Random musings...

Just a few questions and ponderings I've been recently having...

*Is there anyone happier than I am, seeing England being completely destroyed by Pakistan?
*Speaking of Pakistan, why is there significantly little press about Yasir Arafat being in the team. Surely this is going to cause instability somewhere in the world?!
*If Andrew Flintoff fell over in a forest, and Kevin Pietersen wasn't there, would we believe it?
*How many more failures can the rancid Andrew Symonds have before he's dropped from the Australian test team?
*Apparently some of the recently arrested 'terrorists' "spoke of killing the PM" - haven't we all?
*Seriously though, when can we have a change of government in Australia? I'm sick of the increasing strength in the Australian dollar, and I'd really love it to crash so that my GBP is worth something. This is insane! Get Labour in power, there's no surer way to fuck up the economy and bring the Australian Rupee back to how it should be.
*News article "Snowy hydro sale plan worries Brumby" - does anyone else find this funny? Where's Clancy? Is Tom Burlinson gearing up for another movie on the basis of this? I need to know these things!
*Nauru is fighting to save having it's only Airplane from being repossessed as they are behind on their payments. Does hilarity have no bounds? Surely this is the perfect time for Australia to step in and trade them some payments for them housing some of our troublesome population?! "Nauruan Government Officials could not be contacted late yesterday" - Perhaps we can help them out with their phone bill, too.
*The Romans managed to bring infrastructure to Bath almost 2000 years ago, and yet even now the streets of London stink and there's refuse (and not just antipodeans) laying everywhere.... you'd think some lessons would be learnt?!
*'The Office' is the best TV series I've seen for quite awhile, but then again, it doesn't get any better than Slough, really, it doesn't.

Travis who???

In round 1, 1984, Gary Ablett made his senior debut for the Cats, and those of us there were wondering how some midfielder had captured our imagination more than Mark Jackson, who booted 9 goals that day. Not only did Ablett give us Geelong supporters real hope, but he pretty much guarenteed that most of us had the famous number 5. Since Ablett's retirement, noone has pulled on the number 5 down at Kardinia Park (and it'll always be Kardinia for us), and it's pretty much the way we like it. Aside from Nate or Junior pulling it on, it should be retired, not to be given to some young muppet called Travis Varcoe. Sorry Trav, you're probably a good lad and maybe some day you'll be good enough to do well in the AFL, but not wearing a number 5.

Hopefully I'll be wrong, and Travis Varcoe will be the 'next big thing', but I get the distinct impression that this is going to end very ugly and that I'm going to be enraged further, particularly when Travis plays his first game and someone refers to him as 'an excitement machine'.

It can only end badly.

News from the homeland...

For most part, I enjoy being ignorant, and for those of you that know me, this will not come as too much of a surprise, but recently I've actually checked the news once or twice every few weeks, and since I'm now living in the UK, it seems only natural that I would concentrate on what is happening in Australia, since it's obviously the most relevant.

However, after having read that Jelena Dokic was 43.9% welcome to play for Australia again, I bypassed the Australian news, because - quite frankly - such lunacy makes me angry. Not as angry as Leigh Colbert, but seething with rage, nonetheless. As such, I was news-derived-rage free for a short period of time, until I recently heard about the riots in Sydney. Initially, I thought that it was going to Redferne kicking off, or some latte sipping Bondi natives attacking Manly beach in a jealous rage. But when the real reason was revealed to me, I literally punched my desk.

I have very strong objections to this kind of behaviour, and if these people (and by 'these people', I'm referring to all the rioters) cannot live within the framework of our country, then they can just fuck right off. If you're against Australia, two words - fuck off! Go back to your 'homelands' or - if you're some redneck hillybilly Australian, then you should be sent to either Maralinga, or Moe. There should be no place for these people.

Perhaps - and I'm just thinking out loud here - we should send them all to Nauru. I had a mate that once lived there, and he turned out OK. Hmmr. Or if we can't send them to Nauru, how about some real Reality TV?! Leb & Redneck Running Man! And what's more, I'm completely serious about this. Not only would we soon sort out our 'racial issues' but we'd generate enough television revenue to be able to counsel our entire population.

Happy days.

Jelena Dokic

I was checking out the Herald-Sun website (mainly because I can't understand the big words 'The Age' uses) and I noticed there was an internet poll. The question was;

"Are you happy for Jelena Dokic to play for Australia again?"

I was stunned!

