ClubDes

Gareth Says; Up Yours, Norway.

2012-02-19T22:57:00.000-08:00

Move over Colin Meads, NZ has a new authority figure on everything; multi millionaire, philanthropist, the very nasal Gareth Morgan.

Gareth pissed off a bunch of Norwegians last week when he went on record as saying that he wouldn’t rescue one of their sailors if the guy just happened to be drowning in the same spot of Arctic water the two plan to be in next month. Morgan is going as part of an expedition, the Norwegian because he’s a waster with a death wish and has track record of spectacularly fucking things up.

Gareth is dead right, like he usually is. The man made has many millions from mastering the things that put Coops and I to sleep in Economics class back in College and you just know that he didn’t get that much wedge from being often wrong. Like most people with a ridiculous amount of coin he’s not afraid to speak his mind when he feels strongly about something and I for one like that.

More recently he’s gone in on bailing out The Phoenix and naturally his fan base just went up by a couple of thousand because if there’s one thing football fans love more than a rich benefactor its one who’s not afraid of a good sound bite. He even took his top of when they were one nil up with 10 minutes to go, what a guy.

He’s called the Norwegian guy a bottom feeder which I think is one of the funniest expressions around but then I would, the word ‘moist’ cracks me up too. Naturally this has soured the atmosphere a bit in gay ol Norway in much the same way that if I walked into your house and took a shit in your fridge you might not be too happy about it and it might sour the atmosphere.

But let’s not take fridge shitting out of its cultural context.

As a fellow blogger tells me, in Uruguay for instance there are no such prejudices. Shitting in someone's fridge can be seen as a friendly act like meeting a friend in the street, raising the right hand and enunciating the words "Hello my old friend". Fridge shitting is a national pastime and its exponents are much loved, known colloquially as "turd fairies".

It's only when we displace the amicable deposition of frozen ordure into a NZ context that it is likely to be seen in a negative light, due solely to the triumph of PC sandal-wearing do gooders who knit their own muesli. The freaks.

Of course even in Uruguay in some circumstances shitting in the fridge can be offensive, for example on the cold meats shelf or into a recently made trifle. Bum mince left by the turd fairy which has dripped into the lunch boxes for the kids tomorrow is also not seen in a good light. But if one is careful to deposit ones chilled choc logs into, for example, the egg holders, then the owner of the fridge door will smile on opening it in recognition of a beneficent auspice.

So please let's not get these things out of context or out of proportion.

Hey, Gareth wouldn’t and he’s always right, so get fucked Norway.

Gareth has shown a lot of guts in bailing out The Phoenix...

The "But it's somebody elses" Excuse Fails. Again.

2012-02-14T23:29:00.000-08:00

Dad plays porn instead of Smurfs at kid's party.

Police aren't filing charges against a father who briefly played a pornographic video instead of The Smurfs at his child's birthday party.

Tremonton Police Chief Dave Nance said the man had rented a copy of The Smurfs from a Redbox kiosk and loaded the disc into his laptop. But when he turned the projector on for the children, pornographic images flashed on the screen.

Authorities got involved when the father complained somebody had tampered with the DVD. Police found nothing wrong, saying the porn was probably on the laptop.

Nance says officials aren't pursuing charges because the incident was apparently an accident.

Heart Shaped Cable

2012-02-13T14:32:00.001-08:00

Ah Valentines Day, that bastion of anonymously expressing one’s love for the stranger who’s kept your wank bank well stocked for months.

Nothing says ‘I love you’ more than a creepy bunch of flowers. Not that the flowers are creepy of course, but the cryptic card or in most case, no card at all, never quite has the same affect on a woman as it does in the movies. Funny that.

I’ve given my fair share of them bunches in my time. What a hopeless romantic I was back in the day. Unfortunately one man’s romantic is another womens stalker and much money was wasted freaking girls out in the pursuit of lustiness. Luckily that can be done for free on the internets these days.

One such story involved me sending a rose to an older girl at college in the mistaken believe that she would fall for the pimply younger boy in the fitting adidas track pants, the ones with stirrups. I sent it anonymously of course because I didn’t want to appear desperate and then proceeded to send her cryptic notes along the lines of “I’ll wear this top tomorrow, or be carrying this so you’ll know it’s me”. Yep, I was making her work for entry into my wonderland.

Eventually she found out my name but didn’t know me by sight so to speed up the pre-coital process I made Bruiser, the go between in this match made in heaven, call me by a different name. It was a stroke of genius and one that would ultimate leave me alone with the stroking. Again.

Needless to say that when she did eventually find out who I was she was disappointed on so many levels (story of my life). Admittedly she did get a nice rose out of it but by then it had wilted up and died, like my love for her. Yeah I fancied her but she was also a complete slut and I don’t mean to cast aspersions on her character, she really was. It would never have worked out between us.

These days I’m not so inclined. Every time I send the missus mystery flowers she knows it’s me on account of the frugal size of the bunch, or that I got them from the supermarket. We used to do alternative giving’s like CDs and stuff but you know how it is, after a few years together you’re pretty much in agitate, not placate, mode with each other.

Lancey spiced up his Valentines this year by blocking the toilet at home and leaving it for his missus. Not intentionally mind, but he got sidetracked by its girth, his inability to flush it and the need to get to work and tell me about it. Some four hours later and he hasn’t heard anything from the home front, no call, no txt*. Maybe he should’ve done it in a shape of a heart?

I for one like it though, it’s different. Nothing says love more than leaving something akin to the Cook Strait cable in a filled bowl for the missus to clean up. It’s true love when you’ve reached that level of comfort. In the early days you would’ve done everything to clear that sucker, including grabbing the whisk from the kitchen draw…

No Valentines day is not for us and let’s be honest, is just another Americanised holiday that appeals to teenagers, the desperate to be American and retailers who make a mint out of fleecing all of them. Fuck that, I’d rather have a blocked toilet.

*Lancey eventually did get that call and it cost him a dozen red roses. That's the most expensive dump he's ever had.

24 Sevens

2012-02-07T17:31:00.000-08:00

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.

Football Fashionistas

2012-02-03T22:28:00.000-08:00

The Phoenix are riding high this season and I for one am well impressed.

Not because I have any desire to have long warm showers with the lads but because they’ve got a lot of haters arund the place which is a shame really because of all our professional teams here in Welling Town, they by far, do the bizzo season in and season out.

This week they donned an all black strip which each player is auctioning of for his charity of choice. It’s a nice touch but you have to wonder if the fellas are doing themselves any favours in the mastermind stakes by allowing this to appear on each of their auctions:

The adidas strip was designed by players Andrew Durante, Tim Brown and Leo Bertos using adidas’ online customization tool miTeam.com.

Um it’s black. With adidas stripes. That are white.

I don’t think the fashion houses of Paris and Milan have anything to worry about just yet with these guys. Still, that’s why they’re footballers I suppose.

Andrew 'Dainty' Durante: Footballer, Fashionista, Good with colours.

Ron Weasels on ESPN. Well Wanky.

2012-01-29T16:11:00.001-08:00

And now a little something form the ‘I couldn’t make this shit up’ file.

A few posts ago I made the rather witty comparison that Ed Sheeran, singer of the deeply moving ‘The A Team’ looked a lot like Ron Weasels from the Harry Potter films. I linked the two because they are of course, gingas.

Now usually I don’t link back to my own work because I think that’s an extremely wanky thing for anyone to do, but just this once I’m going to otherwise this rather serendipitous follow up is not going to work if you haven’t read the original.

That’s the second time in as many weeks as I’ve used the term serendipitous. Now that is wanky.

Imagine my surprise then when JK told me that he walked in on his brother watching the latest Ed Sheeran music video which stars, wait for it, Ron Weasels. Or rather Rupert Grint, the actor who plays him. Jeez he had it tough right from the start didn’t he; not only did his parents make him a raging fire crotch but then they went and named him Rupert…

Luckily JK wasn’t fazed by walking in on this, unlike my family who found me downloading a naked picture of Ronan Keating almost the very same day. They still don’t believe it was for this post.

Fuck, that’s the second link I’ve used now. Wanky. Very wanky.

Anyhoo, the video is very well done and well worth a look if you fancy Ed Sheeran, Ron Weasles or simply want to marvel in my omnipotence. Honestly, I must have ESPN or something to have picked this one.

Allow me to link you. Wank.

Ed and Rupert, as seen on my ESPN.

Australian X Factor

2012-01-26T17:41:00.000-08:00

Is a show where former nobodies who became manufactured pop stars try to make….more manufactured pop stars.

Only without the intercourse which, quite frankly, is a blessing because as much as I want to see Ronan Keating’s bum I’d rather not see Mel ‘Scary Spice’ Brown in any such action, fuck you very much. Bitch be scary alright.

So how does that work exactly? The four judges built their ‘careers’ based on what someone else told them to think, wear and sing. They had images moulded for them by somebody else who then made a lot of money from that very cultivation. How then does that put them in a position to mentor anyone?

At least Keating has had some experience in this type of thing; he went from boy band massive to finding hot new boy bands. He would be the judge everyone would want I would think because he has some semblance of knowing what he’s doing and just to prove the point, it was his guy who won last years show. Where is that guy now? That’s irrelevant.

I don’t even know who the blonde judge is, that’s how big she made it.

And being Australian no one has a bad thing to say about no bugger, ever. Even when the judges try to be the teeniest bit critical it turns into a boo fest from those hundreds in the studio audience that know better, that’s why they’re all rock stars and not rent a crowd.

