The latest hubbub down under is whether or not a leading boy’s school in Queensland should allow its Senior Students to take their gay partners to the school formal.
(http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2008/04/14/2216379.htm)
Naturally this has Gay Rights groups and church groups squealing loudly, and those of us in the middle are covering our ears.
The school itself is trying to remain PC while at the same time giving the request a big fat thanks but no thanks. Its official line is that young men need to learn to interact with the opposite sex.
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I have never met a poof who has any difficultly making friend with the ladies. Heck, I once thought about pretending to be a butty just to try and get in one chicks knickers in my student days. And girls love having a queer friend, since Will and Grace it is almost an important fashion accessary, like a handbag only more stylish and fragrant, and with less room for Tampons.
Now I personally think that if a young kid is gay and is brave, yes brave, enough to admit it in an environment like that than he should be applauded. If anything it might make some of the others more tolerant.
I also believe that school formals should be a place where a young man can express his basest desires. Heck, if I could do it all over again I’d have taken a one legged hooker, assuming that is that Heather Mills was available. I know that some of my mates would have spent their last school looking for a dwarf or willing sheep.
Anyhow, I digress.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
An Old Mate Dies While Sucking on the Corporate Tit
So England failed to qualify for yet another international football tournament. I’m a little disappointed by this but I think that perhaps that is just the Anglophile in me. However, I’m not surprised. Let’s be honest the English national team is somewhat of a joke outside of England, except perhaps Scotland and Wales who have no room to laugh. Yes, they made the quarterfinals of the last few tournaments that they played in but they hardly set the world alight did they?
So where should one apportion the blame for this ‘disaster?’ No doubt the tabloids have already taken aim at manager Steve McClaren and the fans will be burning effigies of goalkeeper Scott Carson but that is a short sighted approach.
No, the blame lies in the Premiership and the Champions league.
I’m not just talking about the number of foreign players at English clubs either. Nope; I’m talking about how bloody nancy-pancy the game has become. The Champions League is frankly no tougher than an over 40’s Tuesday morning Netball competition and the EPL is sliding the same way. Where have all the Hard-men gone? When was the last time a legitimate on Christian Ronaldo was actually waved play on? Why is the most volatile person at a football match likely to be a fan?
I confess that by degrees I am going off football. Those that know me will argue that it is because Liverpool look highly unlikely to win the EPL anytime soon but in truth I find that watching overpaid, over hyped sissies feign injury a little dull. Furthermore, everything appears so sterile and bland and corporate. Football is slowly suffocating from its own success and it has cost England its national game.
I love playing the game, and even watch (and play) some local amateur stuff when I can but I don’t have the stomach to watch an old friend like Football perish before my eyes.
RIP Football
So where should one apportion the blame for this ‘disaster?’ No doubt the tabloids have already taken aim at manager Steve McClaren and the fans will be burning effigies of goalkeeper Scott Carson but that is a short sighted approach.
No, the blame lies in the Premiership and the Champions league.
I’m not just talking about the number of foreign players at English clubs either. Nope; I’m talking about how bloody nancy-pancy the game has become. The Champions League is frankly no tougher than an over 40’s Tuesday morning Netball competition and the EPL is sliding the same way. Where have all the Hard-men gone? When was the last time a legitimate on Christian Ronaldo was actually waved play on? Why is the most volatile person at a football match likely to be a fan?
I confess that by degrees I am going off football. Those that know me will argue that it is because Liverpool look highly unlikely to win the EPL anytime soon but in truth I find that watching overpaid, over hyped sissies feign injury a little dull. Furthermore, everything appears so sterile and bland and corporate. Football is slowly suffocating from its own success and it has cost England its national game.
I love playing the game, and even watch (and play) some local amateur stuff when I can but I don’t have the stomach to watch an old friend like Football perish before my eyes.
RIP Football
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The Free Pint Award
An Award for Amusing News
Every now and then I read, watch or hear a news story that makes me laugh out loud. For example, that cheerleader who was leading the spirit right up until the moment her team ran over the top of her. Having watched more than my fair share of Teen movies and porn, I daresay that this wasn’t the first time she had the entire team on top of her in an evening but that is a matter for another fantasy.
My point is that I laughed out loud when I saw the footage and for that I’m going to by her a pint. Unfortunately she is underage so she can’t receive it so instead The Free Pint Award for this month goes to this plonker:
Geelong Cats labelled `gay' premiers
The mighty Geelong 2007 premiership winning team has been labelled the `gay' premiers in an embarrassing tattoo error.
Geelong supporter `Neville' wanted a permanent reminder of the team's success so he visited a tattoo parlour in Thailand last week seeking to have the words ``Day Premiers 2007'' emblazoned on his right arm.
`Neville' told 3AW this morning he had 15 cans of beer to ease his nerves before the tattoo was applied.