Not only did I wake up my house-mates screaming, 'NO FUCKING WAY!' but I started shaking, shaking violently.

Obviously, I voted no!

I then checked the results. Has the country gone mad? 43.9% of voters are happy for her to. Read that sentence again (and not merely for the amusement value of my grammar)!

This is like Hitler lobbing up in Tel-Aviv and having 27% of the Jewish population give him the thumbs up for residency. This is madness.

I'm angry now!

I'm grateful, however, of the new drinking laws here in Britain. I think I'll join the rest of the British population, get incredibly inebriated, and fight in the streets.

Five reasons people suspect I'm gay...

I'm going to be honest here, it's been awhile between drinks, so to speak, and although I'm not referring to my tardy posting, you don't need to be a rocket scientist to figure out what it is I speak of.

Anyway, I was talking to a chick at a club on Saturday night, and she asked me if I was gay, and unlike the previous time, I wasn't in the midst of an all-male orgy, so it wasn't instantaneously obvious why she'd be asking me, so I've compiled five random facts of my recent life (in no particular order) that could well shed some light onto this shocking claim/question.

1. I listened to Robbie Williams' 'Tripping' twice in a row, of my own free will.
2. My room has been neat for two weeks in a shared house.
3. I'm wearing a scarf to work these days.
4. I don't want to head to the USA for a business trip next week.
5. I had a guy say, 'And that's a good arse!' when seeing my naked rump!

Personally, I don't really understand people that think this, perhaps it's their aversion to Asparagus.

Iran...

Apparently Iran reckon that Israel should be 'wiped off the face of the earth'.

I'm so glad that Iran are trying to build a nuclear weapons program, it's these kinds of issues that make the world such a vibrant place.

Question is, what will the West do if the Israeli's decide to lay waste to Iran?

No doubt the UN will keep it all above board. ;-)

Little India...

Last year I travelled to India, and for six or so weeks, I wandered the earth, seemingly in search of Shangri La, or as truth would have it, good curries! It's fair to say that in the six weeks that I was travelling in India, I was exposed to some fascinating sights, but one thing that did 'stick out' - and is rarely written about, or discussed - was the large proportion of extremely old and ugly people there. Now don't get me wrong, I actually find many Indian women extremely attractive, but with the exception of old Aboriginals, I doubt that there are an uglier group of people in existence, apart from the in-bred, inuit or South Australian, who we all know aren't bona fide people anyway.

I bring this up due to my travel habits, at least those which include Heathrow as a transit point, and because of my enterprising spirit - or more specifically my tendency to avoid London Zone 1 at all costs - I take the worlds most convoluted travel route to get there.

From home I;

- Catch the 245 or 182 buses to Wembley Park,
- Catch the 83 bus from Wembley Park to Alperton,
- Catch the tube from Alperton to Acton Town,
- Catch the tube from Acton Town to Heathrow.

The curious thing, is that between Wembley Park and Alperton, you go through the Wembley area, and this place is dead-set Little India. Everything Indian is in abundance here, silk clothing shops, bazaars for bartering, shitloads of leather belts, poorly constructed sports bag, and the largest proportion of ugly old Indians, you'll ever have the priviledge to see. And what is it with the Indians? Do they all live to be 127 years old, or something? There needs to be a rule against this, or a cull. Yes, a cull, that's decidedly what's needed to curb the lack of transport in this area.

You see, once you hit Wembley Central station, roughly thirteen thousand Indians get on the bus, and 87.32% of these are at least 100 years old, and they have have baggy skin, impossibly skinny limbs and that look that really old people have which makes you want to scream out 'HOLY FUCK, KEEP AWAY FROM ME YOU FREAK, TAKE MY WALLET, TAKE SOMETHING, JUST GET AWAY FROM ME!'

And then I saw her.

It was one of those sights that forever change your life, like Bo Derek running towards Dudley Moore in, '10'.

It was the sight of a 143 year old Indian woman walking down the bus to me!

I could not move, breath or scream.

Time stood still, or at least I thought it did, it was merely the fact that she was 143 years old and moved slower than evolution itself, almost the speed of Brett Spinks, but moved nonetheless.

She thought that she needed a seat, and I was on the back seat of the bus, giving her a 10 meter walk, and after three minutes she had almost made it. I was truly transfixed, was this seriously happening? This 'thing' was drawing closer, and I was reminded how no-one could resist Samara Morgan, in 'The Ring'.

