Is anyone bored with the whole annual Sevens party yet?
Just me it would seem, or maybe the guy who got done for a streak but then he's not allowed there anymore so he might be done with it too.
My days of drinking 24 cans in a day are of course, long gone, but even I have to admit that in these, my mature killjoy days, that that’s a pretty good effort. Oh sure, it then lead the poor guy to go do something ridiculous like run onto the field in his gruts to try and tackle a 90kg Samoan, but it’s a fine advertisement for excess alcohol consumption: Beer. It gives you balls!
And the shits… but that last phrase would probably never catch on. It doesn’t do remorse either apparently, the fore mentioned guy received a two year ban from the stadium something he only feels ‘a little bit stink’ about.
Despite this overwhelming example of its many merits, getting pissed was a big ‘no no’ on the agenda of the organising committee for this year’s tournament and as such they took some radical steps; they offered prizes for the best costume and encouraged fans to get to the stadium earlier so as to hopefully drink less before arriving.
Amateurs.
Clearly no one on that particular committee has been shit faced whilst dressed in a toga because if they had they would’ve known that neither of those two initiatives would make much difference. For one, most people, when faced with dressing up need to be pissed senseless to handle the perceived embarrassment of looking like a tit and as such, if forced to arrive earlier will simply drink the same amount in a shorter space of time. Case in point, Mr 24 Cans himself.
What they could’ve done was banned the selling of alcohol at the ground, now THAT is an initiative. But these days the hand that giveth the beer earns far too much money from it to ever allow it to be taketh away so there’s no chance of that happening. But still, if anyone down at the Cake Tin was really serious about doing something about it that would be a pretty tasty start.
Incidentally my favourite Sevens story only exists thanks to the mindless consumption of liquor so I am somewhat grateful for the ever ready presence and availability of the demon elixir.
On Yer Bike Stu tells of the time he and a colleague were musing over just who would take the double pass to the Red Zone somebody else was offering up on the cheap. Stu eventually and somewhat regretfully, turned it down and let the colleague take it. Imagine his disappointment then when she arrived at work on Monday to tell him all about the whale of a time she’d had.
The guy sat directly behind her had arrived inebriated in his caveman costume, sans any form of underwear and proceeded to spend the next eight hours spilling, vomiting and urinating down the back of her chair. At some point in the evening he took to exposing himself and more than once attempted to teabag her on the back of the head....
Needless to say she’s never been back since and I for one empathise. Nobody wants to see a drunken mans junk. Why just the other week at Hixies stag do we were horrified to see a couple of hairy plums poking out of the undies from another stag there that night. He had been dragged on stage for the ritualistic humiliation on offer from one of the lovely ladies that he had been shouted by his very good mates.
Admittedly he was wearing ladies underwear but that’s no excuse. I didn’t pay my $10 to see gnads on stage, that’s a whole different strip club. Not even 24 cans would prepare a fella for that.
Showing posts with label Strip Clubs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Strip Clubs. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Monday, January 23, 2012
Tips for the Ladies?
Life works in mysterious ways sometimes.
In a remarkable bit of serendipity I found myself propping up the bar in a strip club this weekend, only days after posting a piece about how useless I would be in the company of such ladies.
My reason for being there was a stag do, I’m not quite sure what the Asian tourist couple were doing there but it was the oddest sight of all night; him with his back pack on looking very excited and animated, she not so but yet, there she was, still there supporting her man and his Caucasian girl fantasy. And who says Asian bride subservience is a bad thing aye?
A strip club is a lot like a casino in that it presents a fascinating microcosm of life at its simplest. It doesn’t get much simpler or primal then men gathering around to watch ladies take their clothes off and say what you will about the art of it, that’s what they’re there for; no one is critiquing the pole routine or wardrobe selections.
If you’re like me and I am quite magnificent, so you’re probably not, then it’s a bit of an emotional experience. Being there with a group of men this time (as opposed to lesbians my last visit) I found myself at times reverting to type and freely offered my opinion on the performers main points.
Sometimes, usually following such a moralistic discussion, I felt like a seedy old man, standing at the back and casting aspirations on the promiscuity of someone who spends most of their working hours wearing nothing.
And yet most of the time I wondered about the stuff I usually wonder about in situations like that – not that I get myself into many situations of its kind, unfortunately – like what motivates them to do it, how do they feel about being leered over and manhandled by the punters, is it easy money…that kind of thing.
