going to be any better than the last, despite the optimism, then the cleanup is it.

Happy New Year you lot. May 2011 be better than last year, just don’t bet on it.

Yeah nah, not that kind of Armageddon...

Jump Jet Dreams And BBQ Goodbyes

Why does depressing news always arrive only days before the likes of Christmas? I’ve had two such moments in as many weeks and I won’t lie to you, both ripped my undies, emotionally speaking.

The only time I’ve ever actually ripped my underwear is that one time in Standard Four where I had a shart of epic proportions during class and had to flush them down the toilet as they were literally, unsalvageable.

But don’t tell anyone aye? Least of all my mother who always wondered what happened to my camo green, A Team Y fronts. Has there ever been a more useless invention than the opening in the front of Y fronts?

The theory being of course that when a fella wants to have a wee he will open the fly, reach into the opening and well, you know. Let me clear one thing up right now; that’s too many openings and too many points of failure, especially when you’re 10, at school and in fear of the toilet door being kicked down at any moment.

See that kind of carry on frightens a young man and his appendage into urinal stage fright and would often lead to many, many minutes spent waiting for either every other bastard to leave before you could pee, or to desperate thoughts of cool things that would take your mind of the fact that you’ve been standing there for 15 minutes.

Like Harrier jump jets.

Which were officially retired this week in a decision that will end the dreams of many a young shy pisser like me who grew up wanting to fly one of the coolest things ever, second only to the thought of a flying tank.

The Harrier was a jet that blew the pubescent mind because not only did it go forwards, but up & down (on the spot) and backwards. Fuck. Yes. Oh sure, helicopters can do those things, but you can’t load 14,000 kg of whip ass onto a helicopter.

There was something innately sexual about a Harrier too. Maybe it was the big air intakes that looked like nubile breasts, or just the simple fact that it was so pants wettingly awesome, but it turned young boys like us on even more than the underwear section of the DEKA catalogue. Did it what.

The RAF Harriers took their last operational flights this week and it was a deeply moving sight, so much so I proceeded to spend the next few hours spooning the car, it being the biggest metal object I could get my hands on at such short notice. And yes, the F35 Lightning that replaces them is a jump jet too but it’s not the JUMP JET. That title belongs to the Harrier.

I probably could have handled the news a lot better if I wasn’t already at such a low ebb with the heartbreaking news that Mrs ClubDes had decided it was time to retire the family BBQ of 10 years.

Now I’m not one of those guys that get deeply primal and protective about his right to barbecue. Not by a long shot. If truth be told I’d actually prefer someone else did the cooking but I appreciate the emasculation one undergoes if, when surrounded by other men, a fella turns the tongs over to the missus. So I don’t.

But I’d much prefer to sit back with a cold beer and listen to me old mate James Blunt on the wireless than to sweat it out like a rapist in front of a hot girdle and proceed to spend the rest of the evening smelling like meat.

That said though, when I do take the reins, I crank out some quality shit; no char grilled or burnt anything when I’m on the job. I guarantee it. It’s all about temperature control bitches.

So I was disappointed to see an old friend go, especially as I had constructed a mega set of new legs for it when the old ones had given way due to being cheap as chips, made in China rubbish. It was some of my best woodwork and reminded me of weekends spent wasted away in Granddads’ shed, building shit.

Like scale model Harrier jump jets. Oh yeah.

Check out the rack on that!

Breaking Through The Bubble

Hey, which are you sick of hearing about more; me being sick or the Christchurch fucking earthquake?

Personally, for me, it’s the latter although I’m just about over the former too. It doesn’t help that I’ve been in isolation for five days watching wall to boring wall coverage of the quake.

Thankfully I am now out of isolation and the doctors say I’m on the mend but given that I didn’t once think of playing with myself in that entire time I’m not so sure...

Why I’ve even left the room a few times too, with Mrs ClubDes to make a cuppa and always with a surgical mask ala Michael Jackson. I don’t need to wear the mask, so say those that would supposedly know, but given the last guy admitted with my condition died on account of something he picked up whilst staying here I’ll keep it on, fuck you very much.

Despite being in a hospital I feel very strange in wearing one.

I can’t help but feel I must look like an Asian on my walk to work, which is a bizarre thing anyway when you consider that Asians are prepared to bombard their ovaries and testes with the gamma rays from any number of miniature electronic devices they profigate but yet, they stress over a little bit of airborne carbon monoxide?!

Of course being a fully fledged ninja I am well used to wearing a facial mask but then I’m used to being completely invisible when I do so too. Hence my anxiety.

It’s fair to say then that with my isolation and paranoia about cross infection I have become a little, shall we say, unhinged. Last night I ventured out by myself in the 9pm twilight for a simple char run and it all went horribly wrong.

The writing was on the wall when I passed the room where I could see two massive, black feet, face down and sticking out from the end of the bed. Was it a patient, I wondered, or was it some dear old lady getting railed by a six foot four black man, because that really would be alternative medicine at its most inventive...

Then there were the fire doors that were closed, thus blocking my way to the kitchen. Now usually I’m well aware that pushing the green button releases these things but for some inexplicable reason all logic went out the window and I panicked.

For two reasons really; I’m a little on edge as it is but also a good looking blonde nurse was watching what I was doing and possibly all the time wondering just how awesome a guy needs to be to get a Captain Awesome tee shirt issued to him like the one I was wearing.

Naturally I was eager not to disappoint her by failing to navigate a fire door because that would be distinctly un-awesome.

So I doubled round to the second set of doors and they too were closed. They even had a bit of paper stuck on them telling me to use the button but yet, I retreated back into the night and scarpered back to the safety of my room - my bubble - tea less and slightly concerned that my room was only one away from the black man.

Actually, come to think of it, if I’m having thoughts like that then maybe I am on the road to recovery 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...

It's Wet, Get Over It.

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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....