Bones'n'Skin was nearing ever closer, and she was trying to sit next to me, so I shielded myself from the inevitable, her old withered hand touching me, and shrank from her, leaning over to the beggar on the other side of me, somewhat uncomfortable for both of us, yet The Wraith, still managed to lay her boney hand on my leg.

'NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!' i screamed silently.

And after about 15 seconds, she started to try and stand up, using my petrified leg as leverage, meaning only one thing, I had to lay the smack-down on her boney arse!

I shifted my leg, and she fell forward almost cracking her head open on the seat in front, and I was caught in one hell of a dilemma; do I a) try and stifle my laughter, or b) pretend to help? Neither seemed applicable, and to be fair, she needed the forward momentum.

Why is it that old people feel the need to touch, continue breathing or trying to sit down on a bus, particularly given the fact that they're going to get off at the next stop.

After about two minutes she got near the rear door of the bus, which coincided precisely as the bus put on the breaks, sending her careening into two 118 year old men walking in the other direction. There's comedy, high comedy, and 3 100+ Indians having a pile up in the back of a bus. Roll on forward momentum!

But after 7 minutes of walking, 30 seconds of sitting, and another two minutes untangling herself from two other unfeasibly old Indians, she'd reached her destination...the offices of Guinness Book of Records, I guess.

Late night calls....

Although I'm not Bill Bryson, I still feel that I have enough experience to dispense travel advice, and given the occurrances on my recent trip to Spain, I feel that I am qualified to dispense it now.

1. When - in an inebriated state - you return to your hotel at ~4:00AM, do not make international calls to Australia,
2. If you do make calls to Australia, be sure to keep the duration to a period less than 40 minutes,
3. During said calls, be sure to address the fundamental rationale that precipitated the call,
4. Be assured that if you use lines similar to "We're here in Spain, you're not - you c*nt!!!" and repeat it 5-10 times, it can eventually become far more hilarious than possibly imagined...well if you're a witness to the events unfolding, it is.

England Infidelity!

Fair play to England, they played well. I'll get stuck into the insipid Australians later....

But for now, a quick question. What does Andrew Flintoff's wife have to say about the fact that Kevin Pietersen is fucking her husband? Fair dinkum, do you see Pietersen with anyone except Flintoff?

Dirty Saffa Homo!

Random Quote

"Leicester Square : Busy place!" -- DJD

I love Neasden

Today, at around 5PM, there were a roar of sirens outside of our office in Wembley, which represented the combined caucophany of approximately 8 police vehicles heading somewhere. The thing is, this is London and you soon become accustomed to the sounds of sirens here.

*****

On the way home from work, I caught the bus, and the traffic was horrendous which was well out of order considering it was in-bound London traffic.

*****

We turn towards Neasden's main street and find the reason for the congestion. Police cars, and lots of them....

There's a gunman in the main street, and police have cordoned off the area.

Neasden - I love this town!

Strangely, I'm less perturbed than I should be.

Lost In Fullham : Day 1

A few weeks ago four of us headed out into town (Chancery Lane) to have a few pigs ears, and to then into Covent Garden or Piccadilly or one of those equally well known places that confuses me, particularly when I'm heading towards inebriation, and I'm surrounded by 3 of the most impossibly chaotic individuals in London today. At some point during the early evening, we all lost track of time and in conjunction with the marvellous directions of TheShearer and DJD, it was evident that there indeed was a trainwreck approaching.

One of the first stops was a Weatherspoons pub, which without music - or any sort of ambience for that matter - was absolutely rancid. Sure, the drinks were relatively cheap, but with the lads on the tear, the last thing that was on the agenda was a quiet night at Weatherspoons. As the group was about to depart TheShearer got talking to a couple of 'lovelies', which led to the following response:-

TheShearer, "So, what do you ladies do?"
NotSoLovelies, "I'm an accountant and she works in administration."
CBJ, "I'm a fruit-picker",
TheShearer, "I sell 'The Big Issue'",
MBC, "I'm a performance artist",
DJD, "I own a kebab shop!"
NotSoLovelies,"Ohhhhh!"

It's a strange day when 6 people all fail to tell one line of the truth, as it was obvious from their demeanour, attire and appearance that they were professional eaters.

With our introductions and farewells quickly sorted, we high-tailed it out of there, for want of well-worn cliche, well not really for want of, more likely because I am to writing what Gary Ayres is to coaching.