Worst of all? It’s on four nights a week and the winner's video is already all over the music channels. The show has no point. This theory can be safely applied to any show with 'X Factor' in its title.

Oh and don't Google image Ronan Keating because nobody deserves to see this:

Hey at least it wasn't a pic of Scary Spice with a milkshake *shiver*

Slot My Overhang

2012-01-24T19:08:00.000-08:00

From: Almo
Sent: Wednesday, 25 January 2012 15:36
To: ClubDes; Chef
Subject: Training and Process moves to the front in 2012

Kia Ora,

I have a couple of items on my list which are processes which I want to move at some stage this year. I have listed these below.

• Completion of text support and procedures
• Messaging support and procedures
• Telco request support and procedures

You may very well note that some of these are overhanging from last year that I didn’t manage to complete then. So what I wanted to do was canvas what the training schedule is looking like so we can slot these items in. Then I can start trying to work to these dates.

Nga Mihi,

Alan

From: ClubDes
Sent: Wednesday, 25 January 2012 15:42
To: Almo; Chef
Subject: RE: Training and Process moves to the front in 2012

您大同性戀同性戀

Thank you for your very cultural greeting.

I shall leave the canvassing to Chef and will occasionally slot my overhang in through the door. Please show me your date.

美好的一天，你針鋒相對
ClubDes

Tips for the Ladies?

2012-01-23T17:41:00.000-08:00

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.

Bottom tattoo sells for $12k

2012-01-20T15:57:00.000-08:00

Thank fuck for that. Because I was seriously worried that the silly bitch wouldn't get a good price for it and make herself look even more ridiculous than she seemed...

Can this then please be the last front page / lead news story of its kind, ever?

And editors everywhere, just in case there is any doubt in future as to what constitutes this kind of non event ask yourselves this simple question:

Q. Does it involve a try hard Hutt chick desperate for some attention?

If the answer is yes then the other answer you’re looking for is most definitely a no.

This Is A Black Out

2012-01-20T14:57:00.000-08:00

Wankipedia blacked out its pages this week in protest against some proposed bill that had something to do with film and music piracy.

Quite why the six poindexters who write the stuff on Wankipedia thought that their actions would save the world of free and illegal downloads I don’t know, their site offers neither, but hey, each to their own I guess.

The bill probably proposes the same thing that all the other ones that get put forward by governments around the world do; let’s shut down the means of getting copyrighted shit for free. Naturally, all those that do pinch the stuff suddenly get up in arms about potentially not being able to. What a fucken surprise.

‘Imagine a world without free knowledge’ is the heading on the black out Wankped page. ‘For over a decade we have spent millions of hours building the largest encyclopaedia in human history’ it goes on to read. ‘US Congress is considering legislation that could fatally damage the free and open Internet’. Stirring stuff, I hope someone doesn’t have to use this chair after me…

Only I don’t really see the correlation between say, downloading a movie / song illegally and writing anything on a wiki. Oh sure, if you plan to write the synopsis of the movie you just pinched for free then you’re affected. But hey, if a fat kid falls in the woods and no one is there to see it is it still funny? You know it is.

Ironically the wiki black out page has links to Facebook, Google and Twitter, none of which decided to do the same to theirs.

I’ve gone on record about this stuff before but I shall repeat it because I love the sound of my own voice. I believe you should pay for something that someone with far more creativity than you and I have created. Now I don’t agree with paying an extra two hundred percent on top of what the artist gets, just so that every bastard in the manufacturer-to-consumer chain gets his pound of flesh, but you should pay something.

For instance, I won’t pay $35 for a CD because very little of that goes to the cardigan and scarf wearing writer of the song, but I will buy the song I want off iTunes for $1.50. Nor will I pay $20 to see a movie just to cover the wages of the waster at the candy counter that have their pubes, but not their heart, in filling my box of pop corn.

If you’re one of those geezers that doesn’t even believe that they should pay that then you can fuck off. Black out your page if you want but I’m not buying your argument or your desperate cries for solidarity when you’re faced with the prospect of losing something that was never yours to have for free in the first place.

You can stick that on your blacked out wank page too.

This was a pic of the most beautiful girl you've ever seen, naked. But as I copied it illegally from a porn site I didn't pay for I felt it only appropriate that I black it out...

Skip The Light Fandango

2012-01-17T16:34:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite tunes on the wireless at the moment is a lovely wee ditty called ‘The A Team’ by a fella named Ed Sheeran.

You’ve probably heard it and / or seen the music video, it’s quite good. Unfortunately despite the title it has nothing to do with the most awesome and possibly best TV series ever of the same name…

It’s one of those songs that talks about angels and stuff and will undoubtedly be played at weddings by couples who haven’t listened well enough to realise the song is in fact about a homeless girl who sells herself to pay for her drug habit. Hence the line ‘she’s in the Class A team’ which has nothing to do with how popular she is / was at school. It really is deep on so many levels.

Apparently this is not a new phenomenon. In the 70’s the big wedding song of choice was ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ by Procol Harlem which talks about skipping the light fandango and other fruity things one does when one has a more than casual relationship with Charlie. Or cocaine as it’s sometimes called.

Not to be confused with ‘the’ Charlie, or soldier of the North Vietnamese Army who I had more than a casual relationship with back in ’69. He certainly wasn’t up for turning cartwheels across the floor or jizzing all over sixteen vessel virgins. Well maybe, who knows how Charlie unwound after a long day of being invisible. He was a man of mystery after all.

The writers of that particular song have long denied that it is actually about drug use but hey it was the sixties after all so who really knows aye? They sure wouldn’t. Sheeran on the other hand makes no such ingenuous claims; his song is what it is and he wrote it after doing a performance in a homeless shelter. What a guy.

I remember the very sexy Dido saying something similar about a song of hers at a concert me and the missus attended once. Hers was about locking herself and a drug addict mate in a room and going cold turkey till she was better. Naturally it was a huge wedding song at the time.

Incidentally my mate Marco bumped into Dido whilst in a cheese shop in London town one time. He reckons she was quite rude but that’s what you get for entering a cheese shop Marco, you tit. Might have been a fish shop actually, but that’s irrelevant.

So if your mate is about to pick The A Team as her song to walk down the aisle to, as she marries her favorite cat, then show her the vid on The YouChube. There are actually two clips, one of which is just Sheeran playing his guitar in the recording studio. You’ll know it because, well, he’s playing his guitar in the studio and he looks a lot like the ginga off Harry Potter. And it’s a bit gay. That’s not it. Pick the other one.

I’ve seen it a couple of times now and each time it reminds me of why I could never be a frequent flyer with working ladies because I am just too damn paternal. The one and only time I visited a strip club I spent the whole time wanting to take all the poor girls home and just give them a damn good cooked meal.

I don’t recall feeling that the time I saw a similar themed New Year’s show in The Hutt a few years earlier where a very talented young lady did remarkable things with a ping pong ball and a light stick. Not at the same time mind you because that really would be talent wouldn’t it? But then that was just tacky.

In the case of the girl featured in The A Team video I would run the poor girl a long hot bath, buy her some new stockings and let her have a good nights sleep, maybe even make her breakfast in bed the next day.

Oh sure, it won’t pay for her drug habit but at least she won’t need Ron Weasley to write a song about her for fucks sake.

Stuck in her daydream, been this way since 18...

Rumble in the Jungle BYOC (Bring Your Own Chair)

2012-01-16T23:47:00.000-08:00

As an ex Special Forces Delta Black Op Super Army Soldier (SAS) man myself I don't know whether to laugh or cry at these guys.

The dude wearing the Hawaiian shirt (with the map of Africa on it) must've missed the 'Khaki or Camo Only' memo that morning and has pulled off the army equivalent of going to school in your uniform on mufti day.

Still, it looks like he knows how to handle that chair...

What Not To Wear This Summer (Or Ever)

2012-01-11T23:48:00.000-08:00

Let’s take time out for a moment to take the piss out of what some folk are wearing, because someone has to.

Far be it from me to judge and all that PC shit, but I am a raging metrosexual and if there’s one thing I’m quite good at its spotting ensembles that work and those that don’t. It’s my channeling the inner gay at its finest.

Let us then begin:

1. The dress that is short at the front and long at the back, the mullet of the fashion world.

I think that this particular item owes its ‘popularity’ to the TV show on gyppos that aired a few months back. That in its self should explain why this garment is a failure on so many levels. It is the female equivalent of the sleeveless vest; neither here nor there and I don’t care how good the legs are, it just looks as silly as a fella wearing a cape.

It is the latest item in something I like to call ‘Hepatitis Chic’.

2. Retro swim shorts, especially the flouro pink ones.

I saw a teenage boy wearing a pair of this a few months back at the turf and thought that maybe it was just the first bad choice in a long line of many that kid will make over the next few years.

But then I started noticing more and more of them in various menswear stores and realised that yet another relic from the late eighties is back, the flouro fucking swim shorts. Yes, caught somewhere between a pair of boardies and good taste are faded pink togs, best worn with copious amounts of coconut oil, aviators and looking like a dick.

3. Jean Shorts (the really short ones)

Speaking of retro, these have been making a steady comeback for a few years but seem to have exploded this summer. Now I love seeing young girls wearing these as much as the next happily married man, but I do worry about the body image dramas these bring our young women who already have a shitload of that on their plates.

Put simply, some girls just don’t suit them but what is a parent to say when their young princess wants to wear what everyone else at school is, even if they’re bulging out of ends? It’s not a decision I envy having to make. And if they’re the cut off variety why would you want the inside of the pockets to hang out the leg? That just seems naff.