He said to ensure the Phuket tattooist got it right, he wrote down exactly what he wanted on his right and left arms, under the headlines ''right arm'' and ''left arm''.
''I gave them a piece of paper and wrote down on the right arm, I wanted the new Geelong emblem they've got out now ... and Day Premiers 2007.''
''And on the left arm side I wrote ''left arm'' and the two grandkids names and Night Premiers 2006''
Now he has ''right arm'' written on his right arm, just above ''Gay Premiers 2007'' because the tattooist marked in ''Gay'' instead of ''Day''.
''I couldn't believe it,'' Neville said.
''When I first walked in he showed me the picture of the thing, and I just looked at a picture and didn't really take notice of the words.
''My son-in-law walked in halfway through it ... and told me what happened, and I thought 'you're joking!'' he said.
(Source: http://www.geelongadvertiser.com.au. 13Nov07)
Now I really don’t need to comment to much on this suffice to say that ‘Neville’ (why the pseudonym? What’s he really hiding?) has just become Australia’s newest Gay Icon, replacing Ian Thorpe at the top of charts.
However, for making me cough up my cornflakes, I award ‘Neville’ one free pint lager.
Every now and then I read, watch or hear a news story that makes me laugh out loud. For example, that cheerleader who was leading the spirit right up until the moment her team ran over the top of her. Having watched more than my fair share of Teen movies and porn, I daresay that this wasn’t the first time she had the entire team on top of her in an evening but that is a matter for another fantasy.
My point is that I laughed out loud when I saw the footage and for that I’m going to by her a pint. Unfortunately she is underage so she can’t receive it so instead The Free Pint Award for this month goes to this plonker:
Geelong Cats labelled `gay' premiers
The mighty Geelong 2007 premiership winning team has been labelled the `gay' premiers in an embarrassing tattoo error.
Geelong supporter `Neville' wanted a permanent reminder of the team's success so he visited a tattoo parlour in Thailand last week seeking to have the words ``Day Premiers 2007'' emblazoned on his right arm.
`Neville' told 3AW this morning he had 15 cans of beer to ease his nerves before the tattoo was applied.
He said to ensure the Phuket tattooist got it right, he wrote down exactly what he wanted on his right and left arms, under the headlines ''right arm'' and ''left arm''.
''I gave them a piece of paper and wrote down on the right arm, I wanted the new Geelong emblem they've got out now ... and Day Premiers 2007.''
''And on the left arm side I wrote ''left arm'' and the two grandkids names and Night Premiers 2006''
Now he has ''right arm'' written on his right arm, just above ''Gay Premiers 2007'' because the tattooist marked in ''Gay'' instead of ''Day''.
''I couldn't believe it,'' Neville said.
''When I first walked in he showed me the picture of the thing, and I just looked at a picture and didn't really take notice of the words.
''My son-in-law walked in halfway through it ... and told me what happened, and I thought 'you're joking!'' he said.
(Source: http://www.geelongadvertiser.com.au. 13Nov07)
Now I really don’t need to comment to much on this suffice to say that ‘Neville’ (why the pseudonym? What’s he really hiding?) has just become Australia’s newest Gay Icon, replacing Ian Thorpe at the top of charts.
However, for making me cough up my cornflakes, I award ‘Neville’ one free pint lager.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
RIP Cricket: Australia's Shame
I used to look forward to Cricket season. It meant that I could dust off my scorebook and special scoring pencil and spend my holidays in front of the telly diligently marking the score during another enthralling Test Series. What’s more I could get shit faced while doing it. However, that was last summer. This summer I’m over Cricket. I’m divorcing myself from the game. She is dead to me.
I did try watching some cricket but I finally released why non-cricket fans found it so painfully boring. The first test between SA and NZ was, lets be honest, of a pretty poor standard (Amala, Kallis, Steyn and Bond excepted) and the AUS Vs Sri Lanka was downright tedious. Nope, Cricket is no longer a part of my summer diet.
There are a number of reasons for this. Firstly, the last of the great personalties has gone. Shane Warne is now text messaging full time and that means that the game is being overrun with the cricketing equivalent of accountants – The Mike Hussy’s, Raul Dravids and Michael Vaughn’s, of this world - Men with all the appeal of a knitting circle. Even those that remain are censured. Flintoff left his personality at the bottom of a Caribbean bay, Smithy’s growing up and evolving into Keppler Wessel’s and Pieterson has finally made the jump from pretentious prick to sullen faced knob.
But that is not the only reason Cricket is dead. No she is dead because she was poisoned. Slowly. By the Australians. Over a period of time. They administered a slow realising toxin that gradually killed her. Bit by bit. It attacked her nervous system and killed her. By degrees.
It began when Tubby Taylor was replaced with Steve Waugh as captain of the Baggy Green’s. Suddenly they started applying Science (yes science) to the gentle art of cricket and have never looked back. Nowadays they win everything, and convincingly, but at what cost?