Unfortunately it’s not the kind of discussion one can easily have when tucking some house money into the thin g-string worn by the young lady giving you a bit of frottage, or as she motor boats you with her exposed nungas, so naturally I held my tongue. And my cash as it happened because I didn’t feel the urge to tuck it anywhere but my back pocket.
I did give it all to Magenta as I left but only because I admired her tattoos and that seemed a good enough reason for a stranger to give her money I figured. She was quite lovely to talk to too but I don’t think Magenta is her real name…
Life at it's simplest; the strip club.
In a remarkable bit of serendipity I found myself propping up the bar in a strip club this weekend, only days after posting a piece about how useless I would be in the company of such ladies.
My reason for being there was a stag do, I’m not quite sure what the Asian tourist couple were doing there but it was the oddest sight of all night; him with his back pack on looking very excited and animated, she not so but yet, there she was, still there supporting her man and his Caucasian girl fantasy. And who says Asian bride subservience is a bad thing aye?
A strip club is a lot like a casino in that it presents a fascinating microcosm of life at its simplest. It doesn’t get much simpler or primal then men gathering around to watch ladies take their clothes off and say what you will about the art of it, that’s what they’re there for; no one is critiquing the pole routine or wardrobe selections.
If you’re like me and I am quite magnificent, so you’re probably not, then it’s a bit of an emotional experience. Being there with a group of men this time (as opposed to lesbians my last visit) I found myself at times reverting to type and freely offered my opinion on the performers main points.
Sometimes, usually following such a moralistic discussion, I felt like a seedy old man, standing at the back and casting aspirations on the promiscuity of someone who spends most of their working hours wearing nothing.
And yet most of the time I wondered about the stuff I usually wonder about in situations like that – not that I get myself into many situations of its kind, unfortunately – like what motivates them to do it, how do they feel about being leered over and manhandled by the punters, is it easy money…that kind of thing.
Unfortunately it’s not the kind of discussion one can easily have when tucking some house money into the thin g-string worn by the young lady giving you a bit of frottage, or as she motor boats you with her exposed nungas, so naturally I held my tongue. And my cash as it happened because I didn’t feel the urge to tuck it anywhere but my back pocket.
I did give it all to Magenta as I left but only because I admired her tattoos and that seemed a good enough reason for a stranger to give her money I figured. She was quite lovely to talk to too but I don’t think Magenta is her real name…
Life at it's simplest; the strip club.Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Never Touchy Touchy The Modem
Now usually I’m the first person to decree that we all need to slow down a little, but even my patience was tested this week as I moved into day four of a five day Internet outage at our house.
By the time you’re reading this we will be once again connected to the world wide Intraweb, but not before our provider has taken his sweet time getting here. You would be forgotten for thinking with that kind of delay I must live out in the wop wops somewhere, or in a third world even. But I don’t. J Town might be a shithole (and it is) but it’s hardly war torn Mogadishu, no one has to run the gauntlet of AK47 fire to get here. I actually live so close to my provider that I could drive there and back quicker than it took me to log the fault.
The problem, I figured, lied with our modem. I believe the technical term is ‘that it’s fucked’, something I deduced very early on. I’m no Stephen Hawking but I do know the odd tid bit about computers, on account of me having worked on a technical Help Desk for the last five years. It might not be Pointdexter HQ, my work, but I’ve picked up enough nous in my time to usually work out where the fault lies.
But in this instance it’s actually the provider’s policy on modem replacements that is really at fault. I didn’t know before hand but they appear to adhere to the strip bar model of engagement; you may look and enjoy the feeling that the modem brings i.e. the Internet, but you must never touchy touchy the modem. Never.
The problem was, as I conveyed to the guy on the phone (Terry), who was trying desperately hard to work out what I already knew, was that not only had I fondled the modem, but I had swapped it with the one we have that runs the cable through the TV. Now, in his eyes, not only had I touched the titty, I had spilt my drink all over it.
So seeing as we were both in agreement that the thing was on the dole (not working), could he courier me another I asked? No. No and no. ‘The technician would have to come and swap it out because only the technician is allowed to touch it’. The technician it would seem, is the bouncer of the titty bar, who can touchy touchy the boob whenever he wants and indeed does so, right in front of you, after having just thrown you out on your arse because you went all maternal on that nunga.
Naturally by this stage I was getting quite miffed at the complete lack of customer friendly service I was receiving. I won’t lie to you, up until that moment I was prepared to not mention the fact that I had been put on hold several, lengthy times, all of which had only led me to wonder if Terry was the kind of guy who genuinely wonders if getting married means you have to show your wife your penis. I don’t mean to whack on about it but I have worked in ICT help long enough to know that if you’re putting someone on hold that many times for that long then you probably have no fucking clue as to what you’re doing.