Still, what I know aye? Gok Wan I ain’t but I promise you this, you won’t catch Junior wearing a mullet skirt, pink togs or jean shorts, not while I’m paying for the wardrobe anyway.

As you were.

Reading Is Sexy

2012-01-09T00:14:00.000-08:00

I love books me, always have. I don’t read nearly enough these days on account of the small fact that I know everything anyway so why bother aye?

But you always read on holiday don’t you? Several books usually and in such quick fashion that you’ll soon forget what it was that you read. It is thus, essentially, a time wasting exercise but very much a time honoured one so we all do it.

What people have in their bookcase of their bach or holiday home that you’ve rented is always an eye opener I find. Usually it’s the age old stock standards; Readers Digest, a few classics, a bit of romantic fare and if you’re really lucky, some Commando comics, which are the shit and it’s a shame that no one stocks the case with them anymore. Mind you, some bugger like me would pinch the lot so it’s probably a good thing they don’t.

Our latest gaff had a mixture of pretty much three genres; surfing material, guides to countries they’d visited and NZ House & Garden magazine. Clearly we were guests in the home of people who have surfed the world looking for the perfect duvet and drape combo.

Their DVD collection was equally as condense; almost every Tarantino movie and Season One to whatever of Outrageous Fortune. They also had a bit of a hard on (inter racial) for Richard Pryor and Chris Rock so needless to say with three kids in the house we signed up at the local Video Sleazy and rented some family fare, like Summer Heights High.

I read three books whilst away and enjoyed them all but I’m pretty sure at some point I just got in the zone and won’t recall big chunks of them. Which is how bullshit starts really doesn’t it? Someone reads a book, forgets most of it but drops some gem of wisdom in a social setting that is pretty much made up with the caveat at the end “I read it in his book”.

Then you have to check Wankipedia to corroborate whatever it was that Tim Tim Nice But Dim waxed on about that one time, which of course is contributed to by people, who read, wait for it, books. Sure, they list them as reference points but are their recollections any better than my speed reading three in a 10 day period?

And let us not forget that it was Smarty who gave a party and no one came.

I only read nonfiction which makes me sound like a complete wanker but seriously I do. Harry Potter books aside (and they made movies of them so they must be true) I haven’t read any fiction since about the age of 16 and I can’t really recall why I stopped with the made up stuff. Probably because of some grossly inadequate sexual experience I had with one actually. Nonfiction story of my life.

If it hasn’t actually happened then I just can’t contemplate wasting several hours on it. You might as well tell me the contents of that dream you had last night for all the factual content I will get out of a story, so I just don’t bother.

Not everything nonfiction though. Our holiday home did have Lance Armstrong’s book on the shelf and once I had finished my pile considered, albeit for a moment, reading it. But then the Tour de Pharmacy is such a sham of an event I reckoned it’s actually a work of fiction that he won it so many times so I left it where it was.

I must have got desperate though because I did read – and I use the term generously – the wife’s Woman’s Day. Honestly there is more factual content in junk mail than that shit.

That’s five minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

My holiday reading...

Normal Service Has Resumed

2012-01-07T18:30:00.000-08:00

Home then and thank god for that. I much prefer being bored out of my wits on my own couch, fuck you very much. A few final thoughts on The Mount though, for future reference:

1. Turns out what we thought was The Rena, actually wasn’t. Unless it’s sunk in the last 48 hours and no one has told the people. I reckon it’s the latter.

2. Roundabouts are generally including in town planning to speed up the changing of direction and to keep traffic flowing. Not so in Mount Manganui where everyone joins in a game called ‘Let’s see how many cars we can squeeze in between pedestrian crossings’ of which, there are a ridiculous amount across each of the exits of said roundabouts.

3. So if the crossings are always being used and the cars are all backed up, is anyone really going anywhere?

4. Wearing your bikini down the main street is cool, if you live in LA, not so in NZ where it’s a case of undies undies togs and you’re wearing the undies. Not so cool.

5. Why do the majority of people at Carnivals always look like they would be right at home living the life of a carnie? This is not just restricted to The Mount mind you..but I did meet Heath Ledger there, he was running the merry-go-round. True story.

6. And do the residents of The Mount get the shits around this time of the year when their usually sleepy town gets overloaded with horny teenagers, backpackers, gyppos, carnies and boat crews? Given that most of the locals are retired and of an age where the fear of anyone colored and /or foreign is already at panic attack high, then it has to be quite the trip.

So there we go. Rest assured then that normal service has resumed, do not adjust your internets.

Yet another free flowing morning at one of the many Mt Maunganui roundabouts...

They Cancelled New Years?!

2012-01-02T17:40:00.000-08:00

Yep, the bastards cancelled New Years.

Here we are in Mt Maunganui aka The Mount, aka Mangas, for New Years and they cancelled the thing on account of it raining for a few days before hand. Eight hours to get here, only to find it gets called off for a bit of moisture. What a bunch of fucktards.

Not that a road trip up here should actually take that long mind you but I made the elementary error of not actually consulting a map in detail before hand, as every fella should do. Especially one who has had the exceptional military and martial art training I’ve had.

Oh sure, I had a fair idea where to go and got here we did, but I missed valuable time and fuel saving routes which, in the jungle, would get a man killed. There are no petrol stations in the jungle, only Charlie and he doesn’t take five cent discount vouchers.

Not all of the festivities were canned mind you, the fire works were still fired off which was great by all accounts, if you were directly underneath them. Not so if you were anywhere that required squinting and peering through the thick cloud because then you were right shit out of luck.

Still, I suppose when you’ve got a barge full of high explosives sitting out in a busy harbour you can’t really leave them floating about for too long, the last thing Tauranga wants right now is another maritime disaster on its shores. They say that there’s no such thing as bad press but having an inbound oil tanker collide with a shitload of fireworks you never let off because it was ‘a bit damp’ would well and truly test that theory, I reckon.

Did I mention that we can see the Rena from our corner of the beach? Not so close that we can see the dudes on board changing their minds, but close enough to sit there and think that, all environmental impacts aside, it would be kind of cool to see the thing crack in two whilst watching…

The sailors from the Rena are all around the place too. At least we think that’s who they are; there can’t be too many all male tour groups of Asian descent, dressed in several layers of thick clothing despite the mid twenty temperatures, that choose Tauranga as their Christmas destination of choice.

Despite the cancellations, which I’m pretty sure was just a few bands along the main drag that nobody would’ve actually turned up to see anyway, Mangas still went ‘off’. At least I think that’s what you could call a whole bunch of dudes in cars driving around the place revving and tooting and yelling out of the windows.

Remembering that this is midnight of course and there are numerous backyard fireworks displays happening at the same time and it all started to feel a little bit like downtown Baghdad on a good day. Only with Brotown accents.

However the most disturbing aspect of all this cancellation business was not that they flagged New Years, because lets be honest, I haven’t done that shit since that fateful night alone in a hotel room in ’99. No, it was that the Miss Mt Maunganui titty and thong fest, I mean beauty pageant, was cancelled.

What a disappointment for those girls that had lined up to be salivated over by the many men around here who would’ve lined up for the free perve aye? What are those girls going to do with their time now?

They’ll probably have to make do with a couple of married guys sitting on the beach pretending to look at the Rena, that’s what.

Mt Maunganui - Land of the Weird

2011-12-29T23:55:00.000-08:00

Welcome, then, to Tauranga, the city where laws like having to wear a helmet whilst cycling and not using your cellphone whilst driving were made to be broken.

And you and I both know that these perps would’ve gotten to that state via gateway misdemeanours like jay walking and not actually fully coming to stop at a stop sign..

Not that there’s anything new in that state of lawlessness, my history with this part of the world includes being the place where I learnt - and first got caught - shoplifting. It was the classic rookie error too, I reached above the ice cream fridge / counter thing to steal a chocolate bar, because I didn’t think the shopkeeper could see me doing so….through the glass.

It’s also the place where I had my first interracial sexual experience. I kissed the Maori girl from next door that I fancied on the cheek. I think we were 10.

See my father lived in Greerton and in the years before his eternal paternal abandonment I would holiday here with him for months on end, or whenever it suited Mother to have me back which as far as I was concerned, was always way too soon. Them were good times.

My father’s then soon to be wife was a hottie who had a thing about leaving bowls of lollies on the table as a snack. Naturally being under the age of pubes and starved of such a thing back in the real world, I gulfed them down like a kid with diabetes.

In fact everyone was forever giving me lollies. The stoners next door would buy me bags of the things just for cutting down a bush with the wooden sword Dad made me, whilst said sexy Step Mum let me pick what I wanted as a $10 mixture for one of my birthdays. And that was back in the day when things cost a cent!

We’re not staying in Greerton though, the extended ClubDes family and I. No we’re in Mt Maunganui, one of the countries hotspot's at this time of the year. Fuck knows why because this place is distinctly average. Oh sure, it has a beach but the Gold Coast it ain’t.

The holiday house we’re staying in is quaint, in an ‘everything is bloody backwards’ way, like the light switches which are in the last places you expect them to be and gates open outwards, not inwards. That kind of thing.

The owners must be grandparents too because there are kiddie locks on everything, the ones that require a degree in dexterial engineering to open them. Those things are going to be a shitter when the arthritis kicks in. Maybe just teach your kids not to go into cupboards aye?

Crimes against fashion runs into their thousands up this way and far be it from me and my Scott Disick GQ style to criticise but some people round here are dressing themselves in the dark, surely. All of which just adds to the ‘weird’ factor of the place really.

