24 Sevens

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.

Six Degrees Of Cock

The subject of hand washing came up at ClubDes this week.

Specifically why is it that some round here don’t, despite being ‘responsible’ adults and damn well knowing better than not to. What’s more, you know that they know because nine times out of ten the non hand washer will exit without Horoia Ō Ringaringa when he hasn’t been seen, thinking that his safety lies in his anonymity.

But like all bad habits, familiarity breeds contempt and it’s not long before the non washer is distracted into forgetting that not washing the piss spray off your hands is actually frowned upon by the majority and they make the ultimate error; doing it in front of someone.

Just as On Yer Bike Stu found out this week when one such perp felt the need to rub his hands on his – not Stu’s – face, but yet absolutely nowhere near the sink. The ultimate irony in this whole sorry saga is that if you walk around opening doors with a tissue then it’s you who is looked upon as being a fuckwit.

I don’t know where these guys were when we had that hand washing lesson in kindy and primary school, but clearly not in the vicinity of a basin. What must they think when teaching their own children? Maybe they don’t teach their own children...

Now I don’t care that these guys have no qualms about touching their own cock. What they do with it and where they stick is their business but when they exit without washing they effectively leave their cock on the same surfaces I share and it’s that I’m not so cool with.

Its effectively six degrees of cock; their hands, the toilet door handle, my hand, my sandwich for lunch, my mouth.

Clearly strategically placed reminders don’t make a blind bit of difference for these guys so I am advocating some shock treatment to get the message through. Hey if they can do it with cigarette packs why not the back of toilet doors:


And yes; I had to Google some very fruity phrases to find such and image. I only hope Internal Affairs weren’t noting down my IP address as I did so....

Put The Seat Back On Aye Fellas?

Cyclists. Have you hit one with your car yet?

I haven’t but my mate Bruiser has and despite the cyclist breaking all the standard rules of the road guess who got to pay for the damage? Here’s a clue, not the fuckwit in the spandex.

I read a magazine article some months ago titled ‘Cycling; The New Golf’ which listed how cycling is going through the same surge in popularity as golf did several years ago when every man and his dog decided to take up the game, thus ruining it for everybody else on the course.

Had this invasion of the common man been left unchecked then golf may well have found itself in a situation where cycling finds its self today – a three way (yes please!) pressure cooker comprised of the hard out old school riders, the Johnny come lately poseurs and the cars on the roads that they're all fighting over.

Golf avoided the same agro dance off howvere because it has a class structure in place which works in keeping the riff raff off the good courses and relegates them to the dog runs. It does this by charging exorbitant green fees and memberships in the hundreds.

Now you could argue you would pay the same for a bike, especially if it’s made from some super tough, yet super light metal that isn’t even known to man yet, as most seem to be, but once you’ve made that one of purchase no one is charging you to ride three abreast on the road whilst you chat with your mates from the office, are they?

I should point out that I am a fan of the cycling movement and do appreciate those cyclists, like my mate Stu, who have been riding for a long time and play the game according to the rules. These are the guys who can ride almost as fast as you can legally drive, are visible and most importantly are aware of their surroundings. Sometimes even far more than we drivers are.

Those guys I have a lot of time for. Not in a lets share a long, warm shower kind of way, but as in a form of mutual respect because I for one would want a little more between me and the tarmac than bike pants if I could get up to the speed that Stu and his mates do.

Then there are cyclists like Trevor Mallard, the former MP of the same name, who don their expensive lycra outfits, remove the seats from their adamantium cycle frames and free wheel it down the hill to the local cafe for a latte.

And he’s not alone. Drive by any such eatery on the weekends and chances are it will be full of part time cyclists discussing their Shimano gears and half arsed drafting technique over a flat white. Which defeats the point of all the exercise, doesn’t it? When was the last time you watched a rugby or football game where the players lined up for a coffee at half time?

Which brings us to the crux of the matter really; taking shit seriously. Those cyclists that do are not in it to socially network with likeminded followers of fashion. They ride the distances and reach the speeds they do because that’s the level at which they need to be at aerobically to make gains. It’s not a logic that applies solely to cycling mind you; it’s true of all exercise.

Those that don’t coast down the flats with their skin tight jumpers unzipped trying to look like they’ve achieved that same threshold but miraculously, never break a sweat. Their idea of a Tour de France is stopping at the French cafe on the corner. Wankers.

So if you do have to hit one and with the saturation of cyclists on the roads these days and not a matter of 'if', but 'when', then make sure it’s one of them coffee drinkers aye?

Make the roads a little safer for everyone.

Trevor stretches his underworked hammy whilst waiting for his trim latte..