MBC was once again in the mix, and for a moment it looked like he was going to put the moves on some kindhearted Brit who was giving CBJ directions to the area that the motley four was fast walking away from. Thankfully good sense prevailed, and our direction-giving heroine was able to escape unscathed from MBC's entreaties.

The lads strode on, and - having not had a brew for 20 minutes or so - we started looking for a bar, which - if you've been to London, you'd know - is akin to trying to find burnt out and highly overrated musicians at a U2 concert. In other words, it's decidedly easily, and whats more, you know it's true.

The four of us wander into some Irish-looking pub, to be served by some Polish guy struggling to speak English, and order a round of spirits, so he customarily pours us all doubles, but then TheShearer pulls the master stroke, and asking the poor Pole bastard if he'd pussied out and only given us singles - which we all knew he hadn't - pretty much forcing a free-handed addition of spirits, and additional burden to the flagging sobriety.

As we stumbled out of the pub, we found that we were pretty much on the banks of the Thames which was nowhere near our planned destination, and as it was almost closing time, there was only one thing that could save us.... the Embankment Walkabout! Wait, did I say it could save us? I was wrong on that front, the 'trainwreck' mention earlier in the day was what really beckoned.

The game-plan changed pretty quickly as the 'snake-bites' started kicking in, and before you could say "TheShearer may go AWOL", he went AWOL, but that's not particularly surprising, that's for sure. There have been many famous Aussie disappearances, and although Azaria and Jaidyn are two such examples, TheShearer's ability to disappear puts Copperfield to shame, and puts him on a level playing-field with the aforementioned duo.

MBC, CBJ and DJD kept up the vigil and leaving no stone unturned, they scoured the walkabout for TheShearer, but alas, he was obstinate in is absence. So the Embankment Four, as they were never referred to as, were soon reduced to three, but as the rules of these stories dictate, things were to change, and not necessarily for the better.

Unbeknownst to the casual Walkabout patron - if there's such a thing - the trio were all in search of nirvana, in whatever form it may take. For CBJ, it was seemingly the need to totally embarrass himself on the dancefloor doing arguably the world's worst Eminem impression, whereas MBC was trying to convince a group of PWC Accountants that home-made porn was indeed the purest form of entertainment, but the average punter could have easily mistaken the impetus of such endeavours, due to DJD's world record attempt of dancefloor/table consummation of relations, but that's a whole other story.

Ok, perhaps it's not!

As the lads were making their way to a less stacked section of the Walkabout, DJD suddenly stopped, and motioned for the boys to halt, and halt they did, for they knew the look in his eyes, it was the look of a hunter before taking down some large and exotic prey, and it was also the look that signified something more dangerous, the look of a man about to indulge in unspeakable acts, which - if this were not written from - should end here.

CBJ and MBC had not only stopped their forward advance, but they'd withdrawn to a respectful distance, for want of a diversion from the fact that they were sickened and appalled at what they feared was about to take place, not to mention that the diversion was the word 'respectful' in the first place.....

Many things can be said about DJD, and irrespective of the descriptors that are sometimes used, three word combinations were the order of the day - or moment - at this point.

'What the fk?'
'How the hell?'
'Fastest pickup ever!'

The events that transpired were to inexplicability as Lebron James is to teenage basketballers, seriously! MBC and CBJ turned to each other, shrugged, and started stockpiling canned foods and bottled water for the coming Apocalypse!

Any casual observer - for want of possibly the greatest oxymoron in history - watching the spectacle unfold could easily be excused for thinking they had front-row seats to an 'Ultimate Fighting' match-up with two grappling gurus. None of the bystanders were certain as to whether or not the event could be considered Greco Roman, but one large and surly bouncer knew what it was, and after three or four minutes of scrutiny from mere inches away, it was evident it was something he didn't approve of, and with some surly - and rather burly - bouncer gestures and bouncer grunts and grimaces, it was obvious that he wanted DJD and GrapplingLawyerChick to cease and desist all activities at once. Which they did, kinda, before renewing their table-top tryst with renewed vigor. But the damage was done, the digital camera had already found it's mark.

Unawares of the commotion, DJD and GrapplingLawyerChick continued, causing merriment to MBC, CBJ and GrapplingLawyerChick's friends, which included PWC-Recruiter, PWC-Accountant and AnnoyingCanadian, which upon reflection, represented one helluva collection of monikers to fit into one mini-cab, but stranger things have happened. Bangladesh vs Australia, for example. Then again, that never happened......