Like the Upper Hutt Posse across the road who had a skateboard and bongo drums party the first night we were here. I kid you not. There were more black metal tee shirts on show than one of those Asian run knock off shops and yes they did get the Led out around midnight, but yet somebody bought the drums…

Still, it’s a holiday which means you don’t really give a shit about those things. Besides, I pulled up alongside a mint, cherry red Dodge Charger in the main street the second day and the sight and sound of it will keep the mecaphilliac wank bank stocked nicely thanks very much.

Roll on New Year’s, maybe then I'll discover what all the fuss about this place is really about...

The missus and I are making this place look good, real good.

Merry Christmas, Bitches

2011-12-23T23:27:00.000-08:00

At this time of year, please take time out from all the present opening, face feeding, binge drinking and shameless coveting of the 16 year old first cousin to remember the man who sacrificed himself to save us, so that we may all live free of fear...

I'm Batman.

Genius In The Workplace

2011-12-20T23:11:00.000-08:00

Sometimes even I am in awe of the genius that surrounds me at work:

And sadly I can almost imagine that the train of thought that preceded this was something along the lines of "Hey, it's in the bin, my work here is done".

I kid you not.

Christmas Queues Since Ages Ago

2011-12-19T18:43:00.000-08:00

Christmas is a busy and stressful time, especially if you work in retail (and I have) but shit in my mouth, some shops could do a lot towards making life easier on themselves.

Take for example NZ Post Shops which haven’t changed the way they do things for so long I’m beginning to think that they actually enjoy the misery the cause and why not aye, if you’re not enjoying your job why should anyone else?

If you take a history tour through the website you can read about how pioneering post shops were back in the early 1900s. In fact there’s so much historical goodness on the site that it will feel like you started reading it all back in the 1900s and just to complete the picture, if you go into a post shop today and experience their complete lack of technology, you’ll feel like it is the 1900s.

Oh sure, they’ve got ‘puters and stuff. But they’ve also got queues almost long enough to almost make it back to that period...

Let me just say at this point I am in no way having a go at Posties because they do a fine job and around this time of year, a damn good one. If Posties were to be removed as a means of making way for technology then the world would be a little sadder for the experience. Our Charlie (the dog, not the old adversary from ‘67 – ’69) would also have no one to bark hysterically at other than the secretive Asians across the road. Oh the irony.

I loathe going into the Post Shop because in a world where everything can be scanned, weighed and stickered in some impersonal, cold, self service kiosk parcels and alike can’t at the Post Shop. Why the fuck not I ask myself whilst waiting 20 minutes in a queue of people wanting to do just that.

Even if you have had the sense to pre package, sticker and attach postage to your parcel, you still have to wait in line to hand it over to the grumpy bitch behind the counter to put in a bag. A bag that could hang somewhere secure but accessible I imagine but hey, why make life easy for your customers aye?

Now my reluctant sojourn into Camp Customer Service was to register the Passion Wagon for another six months of smooth rides and delivering every time. I didn’t have the actual rego form with me but I did have all the relevant account / reminder numbers because I know how these things work, you have to have some sort of unique identifier and I was sweet, I had three.

But yet still, after waiting in the queue till about roughly 1963, I was told by Mrs Clause at the counter that I needed to fill out a form, despite her being able to bring my deets instantly up on screen using the plate details. Why then, did I need to fill out a form I inquired? I just had to. For no other reason I could fathom then her needing to stamp it at the end of the transaction, because what else is she going to do with the modern marvel that is the manual hand stamp, just another relic in a store full of them.

Now it's not often I lose my rag but I came very close to that morning, almost as much as the afternoon I rock'n'rolled on full auto whilst pulling away from the two Parkies who had just told me to move on from a loading bay whilst waiting to pick up Mrs ClubDes. I fucken hate Parkies.

Still, it is the season for giving so this life changing feedback will not disappear needlessly into the wasteland that is the internets. I shall point out these opportunities for improvement to the good folk at NZ Post not via their website – I know how they are with technology after all – but by post.

That’ll learn them.

The queue at our local NZ Post Shop dates back to the 1900's...

The Lost Art Of The Secret Santa

2011-12-16T22:06:00.000-08:00

I’ve said this once but I’ll say it again: the art of the Secret Santa gift giving in the office is not what it was.

Once upon a time colleagues took the time to find out two things about the co-worker they were buying for; either what they were interested in or what would embarrass them the most. Thus the point of Secret Santa philosophy was fulfilled, it bought work mates closer together.

Now shit has just got silly. No one gives anything as thoughtful as a book of hand drawn sketches of rifles to a gun enthusiast or as amusing as a tube of KY to the 40 year old virgin anymore. Even the mandatory pack of nudie playing cards (guys for the guys, girls for buyer) has dried up quicker than Grandma.

It started when people started giving stress balls and those ridiculous plastic reindeer that shat chocolate covered raisins if you pushed down on their hind legs. A gift that serves no purpose whatsoever because even when you know what they are, who on earth is going to eat reindeer shit?

Personally I blame the advent of The Two Dollar shop and other such emporiums of tat that act as a Mecca for those that just can’t be arsed. A minute, plastic pool table for the desk is neither practical nor functional so why even contemplate buying the fucken thing? Besides if I’m that bored at work a second hand stick mag in the mens will do the trick and it’s well under the $5 limit.

For the completely unimaginative Secret Santa means buying a box of crappy wafer sticks from the Warehouse, or a bag of lollies. For the completely disorganised it’s something pinched from the stationary cupboard or the stapler from Stu’s desk.

What is amazingly to me though is that despite the frugality of the economy these days, no one has yet started giving blocks of cheese, two litre bottles of milk or preserving jars full of petrol. Secret Santa is just not that practical I guess.

Thank fully I am blessed with thoughtful team mates, or at least two of them, for my last two gifts have been AWESOME and have been clearly purchased by someone who has done their homework, realising that I am both a ninja and proficient in handling the AK47:

Not that I would ever use a firearm whilst slicing and dicing my way through a garrison of very bad men because as we all know, swords don’t run out of bullets.

Mind you my last two efforts have been pretty good even if I do say so; a six pack of dirty Rheineck and a good night in for Ron Jeremy last year and this year? A mega can of horse piss aka Red Bull for Candylane because she loves the stuff. Actually I could’ve taken a warm steamy one in a bottle and saved the $5 really for all the taste or nutritional content that rubbish has in it. Next year maybe.

So it might be too late to not give that crappy chocolate cacking reindeer now but give it some thought next year aye?

Christmas

2011-12-13T10:55:00.001-08:00

Who wants to sit on Santa's lap?

Fudge Packer Vacancy, Apply Within

2011-12-09T12:24:00.000-08:00

Mirror Earth, The Final Frontier.

2011-12-08T17:02:00.000-08:00

Another edition to the wank bank this week for the space geeks amongst us, with the news that some big -fuck-off-shiny telescope has discovered a ‘mirror earth’ 600 light years away from us.

Firstly - what a waste of a telescope. Our gaff is located in a position where I can see into many windows of many houses and I could use just such a thing to indulge my voyeuristic tendencies that at this point in time, extend only to noticing that the teenage girl next door was taking pictures of herself in the bathroom the other night.

True story too, I could see the flash going off from our kitchen. Thankfully, even though the glass was frosted, I could tell she was clothed so I was not forced to trawl the internet to find the images which might have been upsetting to her parents. It would’ve been a tough job but hey, look after your neighbours and all that…

Secondly - naturally I’m skeptical because if it really is a mirror earth then there’s every chance there’s a mirror me on it living a life equally as unexciting as mine (as detailed above) and surely that can’t happen in the one reality, can it?

Apparently this mega scope has also spotted some 2000 new candidate planets which really does put our inconsequential existence into perspective doesn’t it? The sci-fi industry love this shit though because equally as many scripts of TVs / movies about life revolving around those planets are now being written as I type.

Oh and this mirror earth is closer to the sun than we are, so it’s warmer, for longer. Thus even its mirror Wellington is a better one because it does not blow like 50 Bastards, all of the time, nor is it constantly like Pearl Harbour outside (nasty nip in the air).

Ironically this week marks the 70th anniversary of the Pearl Harbour attacks which all sadness aside, are a reminder that modern armies just don’t do surprise attacks any more, not on that scale.

Today’s war zones are just one big game of who can hit who the hardest and no bugger surprises no bugger, just like Nam; Charlie and we spent all damn day and night looking for each other and the only real surprise was that occasionally, we bumped into one another.

Maybe we should’ve had a telescope.

Life Lessons, From The Bouncy Seats

2011-12-04T15:58:00.000-08:00

Conversation turned to trampolines in The Club the other day, partly because Lancey has just gotten his clan one.

Not a trampoline the likes of which we had back in the day mind, no this is one of those can’t hurt you ever, can’t have fun jobs. Which got to us discussing just how those death traps on legs from days gone by, provided us kids with a rite of passage into later life, something Lancey’s spawn will now miss out on thanks to the Big Limp Dick Safety Brigade.

Who didn’t learn a valuable lesson from getting their nuts crunched and pinched when falling through the springs on a trampoline? Not to mention failed flips, mistimed landings from nearby structures or launches into pools that came up short.

Every kid had at least one incident of being catapulted off the damn thing by an older kid bouncing twice as high as every other bugger. That usually ended in a mistimed attempted landing on the frame from a great height, thus crunching the gnads and grazing the ankle / shin / thigh when landing half in the springs and half off the frame.

