What Not To Wear On The Premises

We don’t have a dress code here at ClubDes par se, anything goes as long as you don’t make a complete Muppet, or tit of yourself and even then we'll let it pass if it's hilarious, but standards have been slipping and something needs to be said.

I’ve lamented many times before the disconcerting trends that are creeping into men’s fashion but I fell I need to reiterate these given that it seems these same issues are now impacting on the last bastion of homo-eroticism we have; sport.

Take these geezers, the Team Leopard-Trek cycling team who all appeared on stage in front of the world’s media at their team launch wearing shabby looking suits and scarves. Yes, scarves.

Scarves are things you wear when a) it’s cold outside and, or b) you’re off to support the team at the stadium. Sadly, more and more dudes are wearing scarves that are neither warm nor supportive with all manner of garments for all manner of occasions and it’s deeply disturbing. Have they never heard of ties?

These guys spent the whole time looking uncomfortable and I don’t blame them, they look like poofs. They are, after all, top cyclists, who are more accustomed to wearing outfits that are tight, revealing (sometimes both) and in the case of guys with pony tails have fooled many a young man into the slow car follow from behind thinking that ‘that chick has one hell of a set of legs on her’.

Off the sports field there is the Arabic variation of the scarf which I like to call ‘terrorist chic’:

Now there’s only one dude who can pull this kind of look off and its Corporal Willie Apiata in downtown Kabul, because let’s be honest, the man has ‘kick-ass’ written all over him.

But the padded gusset wearers of world cycling are not alone. Footballers, at least the fruity continental ones, have taken to wearing this, a scarf cum neck ring called a ‘snood’ which sounds as ridiculous as the players who sport them look:

The reasoning is that it prevents neck injuries bought on by the cold weather. Like what, whiplash?

In my day if your neck was cold you did one of two things; put your collar up which no one but the guy who loved himself a little too much did anyway or, you opened a big can of harden the fuck up and just got on with it.

Not satisfied with being quite possibly the ugliest man in world football, Argentinian Carlos Tevez not only sports the snood but has since taken to his with some scissors to prove that he is right hard ponce. Clearly he fancies the snood, but likes his circumcised:

Lastly and not sports related but equally of concern, is the current trend of young men wearing tight, knee length jean shorts. Where the hell did that come from? Lads, for the sake of you gnads, please leave some sag around the bag and let’s get away, real sharpish, of this trend to wear shit tight.

Because the next thing you know you’ll be pulling on your sisters / girlfriends / Mums cut-offs and that definitely is not what to wear, not in this establishment.

You have been warned.

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...

Top 5: My Best Moments of 2010

So, hot on the heels of the Worst of 2010 is the Best, which proves, if anything, that I’m not just a negative bastard. Not all of the time anyway.

1. Spurs not only made the Champions League but have been doing the business ever since. Now they might not win it but for this particular fan of 25 years, football nirvana has already been reached...

2. My niece – the football prodigy herself – is now officially amongst the best dozen or so in her age group across all of Wellington. I'd like to think my coaching had something to do with it, but probably not.

3. I coached the best bunch of girls, ever, who reminded me just why it is I love coaching so much and revitalised my passion when it was at an all time low.

4. The only thing to feature in both lists – the ending of Lost. Not since the Matrix trilogy has a bit of moving picture moved me in the way the Lost TV series and ultimately, the ending did. Non believers will, of course, take the piss but I don’t give a flying fuck; this is my list, not yours. Oh and did I mention I love you Kate?

5. Weddings – particularly Emski & Melski’s (some of my best MC work) and Sully & Jess’s (some of my best groomsman work). I love a good wedding and this year I was lucky enough to be part of two great ones.

Maybe I should send Kate some pendants...?

Top 5: My Worst Moments of 2010

It’s that time of the year again when everybody who is anybody – or just a wanker with a blog – is making their ‘Best Of’ and ‘Worst Of’ list for the year just past.

Now I’ve said before just how much I loather a list maker, but then I went and made several of my own which is as funny as me pooh-poohing James Blunt when his new song came out a few weeks back now, only for me to not only have now bought it off iTunes, but have since learnt to play it on the guitar.

But then that’s just me – making statements I never keep.

So after some deep soul searching and a pretty decent trawl through the memory banks here is my list of disappointments this past year. Pack a lunch because shit is about to get deep.

1. I got Swine Flu and it nearly killed me. That pretty much sucked.

2. All the football teams I’ve coached this year have lost more games than they’ve won. But from those teams came more rep trialists and players than any other one team in each grade, so I must be doing something right.

3. That last one is not a disappointment; it’s me turning a frown upside down.

4. Lost, the TV show, finished in an ending that was emotional on two levels; it ended six years worth of wtf moments with a big tear jerker and sadly heralded the last time we've seen Kate (Evangeline Lilly) on TV other than in those 'Because you're worth it' ads. I love you Kate.

5. Natalie Portman is pregnant and unless she found a use for all the pendants of mans milk I’ve been sending her then I suspect that sadly, it’s not mine.