However, only one thing could stop such momentum, but since there weren't any UN Peacekeepers nearby, things continued unabated, until the ugly lights came on, and all and sundry were ushered from the premises, including the above assortment of aliases. With the realisation that the night was coming to an end - and possibly the apocalypse - consensus amongst the rank and file was to relocate to Fulham, and with surprising ease, a mini cab was found, and the journey began.

Packed 7 deep in the mini-cab, the ubiquitous 'ominous foreshadowing' was ringing in the ears, but like any adventurers testing their mettle, the boys held on, fighting off asphyxiation and the unwanted attention of 4 upwardly mobile professionals intent on only one thing, and what a fight they put up.

AnnoyingCanadian:- I'm NOT from America, I'm from Canada!
MBC:- Isn't Canada in North America?
AnnoyingCanadian:- No!
MBC:- What the?
CBJ:- It's near Texas, MBC, you dolt!
AnnoyingCanadian:- I'm not talking to you anymore.

And no word of a lie, she didn't!

Not even in part II...

Worst.....Quote.....Ever!!!!

We were discussing nicknames, and a relatively unknown acquaintence - whose name is 'Richard' - put forward his two cents (or is that pence??) as to his favoured moniker.

"I prefer dick, honestly! Dick! Yes, I definitely like Dick the best!"

Each to their own I guess!

Late Night Fried Chicks

It’s 4am, and two hungry lads are at a 24/7 Fried Chicken place, placing an order to a Polish girl with broken English.

One of the lad, with a slow monosyllabic drawl….

“I like Polish girls! I want to take a Polish girl back to Australia with me!”

Random Weekend Quote

"Man, this girl's in my range, I've got a chance! She's not very good, you know!"-- Anon.

A tribute to Borat from Kazakhstan

For all you Ali G fans out there (all three of you), you might be familiar with the great man Borat from Kazakhstan, and possibly even some of his greatest feats in life! Well I'm about to talk about a bit of a tangent from one of Borat's episodes, and it revolves around bowel movements, of all joyous topics. So if you are not interested in bowel movements, and in particular - mine - then there is no point in reading this article.....seriously........stop now........two words.. NO GOOD!

So there I was at work today, and I'd had a surprisingly good steak last night, which if you know my bowel movements, you'd know that it's the most effective mechanism for having a few quality trips to the good ole WC, if the word 'quality' can really even be attributed to such visits. So I'm sitting at work, doing something of unimaginable importance (no doubt) and the stomach rumbled a bit. Now this wasn't one of those, 'reckon some food would be handy soon' types of rumble, this was a fully fledged, 'run for cover because there's one helluva eruption about to take place' variety. You've heard of Krakatoa? You get the message?!

So I casually sprint to the toilet screaming 'TALL GUY COMING THROUGH' and if there'd been a crowd before me, they would have parted...no doubt whatsoever. I get to the toilet and one cubicle is taken, and I'm facing my first dilemma! What if the person in the cubicle is someone of importance? Surely I'll be deported, shot or sacked at the very least once things get out of hand....and then it starts! You know when you have a good old fashion GUSHER, and it's just squirting out, and all you can do is hold on for dear life? You know you're making a mess, but given that the options are a) mess and b) death, you're somewhat unkempt at the end, but if the directional targetting is OK, then it shouldn't be that bad....right?!

After a few agonizing seconds, I thought of gushing oil wells from 'Dallas' and then things settled, or at least I hoped they had. But like everything, there are rules to these things, and if you screw with the rules, bad things happened. Being the impaired muppet that I am, I reached for the toilet paper, thinking it was over, and before I had even torn off the paper to fold (yes, I fold, I'm not a 'scruncher') the Gods of Bowel Movements were there with me, mocking me openly and giving me a taste (figuratively speaking, of course) of their true power. Now before I go on any further here, I want you to think about the following....

When guys take a snake's hiss, they sometimes count to see how long it goes for (don't deny it lads, you know you do) particularly if it's going to go on for 20 seconds or so. I'm not sure if women do this, it's one of the great mysteries, though I'm bound to endeavour to seek the answer to it next time I'm out!

Ok, so with the aforementioned paragraph in the bank, consider this...after a 'few' seconds of the secondary I was curious as to how long it would 'last' because it didn't seem it was going to cease any time soon, so I commenced the count. Now I understand the scientific methodology behind accurate time-keeping, so I stuck to the fundamentals....