If you were really lucky you finished that particular artistic move with a face plant on the grass below. I can still hear the laughter now…

Who didn’t find out the hard way that laying underneath it whilst your older brother depth charged the hell out of the thing in a stress test that was never tried in the factory because it was presumed that such a load would ever be heaped upon it and even if so, who would be silly enough to sit under it if it was?

Well we were of course and a couple of those in the head and back learned us didn’t it.

What about the valuable lesson we were all given on the importance of maintaining balance whilst sitting in the corner awaiting your turn only to fall forward or worse, backwards, off the thing when some bugger got a little eager and upset the structural balance by jumping in early, making the ‘no more than two’ rule Mum always dropped on us a very valid point.

I lost count how many times I got ejected by clothesline, flying drop kick or throw to the imaginary ropes that failed to stop me from the copious Royal Rumbles we ran on ours. Dodgeball was another big favourite at our house, until some hard out fired the thing at point blank range whilst you were mid flight and took your legs clean out from under you. Many an emerging facial pube was removed in the resulting face to spring action that inevitably led to.

Ours had a particular design flaw too that meant if you bounced hard enough, on just the right angle, the leg would pop out from the frames which lead to a monumental collapse of epic proportions. I can still see my sister hurtling off it at an acute angle after just such a structural fuck up.

Not that some of us have stopped learning from the humble trampoline. Bruiser has lost two in as many years in a perfect example on how impossible it is to anchor the bastards when you live high above the common folk in the valley below.

One of them very nearly made it down there too only to be swallowed the bush on the hillside directly below his place mid flight. It will be found one day like a forgotten plane wreck leading those who located it to question “How the fuck did this get here?”

The other came to rest through the rear window of the Audi owned by some Asians down the road. Their response to that was to chain the bent and broken frame in their front yard till someone claimed it. Of course that didn’t really pan out because we all know how Asians are with answering their door when knocked on; they don’t. How the hell did they think that was going to work?!

So Lancey’s lot will experience none of this and miss out on some of life’s cruellest, but essential lessons. They will instead be bored with it after about five minutes and move back indoors to the gaming consoles.

No one ever got a gaming console to the balls.

Don't Tase Me Sister

2011-12-02T00:49:00.001-08:00

This is a promotional picture. Not from underwear website, but Taser, the people who make, well, Tasers.

I think what it's trying to say is: "Yes, ladies can wear what they want without fear of harassment but if you're going to walk around with your nungas hanging out of an open neck shirt then you're going to need a Taser to ward off the fellas who think you're right up for a bit of motorboat action".

And they would be right.

Still, you can Tase the physical but your two pronged 10,000 volts can't touch the wankbank girls.

Electing the Phallus

2011-11-28T17:26:00.000-08:00

Well another Election has come and gone and what a shambles it turned out to be.

Not the actual running of the thing because that’s always well run, Iraq this ain’t. But the result was as predictable as the pool comp we sometimes run here at work which Almo will always win, unless he monumentally fucks it up. Which he did last time actually, so go figure.

Turn out on Saturday was its lowest ever and say what you will about the disenfranchised youth of today it doesn’t take four years of completing a political major to work out some folk just couldn’t be arsed voting in a one horse race.

You should see what it’s like round here trying to get a lady godiver out of the masses when they know full well that A-Fed is going to win it all anyway…

They had a couple of the young Mensa members on the news the other night actually, explaining just why it was they didn’t vote. They came up with some truly inspiring gems of spiritual enlightenment too, like “I don’t really care eh” and ‘I had better things to do” which some might argue that it’s the kind of answer only the gifted could come up with. Maybe. I would argue that from the Occupational Overuse Syndrome that had set in on both their right hands, that they were complete wankers.

Now I skipped my Seventh Form Formal because ‘I had better things to do”. But then that was several hours of trying to suppress an erection in a hired suit at a tacky-but-wishes-it-was-swanky location, the ticket to which cost far too much to not include any alcohol whatsoever.

I didn’t actually have better things to do. My mother wouldn’t let me go. But that’s irrelevant.

Mrs ClubDes and I called into the local polling booth – not to be confused with the local pulling booth because that’s a whole separate blog – on our way to my sisters wedding. Thus we were right glammed up in our number ones which solicited the very humorous, but not entirely unpredictable “Glad to see you got dressed up to vote” joke from the guy who had probably sat there checking out women's chests all day.

“Please put a tit - I mean tick - on each form…”

Attending weddings are great. Except that bit before hand where you have to think about what you’re going to buy the happy couple because even if they have a gift registrar here and there, who really knows what they want. We went with towels because you can never have enough towels. Or pillows.

I briefly contemplated gifting my blister something that would spark a memory of our childhood which inevitably got me thinking about a salt and pepper shaker that her mother used to have. It can best be described as a monster porcelain penis with a separate ball sack, because that’s what it was.

It was a white gloss finish with green cartoon love hearts on both twig and berries. It stood about eight inches tall with a girth wide enough to bring a tear the eye of anyone who looked at it which was everyone, because it sat on our MANTLEPIECE for all to see, all of the time.

Needless to say I didn’t subject her new husband and future nephews to the emasculation that is a foot long cock with bovine testes in the living room.

Speaking of giant phallus, how chuffed are you that the million or so who didn’t vote on Saturday helped get these cocks back in power:

Speaking Of Which...

2011-11-26T14:47:00.000-08:00

Best One Day purchase by Mrs ClubDes ever. Unleash the ninjabread!

Secrets of The Inner Sanctum

2011-11-22T17:55:00.000-08:00

One of the occasional tasks that I have to fulfill as a Grand Master of the ClubDes Mojo Dojo is that I need to explain to new grasshoppers just how the Inner Sanctum works.

One recent disciple and converted day walker – let’s call him Blood Fang because it’s only marginally less silly than his real name – questioned the hierarchy. I wouldn’t usually detail this to outsiders but I think I’m amongst friends here so just this once, I will.

Those not familiar with the martial arts should note that a Gi (pronounced Gee) is the garment worn by the ninja who you will never ever see, even though that there are four in the room watching you read this, right now. It should not be confused with a ‘g’ which is a female undergarment sometimes worn by the ninja, but only ever backwards, as a form of self flagellation for straying from the path of pure thought.

Let us then begin, young Fang.

The Inner Sanctum protects me; ClubDes the White from outsiders who would seek to take the short path to the spiritual enlightenment that I have reached. This can best be illustrated thus:

Despite the ‘shoulder to shoulder’ nature of this ancient drawing, do not be fooled Blood Fang; for my spiritual plane is light years above yours and so long as you continue to self pleasure yourself it shall remain a plateau you will forever stare up at it.

The allure of the White Gi and the all round bad ass-ness that it carries appeals to many but few have the plums to even begin to even understand what town to visit to find the street with the house that has the winding path that leads to the door that opens into the hallway that is the path to whiteness.

You have done well young Blood Fang to even reach the level of the Red Gi. Cannon fodder you and your brothers may be, yet you have reached the beginning of a period in your life that spiritually is that so inconsequential that it is consequential.

Naturally you will ask yourself if this is to be your destiny. Instead ask yourself this: Does the naked man fear pick pockets? Does one light a torch to see the sun? Does the weary traveler still find the energy for a wristy at the end of the long day?

Keep walking this path and you may yet find yourself amongst the pantheon of the Black Ninja. Then we shall stand back to back as brothers but only in promotional material. Heed my warning though; many have tried but too few have succeeded. Much anal retention is required before one can truly be black.

Or white.

Anyone For Tennis?

2011-11-22T17:00:00.000-08:00

There are some lovely looking ladies in world tennis…..but these are not them:

Oh well. I only watch women's tennis for the articles anyway…

Back On Tour

2011-11-17T18:58:00.000-08:00

I must apologise for my lack of whinging. I have been partaking in some pretty heavy time travel and only just got back next week.

In that time I had one of those momentous weekends that live long in the memory. Like this time last year I took 24 of my favourite female footballers to a tournament in Taupo and it was, in a word, emotional.

As anyone who coaches will know, tournaments are a special time anyway but our group is a pretty special one and there is nothing more rewarding than seeing those you take rise and overcome the challenges they face (on and off the field) with the confidence and skill you’ve helped to install in them.

This is particularly the case when those you coach are girls, because if there’s one thing that is really tough to do these days it’s growing up as a teen girl in the world we live in. In our group the girls are able to put those pressures aside and really grow and express themselves as equals. That’s the bit I love about coaching, I really do.

Mrs ClubDes and Junior were there with me this time round too and that made for an extra special time of it because they usually don’t get to share in that with me, so I really did have the family on tour with me, in more ways than one.

The weekend wasn't a complete success though.

No group of girls mentioned how cool my boots were this year so perhaps it's time for an upgrade. You know it is actually when he-who-lays-out-the-cones-at-training aka Bruiser has three flash pairs to your one...jammy bugger.

Grab One.

2011-10-31T00:18:00.000-07:00

This week on Grab One:

Seriously?! And is 'Snip Vase Clinic' the singular most un-original name of anything ever?

Besides, if you were to 'grab one' and squeeze real hard you'd probably save yourself 275 nicker anyway. Now ain't that a kick in the balls?

That would do the job too, I suspect...

Class on Parade

2011-10-27T16:12:00.000-07:00

The All Blacks victory parade culminated in town this week and once again proved that there ain’t no party like a Welly street party. The day’s events also bought out the finest in our future leaders and the new cast of ‘16 and Pregnant’:

Outstanding stuff. There were similar gems of wisdom from a contingent of Queen Margaret girls too which lead to a hilarious letter in the DomPost, the likes of which I love to read:

"I trust the parents of the QM girls featured on the front page are proud of the result of their daughters expensive schooling.."