Terry, despite his rugged good looks, was not one to be easily talked round to reason (but then the slow never are) and so reluctantly I awaited the technician who was scheduled to arrive five days (three working) after my titty, I mean modem, stopped producing the goods. Not that his arrival was any sure thing either, Terry gave me a three hour window in which he might arrive, because turning up on time it would seem, as scheduled, really would be too fucking much to ask.
No surprise then that even that didn’t go smoothly. I arrived home on Tuesday to find a calling card advising me that the tech had been, a whole day earlier than scheduled and could I call to arrange another suitable time? Yes. Yes I could and when I did I was none to cordial either. I’m not a violent man and I loathe being a prick on the phone but some companies are just gagging to be talked dirty to I find.
Luckily, this particular fairytale has a happy ending and not just because the Net is back on and the porn is a streaming. A nice Asian man rocked up today, early too and has hooked his Caucasian brother back up.
Incidentally it turns out it wasn’t the modem at fault, but rather a junction plug in the box on the wall outside. Luckily they didn’t send me a new modem because that would have just annoyed me even more......
We're back on line @ ClubDes
By the time you’re reading this we will be once again connected to the world wide Intraweb, but not before our provider has taken his sweet time getting here. You would be forgotten for thinking with that kind of delay I must live out in the wop wops somewhere, or in a third world even. But I don’t. J Town might be a shithole (and it is) but it’s hardly war torn Mogadishu, no one has to run the gauntlet of AK47 fire to get here. I actually live so close to my provider that I could drive there and back quicker than it took me to log the fault.
The problem, I figured, lied with our modem. I believe the technical term is ‘that it’s fucked’, something I deduced very early on. I’m no Stephen Hawking but I do know the odd tid bit about computers, on account of me having worked on a technical Help Desk for the last five years. It might not be Pointdexter HQ, my work, but I’ve picked up enough nous in my time to usually work out where the fault lies.
But in this instance it’s actually the provider’s policy on modem replacements that is really at fault. I didn’t know before hand but they appear to adhere to the strip bar model of engagement; you may look and enjoy the feeling that the modem brings i.e. the Internet, but you must never touchy touchy the modem. Never.
The problem was, as I conveyed to the guy on the phone (Terry), who was trying desperately hard to work out what I already knew, was that not only had I fondled the modem, but I had swapped it with the one we have that runs the cable through the TV. Now, in his eyes, not only had I touched the titty, I had spilt my drink all over it.
So seeing as we were both in agreement that the thing was on the dole (not working), could he courier me another I asked? No. No and no. ‘The technician would have to come and swap it out because only the technician is allowed to touch it’. The technician it would seem, is the bouncer of the titty bar, who can touchy touchy the boob whenever he wants and indeed does so, right in front of you, after having just thrown you out on your arse because you went all maternal on that nunga.
Naturally by this stage I was getting quite miffed at the complete lack of customer friendly service I was receiving. I won’t lie to you, up until that moment I was prepared to not mention the fact that I had been put on hold several, lengthy times, all of which had only led me to wonder if Terry was the kind of guy who genuinely wonders if getting married means you have to show your wife your penis. I don’t mean to whack on about it but I have worked in ICT help long enough to know that if you’re putting someone on hold that many times for that long then you probably have no fucking clue as to what you’re doing.
Terry, despite his rugged good looks, was not one to be easily talked round to reason (but then the slow never are) and so reluctantly I awaited the technician who was scheduled to arrive five days (three working) after my titty, I mean modem, stopped producing the goods. Not that his arrival was any sure thing either, Terry gave me a three hour window in which he might arrive, because turning up on time it would seem, as scheduled, really would be too fucking much to ask.
No surprise then that even that didn’t go smoothly. I arrived home on Tuesday to find a calling card advising me that the tech had been, a whole day earlier than scheduled and could I call to arrange another suitable time? Yes. Yes I could and when I did I was none to cordial either. I’m not a violent man and I loathe being a prick on the phone but some companies are just gagging to be talked dirty to I find.
Luckily, this particular fairytale has a happy ending and not just because the Net is back on and the porn is a streaming. A nice Asian man rocked up today, early too and has hooked his Caucasian brother back up.
Incidentally it turns out it wasn’t the modem at fault, but rather a junction plug in the box on the wall outside. Luckily they didn’t send me a new modem because that would have just annoyed me even more......
We're back on line @ ClubDes
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)