All that “science” and “progress” has turned the Aussie into the most boring 11 men in the world outside of a Star Trek convention. Their sound bytes sound positively scripted and their play methodical. And if have to watch Brett Lee celebrate a wicket by ‘who-hooing’ like a ten year girl one more time I will move to Alabama or Brasilia or anybloodywhere where they don’t have cricket. Shame on you Australia for being too darn good and too darn boring. For shame.
No, Cricket is dead. This summer will be spent on the front deck, using my special scorebook and pencil to play car cricket (Red Car = 6, Black = Out etc). If you see me, give me a wave. And some booze. Don’t forget the booze.
I did try watching some cricket but I finally released why non-cricket fans found it so painfully boring. The first test between SA and NZ was, lets be honest, of a pretty poor standard (Amala, Kallis, Steyn and Bond excepted) and the AUS Vs Sri Lanka was downright tedious. Nope, Cricket is no longer a part of my summer diet.
There are a number of reasons for this. Firstly, the last of the great personalties has gone. Shane Warne is now text messaging full time and that means that the game is being overrun with the cricketing equivalent of accountants – The Mike Hussy’s, Raul Dravids and Michael Vaughn’s, of this world - Men with all the appeal of a knitting circle. Even those that remain are censured. Flintoff left his personality at the bottom of a Caribbean bay, Smithy’s growing up and evolving into Keppler Wessel’s and Pieterson has finally made the jump from pretentious prick to sullen faced knob.
But that is not the only reason Cricket is dead. No she is dead because she was poisoned. Slowly. By the Australians. Over a period of time. They administered a slow realising toxin that gradually killed her. Bit by bit. It attacked her nervous system and killed her. By degrees.
It began when Tubby Taylor was replaced with Steve Waugh as captain of the Baggy Green’s. Suddenly they started applying Science (yes science) to the gentle art of cricket and have never looked back. Nowadays they win everything, and convincingly, but at what cost?
All that “science” and “progress” has turned the Aussie into the most boring 11 men in the world outside of a Star Trek convention. Their sound bytes sound positively scripted and their play methodical. And if have to watch Brett Lee celebrate a wicket by ‘who-hooing’ like a ten year girl one more time I will move to Alabama or Brasilia or anybloodywhere where they don’t have cricket. Shame on you Australia for being too darn good and too darn boring. For shame.
No, Cricket is dead. This summer will be spent on the front deck, using my special scorebook and pencil to play car cricket (Red Car = 6, Black = Out etc). If you see me, give me a wave. And some booze. Don’t forget the booze.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Health Warnings on Small Talk
Just what is the bloody etiquette for small talk at work and over the fence? How many times a day do I have to talk about the weather or field questions about my state of well-being before I can just answer with a "F**k off!"
Take our neighbour and her new found love for gardening along the fence line. I have nothing against her but I really don't care if it looks like rain or not. Nor do I give monkeys if weeds are a real problem this year. What I want to say is that small talk leaves me weary and is possibly even damaging my health. In fact I'd like to have a Doctor's note excusing me from making any small talk at all. That way I can drink my morning cuppa in peace and not have to hear about your Grandkids, or dog, or your golf score or anybloodything.
In fact, I'd like that note to excuse me from any social interaction except footy games, fishing, pubs and lap dancers. That way I could legitimately avoid Christmas, shopping centres and work in general. Furthermore I wouldn't have to watch the weather report or Dancing With The Stars just to feel included.
By the way, for the most up to date and accurate weather report in your area, see my neighbour.
Take our neighbour and her new found love for gardening along the fence line. I have nothing against her but I really don't care if it looks like rain or not. Nor do I give monkeys if weeds are a real problem this year. What I want to say is that small talk leaves me weary and is possibly even damaging my health. In fact I'd like to have a Doctor's note excusing me from making any small talk at all. That way I can drink my morning cuppa in peace and not have to hear about your Grandkids, or dog, or your golf score or anybloodything.
In fact, I'd like that note to excuse me from any social interaction except footy games, fishing, pubs and lap dancers. That way I could legitimately avoid Christmas, shopping centres and work in general. Furthermore I wouldn't have to watch the weather report or Dancing With The Stars just to feel included.
By the way, for the most up to date and accurate weather report in your area, see my neighbour.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Public Personas: Would the Real Martina Please Stand Up...
Now I’m the first to admit that I’ve always thought of Martina Hingis as surprisingly hot (not everyone agrees with me) but I was a little taken aback by the thought of her snorting Charlie of a toilet seat in Soho. She always struck me as virginal pure, like Britney before the Redneck genes kicked in, and frankly such an image has me questioning the public persona of all celebrities.