Mind you, the only thing more slightly disturbing than the literary promiscuity of the girls was that the person holding this sign was a FELLA:

Piri rubs on the lotion or he gets the water.

All this parade needed to make it totally complete was for the ABs to throw sweeties to the masses, but alas that kind of thing has been outlawed because it’s all fun and games until someone get s a Mintie in the eye.

Wet streets jam packed with horny teenagers, some of them girls with crude banners, yes; lolly scramble, no.

Speaking of which, The Chef has been AWOL all week with an ailment that can be best described as ‘jizz eye’. Quite what predicament or Twister position he got himself into to suffer such a fate we couldn’t really say, although the mind boggles at the thought of it.

It was good to have him back on deck eventually and how did we herald his return? We turned the office lights on real bright. That’s just how we roll in Harden Up Land.

As you were.

Now Is The Hour

2011-10-24T16:11:00.000-07:00

Thank god that’s over. I suspect we’ve still got a good couple of weeks off rugby news leading all news, but the end is at last in sight.

Now if you’ve clicked on this hoping that you’ll be reading a witty rugby World Cup review with more in-your-end-o then a group of very camp gay men, then sadly you’ll be disappointed. Personally I’d rather catch a case of snake pubes, or even demon penis.

I did enjoy the Hayley Westenra bit though, hasn't she blossomed into a lovely singer? Although I noticed the cameras panned up from the blossoms pretty damn quick, which is probably a good thing because the missus came in at that point and I had my baguette out and everything.

Anyhoo, I will ask this final question of the RWC: Which is the most disturbing aspect of this photo?*

1. That John Key is in the pic like he somehow helped win the trophy; smiling like the smarmy prick who knows (that thanks to the ABs) he just gained himself three more years as PM?

2. And just why is his drink so frothy whilst a very satisfied Andrew Hore is almost asleep next to him?

3. It looks like Hore brought his own slab of Ranfurly Draft too. Which is not a question really, just awesome.

4. Or is it that Dan ‘Ladies Man’ Carter drinks his beer from a glass?

Oh and not to mention this, the strangest handshake you’ll ever see between three fellas; John, Ritchie, Bernard and a three way reach around.

*Full credit to Bruiser and Stu who contributed to these questions. I would’ve though of them eventually but probably not because it's only rugby...

Stop, Collaborate and Listen.

2011-10-23T19:53:00.000-07:00

If, like me, you are of a certain age, then the name Vanilla Ice is something that usually leads to much sniggering and smirking. Add to the fact that his real name is actually Rob Van Winkle and shit gets a whole lot funnier.

Having said that, I don’t know of any Caucasian male that didn’t break some moves in front of the mirror whilst lip synching to ‘Ice Ice Baby’ in the hope that it somehow made us as brown as a brown mans cape, just like our mates who loved rap. Hell I even know a few of the brothers who did the very same thing.

He may have cut like a razor blade and sliced like a ninja but cool he wasn’t; at least not when you saw him. There’s that old joke that everyone was into Vanilla Ice until they found out he was white and then no one, least of all the black dudes, admitted to having ever been into him in the first place.

Because a middle class white boy singing about a drive by didn’t really cut it in terms of street cred back then, but those crackers doing so today – with some considerable success – really do owe Vanilla Ice a huge vote of thanks for breaking the ground for them. Ridiculed he might be, but you would be hard pressed to disprove that he started a movement.

Of course with great success came great temptation and Ice used and abused with the best of them. Eventually he turned his back on pursuing just a musical career and returned to his original love and area of promise; extreme motor sports like motocross and jet skiing, something he had considerable success with by all accounts. For real!

Along the way Ice took to getting involved in home improvement and real estate, which leads me to the point of this blog. That interest got turned into a reality show ‘The Vanilla Ice Project’ where he and his crew flip a destitute Palm Beach house into a million dollar resale, something that he’s been doing regularly for the last ten years.

He’s even written a book on how to invest in real estate and you just know it’s got to be good because ff there was a problem yo he'll solve it, check out the hook while his DJ revolves it.

The Project is in essence, a home improvement show and god knows there’s enough of them fuckers, but its Vanilla Ice y’all and he brings to it all the hollahs and jive talk one would expect from a white man who’s spent most of his adult life in the world of rappers and...shit.

It makes for some great TV when the guys doing the reno turn up in a Rolls Royce and a hot rod truck, amongst other bangin’ rides. In one episode Rob takes matters into his own hands and blasts out the dilapidated pool, puts down a sweet patio and installs some unexpected, but killer features like Tiki torches and a fire bowl. He makes it rock’n’roll when others just make it.

Yep, Ice and his crew put the "sweet" back into the master suite alright. It’s funny yet imminently watchable at the same time. Ice comes across as very articulate and with a real sense of energy and cost conservation in his work.

Trust me, as the man himself would say with gangsta hand gestures, it’s worth a late night watch even if you didn’t listen to Ice Ice Baby like a million times and I know you did. We all fucken did.

So check it; The Vanilla Ice Project, my new favorite show and my latest man love moment.

Hollah!

How Not To Mow Lawns 101 - Epilogue

2011-10-22T00:03:00.000-07:00

Oh it's one of those electric fly mower thingees. Well that explains it. Might as well try cutting up cardboard with those plastic scissors they give toddlers for all the fucken use that's going to be....

What a rookie.

How Not To Mow Lawns 101

2011-10-18T20:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Bring In The Boat Pirates

2011-10-16T15:18:00.000-07:00

Amongst all the shit and giggles that has been the rugby world cup there is the small matter of an environmental disaster happening off the coast of Tauranga.

You’ve probably heard about it. It has been the lead news story everywhere except that is for this weekend when the semi finals of said ‘world’ cup took precedence. Perhaps nothing washed ashore those days.

In a remarkable segue that somehow made the fact that no one was giving a shit about the oil spill today almost okay, both 6pm news programs had touching stories about how the cleanup workers from both NZ and Australia would down tools that evening and watch the rugby together, putting aside their common goal for just a bit. Good times.

I guess when you’re doing a job like that there has to be some escape from the drudgery of it all. I wouldn’t do a job like that because I am inherently lazy so I admire all those people who’ve put on the white overalls and mucked in. Especially seeing as we’re supposed to be holidaying there in the New Year...

Now I’m no seaman, my service was all on land, if you could call the giant rice paddy that was Vietnam ‘land’, so I don’t know a lot about boats and steering the fuckers but it does seem odd to me that amongst that entire ocean the Philippine Captain managed to find the one sandbar for miles.

And then I read that it was his birthday that particular day. What do sailors do on their birthdays if at sea, other than try and drop anchor in each others poo bay? Drink. Like the fish they’re surrounded by.

But being the ideas man that I am I have a solution to stop these things from happening again and it can be best encapsulated in word: Somali boat pirates.

We could get a bunch of them to run the gauntlet between sand bars and the like so that even the most pished of Captains stays away from the bloody things. What’s more, I know where to find some; in my old hood, Naenae.

I happened to visit them mean streets the other day whilst picking up something and with all the flags on vans proliferating the place I thought I was in downtown Mogadishu and hey I would know, I’ve seen Black Hawk Down like three times.

All jokes aside it was a bit sad to see the old haunt in such bad disarray. I can’t pretend that it was Beverly Hills back in the day but it was a neighborhood that by in large was filled with people who took pride in their properties and cars etc. As kids we never really understood just how much of a difference that made to the place.

Not that keeping up with The Joneses is what life is about, not by a long shot, but it says a lot about the community when people are motivated and comfortable with their environment to spend their weekends in the garden or washing the car.

It’s that same sense of community that gets those same people out on the beach cleaning up the oil spill that could have been prevented if we had Somali boat pirates patrolling the coastline.

I rest my case.

The Naenae Massive, ready to represent.

Take The Pill

2011-10-14T15:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, just sometimes I fell like my life is the sum of the remainder of an unbalanced equation inherent to the programming of the Matrix.

Like I am the eventuality of an anomaly, which despite someone’s sincerest efforts has not been eliminated from what is otherwise a harmony of mathematical precision. While it remains a burden assiduously avoided, it is not unexpected, and thus not beyond a measure of control, which has led me, inexorably, here.

Twice a day I take this particular pill and have done for ages. Only today did I notice what it has written on it. Now it all makes sense.

Let me tell you why you're here. You're here because you know something. What you know you can't explain, but you feel it. You've felt it your entire life, that there's something wrong with the world. You don't know what it is, but its there, like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. Do you know what I'm talking about?

Now if only it was red...

If the Jungle's Rockin'...

2011-10-12T00:19:00.000-07:00

Serenaded by a comrade playing guitar nearby, fighters for Libya's new transitional regime battled forces loyal to disposed Libyan dictator Moammar Gadhafi on Oct. 10 in Sirte

This photo reminds me of that time Almo played ’10 Guitars’ as we went full auto on Charlies arse down the Ho Chi Minh trail in ’68. Sadly it was the only song he knew and it got a bit repetitive after a dozen renditions. I remember him asking if we had any requests to which someone muttered “Anything but fucken 10 Guitars”.

And with that the bastard started playing it again…

Still, spooked the shit out of Victor Charles, especially once Almo got his Maori boy strumming going. That's what we always meant by 'If the jungle's rocking, don't come a knocking'.

