Whether You Smoke 'Em Or Poke 'Em...

Heard the one about Sammy Davis Jnr greeting Dean Martin at the pearly gates after his death?

“Well” says Sammy, “That’s fags for you Deano; whether you smoke ‘em or you poke ‘em, they’ll always kill you in the end”. You might need to Google it – or JFGI as my mate KB would say – to fully see the humour in it.

But I was reminded of it just the other night whilst waiting in the ‘express’ isle at the local chicken coop of a supermarket. What should have been a five minute milk and cat food expedition turned into a near death experience; I waited so long to get through I nearly lost the will to live.

The holdup was some silly bitch buying cigarettes, which are so unpopular these days even supermarkets can’t be arsed selling them. And hey, if Countdown can’t be bothered selling it then you know it must be shit. Lounge suites, yes. Durries, no.

So when you ask for smokes now at a supermarket there is a very high chance that the Chinese / Japanese / Indian girl at the checkout a) won’t know what they are, b) have any under her counter if she does and c) spend the next ten minutes rummaging through the various checkouts trying to find some.

Eventually, when she does get back to your line of dead men walking, it will be the wrong size packet, which is important because if there’s one thing that a smoker needs its more nicotine.

Funnily enough the cat food I was holding was not the one I really wanted either – the healthy weight formula – because that too was the wrong size. It only comes in big bags does the diet stuff, so you have to buy a shitload whether you like it or not. Defeats the point doesn’t it?

On one hand the wait is great, for making the buyer feel even more ostricicsed for still buying the silly things, but stink for every sad bugger waiting in the queue behind them. Like me. Why is it that supermarkets never make the promise that if you’re not served in ten minutes your purchase is free...?

Speaking of annoying, my son made me sit through the latest Justin Bebo video today. The one where he sings about having an Eenie Meenie penis or something.

He’s a smart cookie is the boy with a toilet swirly for a haircut; in this video he’s teamed up with the token black soul guy and he’s doing his bit for the self esteem of teen girls everywhere by having some of the biggest breasted adolescent girls I’ve ever seen dancing around him.

Can someone do us all a favour and get the kid hooked on smokes real quick please? Sammy Davis Jnr is waiting to greet him...

Deano and Sammy - cooler than The Beibo will ever be.

No One Celebrates a Draw Quite Like We Do..

Not even one week into the World Cup and suddenly everybody is a football fan.

Or more specifically an All Whites fan, so much so that Nike have had to get the sweatshops working 23, not the usual 22, hours a day just so they can churn out more jerseys for a gagging NZ public. It seems the total sum of 28 years worth of jersey sales – roughly a dozen - was not enough to keep the racks stocked this time round and for that you can hardly blame Nike. Or maybe you can.

We – see what I did just there – drew with Slovakia to make a four way tie in a group that is suddenly looking a lot more interesting than it did a week ago. Winston Reid, the guy who was for most of his life Danish through and through until he realised he wasn’t good enough to make their senior team and decided to be a Kiwi instead a la Rory Fallon, scored a last gasp equaliser that sent the country into delirium.

You can't blame him wanting to stay Danish, they do wonderful things with pastry do the Danes. As do the Dutch. Not so the Swiss who are great with watches, pocket knifes and Toblerone, nor Ze Germans who just like to do kinky things with their sausage....

And then things started to get a bit funky. Some sleep starved, caffeine pumped journo decided that it could quite possibly be NZ’s bestest sporting achievement ever. Meanwhile over in Australia, where the football fraternity there are still coming to grips with their team playing like, well, what we all expected NZ to play like (against Ze Germans), declared the victory an ‘Australasian’ one.

To top it all off – and I wish he would - Martin Devlin, quite possibly the most annoying fuck ever, continues to grind out “C’mon you All Whites” at the end of every promo he does in a manner that makes you wonder if he’s passing a vuvuzela. Through his urethra.

I personally didn’t stay up and watch the game, something that seemed to disappoint a colleague of mine who appeared to be quite distraught when she learnt that I hadn’t and promptly gave me the silent treatment for an hour or two. Plenty did though, last night’s match was watched by just about as many people who watch the TV1 news each night, which is as good as it gets for viewership in this country. Great stuff.

See, I’ve watched enough World Cups to know that one has to pace oneself when it comes to late night matches; get into the schedule too early, when teams are happy to play out a draw, and you’ll be physically and emotionally shot. It’s best to save that shit till the knockout stages when teams will still play out draws, albeit high scoring ones.

Which brings me to my point. Football, particularly World Cups, have always been this emotionally charged. Maybe not to the fair-weather fans who now want to buy the jersey to prove that they’re New Zealanders, but we football fans have been soiling settees the world over every four years for quite some time with all the excitement.

Now I love that the success, or perceived success, of this All White side has gotten people into the game that otherwise wouldn’t give a flying fuck. I really do. All of my boys at training are talking about and wanting to be All Whites which augers well for the future, so for that I am right chuffed.

But let’s slap ourselves out of it shall we? It was a draw and with two group games to play we’re still in the same boat we were before the thing started and with the two toughest teams still to play it ain’t going to get any easier.