So stay tuned for the Best Of which like the above is totally subjective and complete arse to anyone but the writer, but hey, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do right?

What has she done with all my pendants I wonder...?

Wake Me Up When December Ends

Three days into the Christmas holidays and already I’m bored shitless.

That can’t be right can it? What’s even more concerning is that I’ve started drinking earlier and earlier into the day to get through the boredom. Yes, I’m turning into one of 'those' Dads. Now that really can’t be right.

I’ve tried alleviating the monotony. I broke the habit of a lifetime and ventured out amongst the Bollocks Day sales and as suspected, it was a complete shit fight. All about nothing really because most retailers weren’t offering much more discounts than they had been before Chrissy but we buy it every year don’t we? Hook, line and sucker.

Junior wanted an iPad which, no one stops to tell you, is completely useless if you don’t have a PC or laptop to kick it off on. Apple is making a mint on these things of course, especially as they’re making them interchangeable and compatible only with their other products. Smart move that. Of course Apple stuff is never reduced in price, even when everything else around it is....

Its times like this I’m tempted to take advantage of sales and update the wardrobe, but there’s some things I just don’t seem to get, like shirts that have a tee shirt sewn into them. It’s almost as if they don’t think you’ll know how to dress yourself so they sew another layer into it. Or sleeves that are already rolled up for you...it’s hardly the stuff of engineering marvel is it, the rolled up sleeve?

It reminds me of a guy I used to work with at Hallensteins, back in the day. We all took turns dressing the mannequins in the shop which was a relatively mundane task because each week head office sent photos and clear instructions on how each one should look. Creativity was never a problem, shall we say.

Except when Antonio got his hands on them. He liked to layer everything because layering was his thing and this was before anyone even knew what the hell layering was. And he wouldn’t just use the odd tee shirt or two, if he could get 16 different colours under one shirt he would.

Which just fucked it up for everyone really because whilst he was doing his Queer Eye for the Straight Guy thing the rest of us would be doing menial tasks like serving the customers, or stripping down mannequins to find the last Large tee shirt he had used on one of them.

He was a top guy was Ants. Later, after I had left, he developed some pretty serious back issues that meant he couldn’t work for months. His girlfriend of about ten years and High School sweetheart took time of work to nurse him back to full fitness as he was laid flat out for most of the time. He thanked her by running off with some 17 year old part timer when he finally did get back to work.

I think the whole under tee and rolled up sleeve thing rarks me on two levels; the whole presumption that I am so simple I couldn’t possibly know how to do either and I just have a problem with being told shit that is obvious.

Like ads and promotions that try and tell me what being a New Zealander is all about. I’ve lived here all my life, I bloody know already. Those fresh of the boat might not but what the hell are they doing watching TV anyway?

So needless to say I didn’t buy anything which is a good thing because I can spend the money on beer, which I seem to be getting through a lot of these days...

Wake me up when December ends will you? Cheers.

An Eye for an Eye; The Perfect Circle

Now, that one time with the parking wardens aside, I am not a violent man.

But I can be when provoked and the so called parents of the now most infamous 9 year old in NZ, provoke me. Big time. What is worse do you think, that the parents did what they did or that we as a society keep letting it happen? Oh and they did some pretty heavy shit:

The girl was allegedly dragged across the floor by her hair, beaten with a vacuum-cleaner pipe and broomstick, had a toenail ripped off and salt and hot water poured on the wound, and was kicked in the groin with work boots. The couple face joint charges of withholding food from the girl and denying her medical treatment.

Happy families they ain’t.

So how do we stop it happening? Fucked if I know but I know what would be a good start, make the punishment fit the crime; make it an eye for an eye and a broken tooth for a broken tooth.

Let’s not waste time giving people like this the kind of trial and punishment reserved for actual crims, lets fuck them right up and maybe, just maybe, we’ll make a couple of the future kiddie beaters think twice about just who they hit with the vacuum cleaner pipe.

If we’re serious about ending ‘the endless cycle of family violence’ and we certainly like to talk a lot about how we are, then let’s get it on like Donkey Kong. No more fannying about worrying about things like civil liberties and rehabilitation, I say once a child beater, always a child beater.

And we’re not talking about the old man giving you an open palm across the arse because you tried pinching a Perky Nana from the corner dairy and who then spent days regretting giving you one. No, we’re talking about your A grade psycho’s, the kind that do it because they enjoy it.

So let us see how they like it. But who would do such a heinous thing as administer to them what they’ve done, I hear you ask? Easy. We have prisons full of the fuckers, in fact, in a remarkable coinky-dink, that’s what they are there for.

So here’s the dealio: Perp A deals to Mum and Dad of the year and whilst they recover Perp B, who will obviously be bigger and meaner, will deal to Perp A. It is like for like after all and we can’t be seen to favour one scrote over the other. We’re not savages.

Once Mum and Dad recovers Perp A, himself now recovered, gets another go at letting out his pent up frustrations from his taking a thrashing. Etcetera, etcetera. Eventually, shit will get serious and they will, in time, all kill each other.

It is whichever way you look at it, a perfect circle.

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!