How Not To Mow Lawns 101

Now I’m not usually prone to taking discreet photos of the neighbour’s property but in this instance I just had to.

Oh sure, there were those images of her next door and the time she was sunbathing topless out the back and yes, the pics did look like they had been taking through a freshly drilled glory hole in the fence. But I stand by my statement that I just happened to have my camera in my pocket whilst hanging out the washing that day and it did indeed drop to the ground and took several very focused, high resolution shots of her as it bounced on the pavement. True story.

Thankfully she moved out after jacking up (or possibly off) with one of her many gentleman callers. I wasn’t too disappointed with that because as regular readers will no doubt recall she had a teenage son who had a penchant for low riding pants, cars with big bore exhausts and females with Hepatitis.

And those who have seen said accidentally acquired images will also know what I mean when I use the expression “two cricket balls in tights”.

Our new neighbours moved in a few weeks ago and are quite lovely, British, fresh of the boat and are settling in nicely. They’re renting the gaff but are the types of tenants a landlord loves to have; tidy, conscientious and keen to do a spot of gardening on a nice day.

Not that the upkeep of the grounds has ever been a priority of the owner. Previously he sent Mr Green around only when the lawns reached knee height. Which has always lead me to believe that either he has no idea about how hard it is to cut that length of grass or he’s tighter than a straight mans anus with his money.

Thus the lawns there hadn’t been mowed for sometime and being the lover of a well mowed lawn that I am this quite understandably got on my tits and so, for the last few weeks, I have been trying to talk my way into mowing theirs for them at the same time I did ours.

Frustratingly they’ve been out or indulging in a spot of afternoon delight (because they do look the type) every time I’ve knocked on the door and I haven’t had the chance. Mrs ClubDes reckoned I should just mow it but they have a toddler and the last thing I want to be known as is ‘the crazy guy next door who mowed our lawns without asking whilst we were rutting like wildebeest as baby slept’.

It was rather fortunate then that our paths should cross the other day as I was departing for football with the girls. I offered to run the mower over the front line the next time I had it out but the bastard both broke my heart and turned me on a little by revealing that he had just bought a mower himself.

He had tried a bit of trimming too, only he showed his complete lack of inexperience by trying when the grass was as moist as the Sonny Bill Williams fan club. We both shared a man laugh at that point but alarm bells should were well and truly ringing; No one would be that clueless to try and cut a lawn at that state, would they?!

He fucken was, did and has left it in a state that can be best described as a shambles. He hasn't even followed the basic of basics which is that the tyre should always be inside the line of the last pass. They teach that stuff on Blues Clues for fucks sake. I shouldn't really be surprised after all he's probably lived in some attached townhouse all his life that had a concreted over garden, but it annoys me now every time I look at it.

So much so I'm tempted to run my mower over his lawn at any moment, afternoon delight or not.

Just look at the state of it.

A Question of Sport #2

More unanswered question from the wonderful world of sport. What? You don't like sport? You should.

Rugby


The World Cup has started – you might have noticed – and undoubtedly the highlight to date, so far as NZ is concerned, is the moment Sonny Bill Williams All Black jersey lost a sleeve and he had to remove it. What a fabulous advertisement for the $220 jersey that adidas spent years developing aye? I thought it was made of some fantastic fabric that hadn’t even been invented yet? And now we know why it costs so much; it comes with a guy to help you take the damn thing off.

Apparently the jersey is now being sent to China for testing to see what went wrong. China. I'd say that's your answer right there...

On the same subject the English – who I’ve happened to draw in the work sweepstake – had similar issues with the numbers on their jerseys, which started to peel off en masse with the slightest breeze. Some comfort then to know that Nike’s sweatshops, also based in China, don’t do quality any better then adidas. In a remarkable coincidence, England was wearing their new black strip too, the idea for which they pinched from us, so it serves the unoriginal bastards right doesn’t it? Perhaps they’ve finally realised white is the colour of surrender, that’s why we don’t wear it…

Tennis


That guy Serena Williams was at it again this week too, proving that she can’t handle the jandal when she starts to lose to a whitey and just confirmed that you can take the diva out of Compton, but she still sulks like one when things don’t go her own way. Do you think she’ll look back on these comments with a sense of irony?

''Don't even look at me,'' shouted the 29-year-old up at Asdaraki (Chair Umpire).