Yep, no one celebrates a draw quite like NZ football fans do, which is a bit tragic really.

The New Black (Man).

Let’s lighten the mood a little and talk about terrorism.

Terrorism is the new ‘black man’ in terms of being the best panic making phrase, particularly in the States, but even over here in little ol’ New Zealand, the country that no bugger would want to blow up.

That’s not to say we don’t have things worth blowing up. Wainui for example, would be a good start. Maybe even Dave Dobbyn because you know and I know for every ‘anthem’ he’s written there are two or three annoying as fuck numbers he’s also penned...

During the mid to late eighties there was the populist notion that most of the crime being committed in the States was being done so by ‘a black man’. Every time someone reported the suspect for a misdemeanour matched that particular description the hysteria got whipped just a little bit more.

Terrorism has reached that same absurd level and like just about everything, we are in a rush to prove we’re not immune to the same perceived invisible risk as everyone else. Why just last month a ‘mysterious package’ was discovered on someone’s desk at The Beehive.

It had written on it that it was a bomb, but apparently that wasn’t clear enough. The package remained a mystery until it was found to contain flies, of the cluster variety, which, admittedly, are extremely concerning if you’re rotting caribou, but not so much if you’re the PM. Or so I would have thought.

Why even today as I write this a mysterious device was found in a suspicious vehicle, which really sets two out of three alarm bells ringing doesn’t it? Imagine if that same vehicle was being driven by a black man then the shit really would have hit the fan. Fuck me.

Up and down the country old ladies are peering out their windows, phone in hand, finger poised over the 1 key - which they've already pushed twice - just waiting for the next black man they see driving a suspicous vehicle to go past....

Where has all this paranoia about bombs and terrorism come from?! When was the last time any bugger blew up anything of note in this country and at what point did we stop treating cars and briefcases and wrapped up boxes with ‘bomb’ written on them as anything but the obvious?

It’s at times like these I apply the ‘What would Grandad have done in the same situation?’ rule of logic because it seldom fails me.

Had he seen a car acting suspiciously – or rather the shifty bugger driving it – he would have gone over, tapped on the driver’s window and told him to piss off. He would have kept the briefcase and tossed it in the shed never to be of use, ever. And after laughing at the absurdity of the package having ‘bomb’ written on it, would stick his pocket knife in it to see if it really was an explosive device.

But that would be too easy wouldn’t it? Sure, bombs going off in Kabal and other such exotic destinations are grim and no laughing matter, but that doesn’t mean we have to start running around like a bunch of dicks every time someone forgets their briefcase whilst on lunch, or parks their rust bucket in an upmarket area.

And if someone is really serious about blowing something the fuck up are they going to write ‘bomb’ on the bloody thing? No. No they are not.

Terrorism; It’s the new black man.

Football Fever Cometh

This month heralds the arrival of every football fans wet dream; The World Cup Finals.

Now if there’s one thing I know its masturbation, but I also know a lot about football and thus I feel it prudent that I say a few words about the next four weeks which will mean more late nights than when Sky 1 used to play soft core porn after 11pm…

There is of course an added incentive for we Kiwis to be watching this time round because the All Whites are playing and aren’t some of us excited about it?! TVNZ for instance has started referring to the team as ‘our’ All Whites thus alienating the large number of it’s viewers who are not New Zealanders but let’s not let something like nepotism get in the way of impartial reporting aye?

Personally I don’t think the All Whites will embarrass themselves like they did at the Confed Cup two years ago when the Spaniards gave us a right good, pant’s down, ruler across the bare buttocks spanking. But then neither do I think we’ll be the giant killers some silly buggers seem to be proclaiming NZ to be. Hey I’m all for being optimistic but let’s be realistic first shall we?

So my money, or at least the sweepstake money at work, is on Spain. I like the look of the Dutch – who, least we forget, do wonderful things with pastry – and I do want Lionel Messi to dominate like he does at club level because that kind of shit just gets me moist, but if you threatened me with a broomstick dipped in Deep Heat I’d still pick Spain.

And that’s hardly a threat is it? More like a tease really.

Incidentally I’m running not one, but two sweepstakes this time round. Now close friends and those I’ve had awkward, but pleasurable drunken moments with will recall that my track record of such things is sketchy at best. The memories of the sham that was Sully and my attempt to run a sweepstake for France ’98 still linger on and all ‘lost entries’ jokes aside On Yer Bike Stu was watching me like a hawk the whole time.

I’ve got one on the go for my boys too, although there’s no cash involved, this is strictly a candy affair. The winner gets a dozen chocolate bars which as good as it gets when you’re eleven years old. I did contemplate cash, or cigarettes, but I had my doubts if the parents would really go for it.

But aside from all the punditry my heart beats for only one team. I may be NZ born and bred but for as long as I care to remember I’ve supported an English club and the English team. Every emotional football related memory I have ever had is tied, inexplicably to England and like any good relationships it’s a few good shags here and there but mostly disappointment.