For example, is Roger Federer really the boring, nerdy, somebody please bully me, type that we the people see or is he something else? Could he be a closet S&M freak? Could he be the faceless owner of the penis from Streetfilth.com? Might he sniff petrol to avoid the urine tests.
This is dizzy stuff folks.
Therefore in the interests of the publics right to know I have compiled a list of the private personas of well-known celebs:
Tony and Cherrie Blair: If they’re not swingers then I don’t know swingers. Rumour has it that Tony likes to go ‘dogging’ with good friend Stan Collymore and that Cherrie likes a pearl necklace or two.
Bono: Likes nothing more than extravagant twelve course feasts while reclining on a real fur sofa in a climate-controlled room. Food, which includes some of the worlds most endangered animals, delivered by starving children.
Michael Moore: Votes Republican and is a Klan member.
Graham Norton: Is actually a straight bloke from Yorkshire who likes motorbikes, footy and the missionary position.
Shane Warne: Deeply religious and sensitive. Prefers to masturbate over a mirror than actual company.
The Beckham’s: Regularly host book club meetings and are patrons of Santa Monica Philosophy Society.
Tom Cruise: Alien worshipping control freak who jumps on furniture at the drop of a hat. (no wait, hang on, we know that already)
Jude Law: Collects Royal Dalton China and bottles his own urine.
I could go on, I really could but I have a feeling that I’ve said too much already. If someone actually read this bloody blog I might even be flagged for this.
Laters
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Pedal Guitar Players Unite: Bring Back the Wahka-Wahka
While trawling through the TV guide the other day I came across a show entitled "I Can't Stop Masturbating." At last I thought, a game show the whole family can enjoy. Unfortunately I was disappointed to discover that far from being a game show, it was in fact a serious documentary (just like "Ulrika: Sex Addict" turned out to be very boring documentary and not a call-in show about Swedish nymphomaniacs as I had hoped).
Nevertheless with a title like that how could I not watch?
What I discovered however was not the laugh a minute, bloke wanking in back of cab, documentary I imagined. Instead the film focussed on two men who essentially use masturbation as a coping mechanism and their struggles to overcome (no pun) this affliction. One bloke claims to have once Skinned the Gecko a staggering 25 times in a single day. Call Guinness that has to be some sort of record!
Even in my teenage wanking prime I don't think I even managed to get anywhere near double figures, let alone tonking it 25 times. This bloke says he just keeps hunting the net until something turns him on, and then does the five-knuckle shuffle. This process obviously repeats itself 25 times.
Now I am no stranger to internet porn, what bloke these days isn't? But unlike Mr 25 I get bored pretty soon and have no idea how to use the mouse and wank at the same time. However, what this proves is just how much and how easily porn is obtained online. I feel that this has taken the mystique out of pornography. Our teenage sons will never be forced to stash dirty mags under their beds (or washing baskets) and this is a shame. It is unlikely that our teenage sons will ever have watch any grainy porno made in the seventies and endure the agony of a stretched and overused tape. Just think how much wahka-wahka music they'll be missing out on. Tragic, pedal guitar players have been in the soup kitchen ever since the dawn of the internet.
As if the next generation don't have it all now they'll have porn at the click of a button and it worries me. Why leave home if you know that your mum will never find your porn stash? Why go out if you don't have to purchase a new edition of "Big and Bouncy." I envision a future of 41 year olds still living at home and wanking up to 25 times a day and it worries me.
Nevertheless with a title like that how could I not watch?
What I discovered however was not the laugh a minute, bloke wanking in back of cab, documentary I imagined. Instead the film focussed on two men who essentially use masturbation as a coping mechanism and their struggles to overcome (no pun) this affliction. One bloke claims to have once Skinned the Gecko a staggering 25 times in a single day. Call Guinness that has to be some sort of record!
Even in my teenage wanking prime I don't think I even managed to get anywhere near double figures, let alone tonking it 25 times. This bloke says he just keeps hunting the net until something turns him on, and then does the five-knuckle shuffle. This process obviously repeats itself 25 times.
Now I am no stranger to internet porn, what bloke these days isn't? But unlike Mr 25 I get bored pretty soon and have no idea how to use the mouse and wank at the same time. However, what this proves is just how much and how easily porn is obtained online. I feel that this has taken the mystique out of pornography. Our teenage sons will never be forced to stash dirty mags under their beds (or washing baskets) and this is a shame. It is unlikely that our teenage sons will ever have watch any grainy porno made in the seventies and endure the agony of a stretched and overused tape. Just think how much wahka-wahka music they'll be missing out on. Tragic, pedal guitar players have been in the soup kitchen ever since the dawn of the internet.
As if the next generation don't have it all now they'll have porn at the click of a button and it worries me. Why leave home if you know that your mum will never find your porn stash? Why go out if you don't have to purchase a new edition of "Big and Bouncy." I envision a future of 41 year olds still living at home and wanking up to 25 times a day and it worries me.
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