''If I see you in the corridor don't even walk past me because - you're out of control, you're out of control. You're totally out of control, you're a hater and you're just unattractive inside. Who would do such a thing? And I never complain. Wow. You’re a loser.

I get a code violation for expressing who I am; we're in America last time I checked. Am I going to get violated for (asking for) water? Really don't look at me. I promise you don't look at me. Don't look my way.''

Wankers of the Week

My dear old Grandad used to have a saying “Why is it when you need a hand you always get a van load of wankers showing up?”



And he was right. This week a wanker’s wagon showed up at the doors of ClubDes and quite rightly we’ve told them to step off, bitch.



Sonny Bill Williams



After all the palaver about signing the guy the NZRFU have now learned he doesn’t even want to stay in NZ after the World Cup. What a wanker. We don’t even give a shit about rugby really but even we know a peen-arse when we see one. Still, it’s not like the guy hasn’t got form on this sort of thing is it; Canterbury Bankstown Bulldogs anyone?



Terry ‘El Tel’ Serepisos



On the verge of bankruptcy, again and yet still swanning around like some Teflon Don who happens to own a football club. Yes he’s done a lot for football in Welly and yes, we respect that, but do us all a favour Tel and do something about that house of cards your finances are built on brother. Just because the rest of the worlds high profile football club owners are fiddling the books big time doesn’t mean you have to be a right wanker like them.



The ‘Showbiz Editor’



What a wanker. Nuff said. Actually we do have a live chat question: Seeing as you scored that 50 year old woman who used to host Good Morning just so you could get a five minute segment, did you do the same at the newspaper? And supplementary question: Wasn't he a fella?

Sonny Bill & The Mormons

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I was a Mormon.

Not because I have a hankering to find God, it’s just that I just love their uniform. And they wear it so well; rain or shine you’ll go a long way before you find anyone wearing the classic white shirt and black tie combo quite as sharply as a Mormon does.

Cyclists could take note from the Mormon too for he doesn’t need to invest in those silly “I’ve got more pretty labels than you” lycra numbers that so many of you wear. Oh no, all the Mormon needs are two bike clips (one for each leg) and the truth.

I once had a divine moment with the Mormons.

It all started when I contracted chicken pox at the grand old age of twenty. I was consequently holed up in the flat feeling rather sorry for myself, watching daytime TV, going through the flatmates underwear draw – that kind of thing – when there came a knock at the door.

On the doorstep were two Mormon girls, one of which was a gorgeous, blonde, American girl.

Maybe it was the fumes from the cream they give you to rub on the scabs but for some reason I thought she was an angel and after politely declining their offer of a chat on account of said blistering, porous rash, invited them back for a cuppa the next day.

Needless to say I spent most of that next morning prepping myself for a meeting of porno proportions. I can’t recall the number exactly but I probably took the edge of twice, maybe three times. Yes, I may well have been sick with the complexion of a kid working at McDonalds but I was betting on working the ClubDes charm that day I don’t mind telling you.

Imagine my complete surprise and I’ll admit, terror, when the knock came and I noticed out the corner of the lounge window, not one, not several, but tens of Samoan Mormon boys converging on my doorstep.

Now I know they say God works in mysterious ways but he damn well knew what he was doing that day. Either they were going to leave having converted me or it was going to be one hell of a gang bang. I never did answer that door that day, or any other time the big fulla has knocked.

But I love that Mormons are what they present themselves as. If they knock on the door you know what you’re going to get, which is more than I can say with Rebel fucken Sport, the weakest sports store ever.

They’ve spent a lot of money this year on having brick shit house and all round hunk of man spunk, Sonny Bill Williams, do their ads. I think they should’ve spent their money on organising their stores so that you can actually find something and stocking the place for if and when you do.

This is what happens when you have a virtual monopoly of a retail genre like Rebel do. You can pretend to have sales which are really nothing more than a slight reduction in overpriced stock and you can hire staff more interested in dancing to the radio playing in store than knowing where the shin pads are kept.

Because where else are we going to go aye? The guy on the High Street who sells fishing rods, rifles and aertex shirts, in that order? He wouldn’t even know what a T90 is if you showed him a picture, even then he still wouldn’t give a shit. He certainly wouldn’t stock it any time soon.

But, just like the Mormon, what you see is what you get. Amen to that.