Still, there’s no other team I’d love to see than Engerland to win it. More so than the All Whites and despite all the hype that sounds the English team at this point in the lead up to a major tournament, all of which comes out of England it should be noted, I know that deep down, they won’t.

Like I said, I’m optimistic but realistic.

Can the European Champs be World Champs?

I'm Not Always Right...

Who was it that said that silly bitch from Twilight needed a slap?

Oh that’s right, me. And before you go waving your white ribbons all up in my face, just read this and I bet you, like I, will struggle to restrain yourself from taking Mr Jug Cord to your monitor.

But seriously, all beaten wife jokes aside I only have to tell my bitch the once.

The weather is still doing what it does at this time of the year, have you noticed? News pieces like this are everywhere which just reinforce my view that we all get a little too carried away with ol’ predictable winter.

To those news reporters who seem to crack a fat whenever they sense a little hail in the air, I ask them this; Is it a once in a lifetime, act of God of biblical proportions? No. Fuck off then.

And just to prove that my being right about shit usually comes in threes is this story about Pete Buffoon, who has been all but disowned by the same Greenies he was eating lentils with not so long ago.

That’s the things about Greenies, they’re cowards deep down, that’s why they try and save things that can’t tell us otherwise and do their activist thing in the dark when no bugger can see them. Ninjas they ain't.

Bit like me really; I'm not always right but I'm never wrong. Although there was that one time with the dude on the bike who looked like a chick from behind. Damn his shaven legs, tight lycra and bouncing pony tail...

It's Wet, Get Over It.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Lost - An Ending

It was a highly emotional time this past weekend for me and my old Nam bum chum, Lancey.

Lost, the TV series that ran for six seasons and lost many along the way with its multitude of mysteries came to an end and the two of us sobbed like babies through most of it. We’re no strangers to crying through the night, him and me, but unlike those long nights spent in the Cambodian jungle we weren’t able to hold one another tightly till the sun came up this time round.

I loved Lost and for me the finale was a fitting conclusion to what has been one hell of a ride. I haven’t felt this way since I watched Matrix Revolutions for about the fifth time and finally understood it all. It’s a strange feeling this; finally ‘getting it’ but feeling a sense of loss at the same time because it’s only now that you realise the getting there was the best part.

I don’t know about you lot but I like to stimulated when confronted with arty things. I like to read books that you can’t put down, listen to music that stirs the senses and I like movies and TV shows that make you think about them long after you’ve finished watching.

These traditionally are not ‘paint by numbers’ productions. Sure, I like to put the brain on auto pilot occasionally and flop out with my cock out, who doesn’t? But if I had the choice – and it’s TV so I always do – I’d pick shows like Lost over anything that starts and ends predictably in an hour.

This isn’t the case for everyone and I get that, I really do. Lost was not a linear show. Right from the first episode that much was apparent and it wasn’t long before what we all thought was a story about a plane crash started to become so much more.

It was at this point that the Desperate Housewife and Greys Anatomy crowd started to turn off and again, that would be fine, if that was the end of it. But it isn’t. These fuckers were back in droves this week, on any site that would let them post shit, bleating about how stupid Lost was and how its mother dressed it funny.

I’ve decided that people who watched Lost can be categorised into three groups:

1. Those that watched it from beginning to end, got it, enjoyed the journey and were happy with the final episode and the thought provoking questions it left you with
2. Those that watched it from beginning to end, begrudgingly, because they couldn’t really figure it out and were pissed off with the final episode because it wasn’t the A to Z of answers that they had hoped it would be
3. Those that switched off in the first few seasons because they thought they had it figured out and watched the final episode only to find that they were way off all along. Now they’re fucked off because they’re not quite as cool as they thought they were.

For this last group ignorance is bliss because they will never bother to watch the series in full to appreciate it. They’ll continue on with the completely defunct ‘they were all dead the whole time’ theory because it’s far easier to do so and yet, rather ironically, they claim that it’s the Lost writers who lost the plot? I don’t think so braniac.

These are the same people that loved the first Matrix movie because of bullet time. They were disappointed when Reloaded and Revolutions expanded on the underlining story of love, choice and selfless sacrifice because they wanted five more hours of bullet time. Like Lost, they just didn’t get it. Why wasn’t there more bullet time, dammit?!

Lost was not a series about a plane crash. It was about relationships and the importance they play in all our lives and these weren’t candy coated, dreamy back ground music relationships; these were flawed, deceitful, dysfunction relationships. The characters were so well written that we found ourselves in them and the journey of redemption they all took became more than just a watching experience, it became an emotionally entwined one.

Along the way there were mysteries, red herrings and strange happenings that weren’t ever fully explained but you know what? Thats fucken life. You can know someone for thirty years and not know everything about them. Meeting someone and trusting them is a journey, one that changes every time we take it. If we all switched off after just the second series what lonely souls we would be. Sometimes it’s better to teach through the question, than it is by an answer.

And yes, there was a polar bear, but that was explained in Series 3. Maybe you should’ve kept watching, you peenarse.

"Live together and you won't die alone"