One-one thousand...
Two-one thousand...
Three-one thousand...
.......
Sixteen-one thousand.... (What the fk??)
.......
Twenty-two one thousand....

WHOAH!!! Keep in mind this was one continual stream, this wasn't me involved in coitus (because I know you'd call my bluff on the longevity), this was me taking a dump.

AND THIS WAS ONLY ROUND TWO!!!!

Round three lasted 15 seconds, and rounds 4-16 inclusive were very sporadic, and I wasn't too thorough in my recording here, because I'd already captured enough data......

If I were academically inclined, I'd dig up some information on the average bowel capacity, but I'm willing to give up this quest and just assume the worst. Either I've got one of the largest bowel's on the planet, or I'm full of shit.

In the words of the immortal great, Borat (in his etiquette episode), "I had a good shit!"

Barking at 'The Dog'

The 'Spotted Dog' in Willesden Green is like a poor man's Church, it's a pub that masquerades as a club, where at 11pm on the dot, the bouncers muster up all the miscreants in attendance and ship them downstairs to 'Sindrome', which is a large cavernous place with a stage that has been known to remind some of an aircraft hanger, although I've been told by a 'reliable source' that it was originally a 'stable', but it's all relative....what with the 'reliable source' being the guy that was convinced that I was from 'The Boyscouts of America', and all. 'The Dog' was apparently going to be the scene for the night's festivities, and as CBJ arrived late to see the rest of the squad, it was obvious that DJD, TheKid and MBC were up for a big'un, with the pre-departure drinks in full swing and some really irresponsible use of electric clippers underway! Fortunately, DJD had the digicam, and there's some photographic evidence of some male Brazilian preparation! Shit, that's not fortunate at all, what am I saying here?!?! Anyway, the most apt thing was that Rodriguez - the Brazilian housemate - apparently found the remains, well funny for those arriving late on the scene, and with no real sense of humour, to at least note the chronicler.

With clipper-action out of the way, and substantial beer, bacardi and makers mark consumed, the quartet were off to The Dog, with TheKid a distant last in the sobriety stakes, but looking to cover some ground nonetheless! The initial sortie passed with no lasting injuries, and then - as the clock chimed 11pm - it began! The happenings at The Dog are like Nascar, there's just a heap of trailor-park-dwellars watching better attired dwellars jostle for position in the hope of taking the podium. Recently I read on ESPN.com that at the last Nascar race, a chick came fourth....very apt when you come to think about it, pardon the pun!

Anyway, the lads were off, with TheKid covering more territory than Burke and Wills, and doing a mighty fine job in imitating their staggering last few steps. The fact he kept this up for a number of hours is but a tribute to the great man! DJD was busting moves and getting 'in' with the local DJ (again) and CBJ and MBC were taking wagers on who would find Ubiquitous Nick first. The early rounds were very interesting, with previous track records being brought back into conversation, making DJD the early - and perennial favourite - causing additional wagers from the C&M, not that anything could stop TheKid, who had covered 304kms by 1am.

But then it went all pear-shaped, with some stalker chick on the scene, dogging (as in annoying, not what you're assuming) the smeg out of the lads! TheKid then seemingly got caught up with one of David Copperfield's tricks and vanished, and MBC spotted Ubiquitous Nick before CBJ! If ever there was a time for an ominous foreshadowing, then this was surely it. CBJ in one of the less intelligent moments in his not-so-intelligent life then told a burly skin-headed queue jumper what he thought of queue jumpers, and all hell broke loose...

CBJ:- Dude, that's shithouse! It's not like I've been here for five minutes or anything!
SHQJ:- What do you mean? (in a thick scottish accent)
CBJ:- I mean a 'queue' is just that, and surely there's some social etiquette left amongst us?
SHQJ:- Right! That's it, you're having a Tequila!!!
CBJ:- Umm, no! Fight me or something, it will do less damage!
SHQJ:- Barman, make that 5 Tequilas.

There was no coming back from this point, and the initial - and subsequent - Tequilas did little apart from form the foundation of one of the greatest hurls in hurling history! Such was the case that CBJ is expected to be playing at Croke Park next season.

With TheKid out of the picture, the three remaining meandered off to Huddlestone, with 4 people in tow, to share in the 'free alcohol' that was supposedly to be found in abundance at #31.
It's rather uncanny that when a nightspot closes down, the promise of 'free alcohol' can often lead to some interest, so the G7 meandered back to polish off what the remaining 3 shots of alcohol on the house! Abundance!!!