The Hitch Hike

2011-10-06T18:42:00.001-07:00

Straight from the ‘I’ve seen a porno that started like this..” comes the story of JK and his boys last week picking up a hitchhiker on their way up North. Innocent enough but this was no ordinary hitch hiker, no, for she was:

1. Swiss
2. Single
3. A nurse
4. Ridiculously good looking
5. Not to mention happy to hop into a SUV with four strapping Kiwi blokes

To say she gave the lads a Toblerone is an under statement. Apparently she’d been trip hopping her way round the country using the same means of transport and had only had to turn down a ride the once. Sounds like me with the girls in my college days but then I was ridiculously good looking back then.

Hitch hiking is a funny thing. Personally I could never do it on account that I have a car and thus asking for a lift just doesn’t make sense, but even if I didn’t there is the whole stranger danger thing that would worry me too much.

What if they took a fancy to my pretty boy looks and decided to keep me, take me to some place off the beaten track and do things to me that I always dreamed would happen but never actually thought would? What if I did the same to them? It’s just a Pandora’s Box of opportunities really.

My sister did it for a long while, whilst on the run from all manner of child authorities I might add, but she absolutely swore by it. So did JK’s Swiss Miss but then like so many other things it’s probably a lot easier when you’re a sheila.

I see a lot of guys hitching and it makes me laugh at the state of them. Perhaps it’s a result of the lifestyle but asking to share the confined space of a car with someone when you look and possibly smell like road kill, is not a good marketing strategy I would have thought. Still, someone must take the chance.

Then there’s the awkwardness of it all like what happens when the conversation runs out or simply never starts. At what point would my Jonas Brothers / Oasis / Metallica iPod mix become an issue and who would have to kick who out. And Junior put the Jo Bros on there anyway.

The only time I’ve ever contemplated picking up a hitchy is when faced with the Tui ad scenario that JK had the other day but even then, knowing my luck, her minger of a boyfriend will exit from the bushes where he was hiding the whole time and want to sit up front with me. Chances are they’ll be from one of those fruity countries too, like Sweden and he’ll have cut off jean shorts on as well which will just add to the irony of it all.

Speaking of which, the missus and I watched ‘Love And Other Drugs’ a wee while back and yes, Anne Hathaway does spend a good deal of the movie naked but then so does Jake Gyllenhal and every time I closed my eyes for a long time after wards I saw his naked thighs.

I think I'll go back to imagining that porno I saw that started like JK's story...

Smooth Rolling Wayne Checks Out

2011-10-04T17:42:00.001-07:00

Saxi Maxi rolled out of ClubDes this week, not because we told him his spokey dokeys were annoying but because he's on to bigger and better things.

It's not the first time some of us have waved goodbye to the big fulla, there was that one time in '67 as we Recon boys left for Vietnam (it's this whole other country) and he had to stay on account of articulated wheelchair tracks hadn't been invented then.

Fighting Charlie in the bush and paddy fields may not have called for a technical genius confined to a wheelchair but my life upon my return from the war zone as a psychopathic vigilante and all round nice guy - The Punisher - did, so it worked out fine.

I’ll think the thing I'll miss most about Maxi is those rides you used to give me around the place.

Funny how that brake lever of yours, the one that poked me in the back when I sat on your lap, never seemed to work no matter how hard I tugged at it. We just never seemed to slow down! You should get that looked out before you impale yourself.

Anyhoo, so long big boy. All the best in the new job, see you on Facey but not on a doggy date because you know how it is; love my dog, not yours. A dogging date on the other hand….

And yes, I know the locket I gave you is a bit sticky upon unwrapping it, but then it is filled with mans milk. Mine, obviously.

No, we can't go back to 'Nam now you've got your tank chair Maxi...

A Dildo By Any Other Name...

2011-10-02T19:09:00.000-07:00

You may have seen the ad for this on TV. It’s on late at night, obviously and like all Durex ads is quite funny; in so much as an ad about massage lube can be I suppose.

And I know it’s supposed to be sensual and playful, but does it really have to come in a bottle shaped like something that could just as easily be accidentally-on purpose inserted into an orifice? Does it? Really?

Who would want to anyway? After it’s been on a supermarket shelf where it’s been fondled by some guy who’s gone on to make humorous but juvenile masturbation and butt plug gestures with it to his missus. And that’s just me; god only knows what other jokers have done with it before that.

It’s like those ‘personal massagers’ you can get at Farmers which are a packaging box change away from being the kind of thing single, middle aged women who have photos of their cats on their work desk and who have seen Titanic 17 times buy from D Vice.

I bought something from D Vice once and was quite impressed to find said purchase was placed in a discreet black carry bag. Only later, after having walked round town for a good half hour, did I realise that just the one side of the carry bag was blank whilst the other carried the store name in dirty gold lettering. Conveniently they had laid the embossed side down on the counter when handing it to me so I was completely unawares.

Still. At least the bottle inside wasn’t shaped like a vibrator. Only it was because that’s what it was but that’s irrelevant really…

Um, when is lube ever not 'intimate'...?

Three Long Years

2011-09-30T00:43:00.000-07:00

I can't be a 100% sure but I think the missus is messing with me.

First we name the dog 'Charlie' and then she goes and buys Coke bottled for Vietnam from one of those one day sale sites!

And yes this photo is blurry, but trust me when I tell you the label says NUOC GIAI KHAT which, loosely translated from the Vietnamese, means YOU LOSE G.I.

Three long years, three consecutive tours and still on edge. Just saying.

The Unluckiest Break

2011-09-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it amazes me how rudimentary we are in these highly technological times.

The young fella next door broke his leg playing football the other day and is now sporting a cast that starts at the foot and finishes so high up the thigh you just know Nursie must’ve plastered the underside of his baubles. The break itself is below the knee so if ever there was a case for inappropriate medical touching then that has to be close.

And it is one of them thick plaster jobs that you just know is going to make doing anything, like sleeping, nigh impossible. Not to mention the compound fracture he’s likely to sustain banging his wrist against it every time he has a wristey and given that he’s 15, it’s on for six weeks and he’s immobile for much of it, that’s a lot of solitaire.

Eventually they’ll cut it off and apply one of those snazzy fibreglass jobs but it always surprises me that the basics in life are still that; basic. If you break a bone then there is no quick and easy means of fixing it and you’re fucked. Basically.

I’ve never broken a bone. I’ve claimed to but only because it was a good means of hiding the fact that I was and am, extremely soft. Once such time was when I deflected a cricket ball, travelling at some velocity I might add, from me balls, with my little finger.

Some smug bastard in the team had the audacity to call that potentially life changing moment a ‘missed catch’. Admittedly it was a classic case of what they in the cricket fraternity call an ‘in and out’ though; my testes detracted in with fright and the ball fell out from the vacant area they once hung.

My finger wasn’t broken of course but it sure felt like it.

I tapped it to the phalange next to it and everything, for dramatic effect, but it really was only sprained. Still, my street cred went up that particular period in the neighbourhood and I was King Dick there for a while too, untill Dennis’s brother went and upped me by splitting the webbing on his hand whilst trying to catch a cricket ball.

The show off.

Canada, Oh Cana-duh.

2011-09-25T19:33:00.000-07:00

Week three of the RWC is all done then all that early talk about the worlds minnows closing the gap on the big boys seems complete arse now doesn’t it? Putting 50 points on someone doesn’t make for a riveting competition no matter which way you look at it.

Of all the minnows in the Rugby World Cup the one country that I probably have the softest spot for are the Canadians.

My father – he of the abandon his only son when he was 10 fame – lived there for a long while. He sent me a Canadian flag once and I’ve still got it somewhere because it’s a wonderful reminder of the loving bond between a father and son, is a flag of somewhere I’ve never been to.

Around the same time our family (on Mothers side) was accosted by a bunch of Canadians who had taken to a bit of family treeing and worked out that they were related to us. And this before the days of the interweb so who really knows what they found.

My grandparents being, well, grandparents lapped that shit up and it wasn’t long before the recollections of things like Christmases past were altered in the telling to include a mention of the Canadian branch of the family.

I think they mus have thought they were coming to tame the natives when they came over too because they bought with them trinkets, like badges, all of which had ‘Alberta, Canada’ plastered all over them. Because everybody loves wearing a badge of somewhere they have never been to.

Bruiser, Coops and I had a Canadian maths teacher in 6th form who wrote on the blackboard in reverse order to any other teacher, ever. He’d start on the far side and move backwards so when you arrived late and started copying down what you though was the first block of work it was, in fact, the last.

By the stage you realised what was going out he had rubbed the first bit out (the furthest bit of the board) anyway so you were stuffed. Of course we never read what we were copying so how were we to know it didn’t make chronological sense?

He also had the very amusing habit, depending if you were the one coming in late or not, of writing and explaining panels of mathematical theory only to decree that it was all lies and we should ignore it. At which point he’d put an ‘x’ through the lot. Good times.

There was also the small issue, being in NZ, of him not being able to pronounce anything in Maori, for example our classmate Irihapiti which as read out from the roll each week as Eerie hap eye tie. Later just shortened to Eerie.

Not too mention the four foot two Asian in the flared trousers (short backward square to you cricketers) who’s name was Kan Hau but you know how it is with Asians, last name first and all that but not on the roll. So the convo went a little like this:

Teech: Hau? Hau Kan.
KH: Kan sir, here.
Teech: Pardon me?
KH: Its just Kan sir.
Teech: But on here it says Hau.
KH: Yes sir, that’s my first name. But in Korean we say last name first.
Teech: So your name is Hau Hau?
KH: No its just Kan.
Teech: So it’s just Kan Kan?
KH: No its just Kan.

Everyone had to change seats by this stage as most were wet.

I even had a pretty serious case of the lusties for a girl I went to school with who had spent time in Vancouver, of all places and was into ice hockey, big time. I don't remember exactly but I'm pretty sure that my attraction probably had something to do with he-who-shall-not-be-named (Father) was also living in Vancouver and that's just messed up.

These days my connection to the land of the maple leaf and sauce is through the original draft dodger, T-Bag. He’s loving it over there and no doubt sharing the Rugger with the locals. The Canucks even had their first win the other day, against Tonga and I’m not sure if the party will still be going, but if it is you can bet our man Borlase will be right in the thick of it.

He certainly won't be reading this because in an ironic twist of fate, he can't, not at work anyway:

Top Five - Things I’m Over Right Now.

2011-09-22T20:32:00.000-07:00

So much so I can't even bring myself to find pictures of them...

1. Bruno Mars. We’ve had quite enough of the same song six different ways, fuck you very much.

2. Likewise anything referring to or featuring Mick Jagger. How ironic is it that the guy from Maroon 5 with the ridiculously high voice sports so many tattoos he gives the impression he might in all actuality, be ridiculously hard. He’s not but he looks like he should be. And have you seen the abomination of a song that Mick has lent himself to?! Don't.

3. Flags on cars, even the half bra things that some have wrapped around their side mirrors. Still, it makes for accurate racial abuse when kicking off at someone for cutting you off because they were unsighted by said flag draped across the back window. Maybe we should make them mandatory in that sense?

4. Zara Phillips, her broken nosed, cauliflower eared husband and that woman in that bar. The bouncer mind you is a totally fascinating cat and him I’d like to see more of because we all know we should never underestimate the predictability of stupidity. Go Tindall!

5. Facebook. Even before the changes, it's just shit. It might be better if it let me decide what features I want but you know what? I doubt it.

The Flashing Mob

2011-09-20T17:49:00.000-07:00

The Rugby World Cup has bought a lot of good things to these shores in recent weeks but it’s bought some downright average stuff too and I’m not just talking about Scarlett Johansson’s nudie pics which are.

Like our lip syncing – or should that be blowing – of the ceremonial Maori horn at the state of each game which is by all accounts, fake. It’s a soundtrack being played over the PA from what I’ve seen of it. Good one. Listeners at the ground can also buy their genuine plastic greenstone tikis on their way out too, made of course, in China.

And then there are the flash mobs laying down the haka everywhere. They’re about as flash as my old man’s burgundy Cortina ever was, even after he put the mags and louvers on the back window.

Now the Haka is a formidable sight, when done by semi naked Maori Warriors or buff bustards in any sort of departmental uniform i.e. Police, Army etc. But not when it’s done by a bunch of fat guys in track pants, half casts and skinny teens in skin tight denim shorts and jandals wearing their skateboarding caps on a jaunty angle.

The flash mob thing is so passé anyway. I’m starting something new. I’m kicking this shit up a notch and I’m starting the mob that flashes. Those that wish to be forerunners in this new social phenomenon can meet me in Manners Mall, Friday 1800 hours for the first en masse flash. I'm hoping we'll have more knockers on show than a joiners shop and for the onlookers to see more knobs than a locksmith does.

You know you want to.

Yeah, real tough boys, real tough.

The Prank Call Lives On

2011-09-15T17:25:00.000-07:00

Just in case we were in any doubt, further proof this week that big business blows. Like the companies that make the milk telling us that it is OUR fault it’s not cheaper, because we don’t shop around enough. Wankers.

What about the little fact that all the supermarkets are owned by only two companies? There’s your competition right there. Servos are so expensive with things like bread and milk you might as well buy petrol and pour that on your weetbix. But again, big business owners, so no real surprise and we all know the tight buggers that run the corner dairy are not going to undercut no bastard.

Small businesses on the other hand, don’t blow. I was reminded of something a few weeks ago when I saw the story of the Nelson fish & chip shop that is losing money thanks to some noob that keeps ringing and placing a huge order that he never collects.

This story struck a chord with me because 20 years ago I was that kid and as funny as it was back then I realise now, as a fully pubed adult, that somebody inevitably suffers with a prank such as this and in the case of a small business it’s usually the owner.

Still, it’s bloody funny. Well at least it was back in the day when Willie G and I used to wag school and call up all the local takeaway shops. Quite why alarm bells weren’t ringing in these places when a kid - admittedly a deep voiced one at that - was placing a huge order in the middle of the day I shall never know.

Not that we were content just placing fake orders; in a similar vein we’d often ring people and in our best pigeon Mandarin claim that the person listed in the phonebook had a tab with us which now needed to be paid. Quite what the Golden Dragon in Naenae did with all the money that confused strangers came in and paid on nonexistent accounts we’ll never know, but we should probably have asked for a cut.

Incidentally I’ve always had a deep voice and from an early age and it was in no way related to the size, or sling, of the man berries because they let me down on both counts right throughout my teens. I mean they’re enormous now, obviously, that’s what the wheelbarrow beside my desk is for…

Like most kids my age in Third Form I had very little interest in school or authority and had a peer councillor, Steven, our Seventh Form class prefect who did an okay job but to be fair was more interested in getting his hands on our other class prefect and I don’t blame him, she was tidy. During one of the many him-me-Guidance Counsellor session’s that only exist to employ such people in schools, Steven endeared himself to me by blurting out halfway through a very heavy conversation about just why I was such a little shit “But he has such a deep voice….its so funny”.

By far the biggest and bestest phone prank we pulled (and I say ‘we’ only to try and deflect some of the blame now that I feel genuinely bad about it) was the time we phoned in a 30 kid birthday party for a mate at Maccas. Again, pubescent boy on the phone making detailed plans regarding another pubies party, hello?

But pulled it off we did and a couple of days after the ‘party’ date had come and gone our mate was telling us that Mum & Dad had been called by a furious Maccas Manager and been given an invoice for 30 unclaimed Happy Meals! Yes, it was still hilarious, but we did feel a tinge of regret so we didn’t tell our mate it was us who’d made the call. Everyone else we told of course, just not him.

So I feel for the guy in Nelson and his unclaimed phantom orders, like I do my mate. Still, there is a small part of me that is stoked to see the prank call is alive and well.

A Question of Sport #2

2011-09-12T12:58:00.001-07:00

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.''

Leaving Drinks?

2011-09-12T01:35:00.000-07:00

Candylane: You going to his leaving drinks?

Noshow: Nah. You?

Candylane: Nope.

Noshow: I didn’t even sign his card. Went to his morning tea and ate all the food though.

Candylane: Oh we all did that.

Noshow: Admittedly I did just shake his hand as he stopped by on the way out but I had been playing with myself under my desk beforehand so the joke’s on him...

Freaks, Geeks & A Sexo

2011-09-08T20:27:00.000-07:00

One of the best weekends away I had with a bunch of strange men – the others were a disaster that I’d rather not speak about – was Coopsies stag do. The theme for which was ‘Freaks, Geeks and a Sexo’.

Coops, being the groom (and a sexo) was of course, the sexo. The rest of us were, well, self explanatory really but we made quite the sight, especially as we got changed at the top of the Rimutaka Hill and stayed in costume the whole weekend. Coops was the star of course, resplendent in his leather vest, chaps, bikers cap and studded dog collar.

Some of us stayed in costume that was. I saw more male genitalia that weekend than I have the entire time my arse has faced South but that’s what you get really when you mix men in raincoats (and only raincoats) with alcohol.

Mind you, when a couple of them decided to try teeing off with a golf cub in the hands of one and the tee held between the buttocks of another, even before the drinking really starts, you know you’re in for a special, special weekend.

I was reminded of freaks and geeks when I finally got round to watching ‘The Social Network’ the other day. I know it came out some time ago but that’s just how I am with movies, I treat them like I do the hot girl across the street who so wants you to check her because she knows how hot she is. I don’t play that game. I am immune to their power and I never look. Not while they’re looking anyway.

Likewise I very seldom go and see movies when they come out despite their hotness. Besides it works the same anyway; once you’re one of the first to see it you try and tell everyone about it only you can’t, because they haven’t seen it and by the time they do, you’ve forgotten all the little details anyway. Just like the hot girl across the street.

The Social Network is a film about that social network, Facebook and how it came to be. It’s full of geeks because it’s the story of one major poindexter making a website that apparently is quite popular. Only the geeks in this make believe version look way better than they do here in the real world. How does that work? Two of the principal characters are The Winkelvoss twins, who in the film, are ironically played by just the one good looking guy. Very convincingly too, I might add.

Now grown twins, especially men, freak me the fuck out. I don’t know what it is but to me there’s something spectacularly scary about two guys being the exact copy of each other and these two aren't just doppelgangers; they're ex Olympian rowers too, so they’re huge carbon copies of each other.

I have the same fear about what it would be like if you met your body double face to face. Six degrees of whatever aside, these things aren't suppose to happen because it's just too damn freaky. I did meet mine once and it was grotesque; he was into the Venga Boys...

Twins are supposed to be cute and depending what kind of websites or magazines you like to read the articles in / on, sexy. I never did understand the whole twins fantasy though because at the end of the day they’re sisters; they’re not going to want to be with each other in that way any more than you want to be with your Mum, in that way.

At least I don’t think so. If I knew some sexy twins I would even be willing to take that particular experiment to test the theory. Oh sure, it would be pleasant, but I wouldn’t enjoy it.

So long as it was the Winkelvoss boys, they're some freaky geeks them two *shiver*.

That's a huge bitch...and your brother too.