But then the 'obvious foreshadowing' really kicked in, and CBJ, recognising his plight, made a pre-emptive strike, in all it's stomach wrenching glory! DJD, who for some inexplicable reason stayed vigilent throughout the performance rated it as 'one of the most disgusting things ever', but being pre-emptive, everyone was a winner and with some basic housekeeping, it was good as gold!

If there was more to tell, then any omission is purely because it would be heresay, but MBC and the visitors wandered off - in search of TheKid, perhaps - DJD retired to his room, and CBJ did what he tends to do these days, very bloody little!

UK AFL Observations....

Having spent so much time at Telstra Dome over the last 5 years, I thought that I'd not miss the great game nearly as much as I do, but in order to get my fix, I thought I'd serve up a 20 minute review of the 2005 AFL Premiership Season, now that we're at the half-way point.

Adelaide:-

What's going on here? 3rd place? Sure, that monkey Ayres left, and although he's probably the worst AFL coach of the last 20 years, that alone shouldn't springboard a bunch of muppets like it seemingly has. The gods of karma will nail me to the wall for this one, watch the apathetic looking Ken McGregor to beat the Cats next week!

Brisbane:-

Sure, we all knew the Bears were slowing down, but what gives here? I'd get as much of the pill as Voss these days, and the only reason they've fluked a couple of games is because the lad from Camperdown is a machine! But how long until the metal plates in his skull rub together the wrong way and he lays waste to an entire team? When do they play the Roos? Can Leigh Colbert be the prime target here? Someone make it happen, Jonathan??

Carlton:-

16th position isn't that bad! It's not like Soccer, so the Blues wont get relegated, more's the pity! That Andrew Walker is definitely a brownlow candidate and big Lance has definitely been the real deal this year, like was predicted. I can't believe I can still type whilst laughing so hard....

Collingwood:-

Yeah yeah, I took the piss out of them and they summarily mauled the insipid Cats, but it doesn't detract from the fact they're still 13th and fkn rancid! It's obvious why they drafted Cameron and Jason now..... all they need to do is tie Travis up long-term then cut loose the elder Cloke dead-wood. I read an article about how the Pies would be relieved that they didn't trade Didak for Nick Stevens....are they totally fucking insane??? I bet Mike Sheehan wrote that article. If he didn't, he shoulda.

Essendon:-

*giggling*

They go alright these Dons! Matty Lloyd is awesome without a midfield winning the ball, he's snared like under 20 goals, that's not too bad! Poor Hirdy! Perhaps the team's resident excitement machine can take them to the promised land? Is 14th the promised land??

Fremantle:-

They added Schofield and Carr to their line-up and they're still struggling? At least Pavlich is making the leap, perhaps the cats can trade Kent Kingsley for him, after all Kingsley has given 1.5 the output of Lloydy, but perhaps the Shockers want someone to stage for free kicks in the goal square. Kent can't compete with that. 9th? What is that?

Geelong:-

From contenders to dwellar-fodder in a couple of weeks! If the Speedster Wocjinski was on-board none of this would be happening. We all know this! Look for the Cats to drop some more simple games to shitty teams. The Hawks would be next? 4th is not the return that was envisaged a few weeks ago, but hey, people were talking about Nate Ablett to make his debut as well. What's happened to him? Was he on the same plane as The Big Bopper and Ritchie Valance?

Hawthorn:-

When Mark Williams is leading the goalkicking, you know there's something not-quite-right about the league! If Luke Hodge doesn't win a brownlow, then I'm not sitting in London listening to 'Stereophonics', and I am, so he will! The only reason he shouldn't win the Brownlow is because he's from Colac, and no inbred hillbilly should win a brownlow, even though plenty of Tasmanians have in the past!

Kangaroos:-

Yeah, yeah yeah...shinboners spirit, reckon I've not heard that before?! Someone just crack Colbert and we'll all be happy. They'll drop, they just don't have the cattle to do this every year! Although they do have big Sav!!


Melbourne:-

Team is looking solid, and it's good to see Moloney kicking on, but then again, what Geelong player doesn't do well at Melbourne? Fortunately there was no Grgic involved in this trade, although I'm sure big Ilya was on the periphery somewhere. Top 4 club this year, I fear to say.

Port Adelaide:-

Now don't get me wrong, I rate Josh Francou, but I still don't understand the whole, 'it's ok if we lose Carr and Schofield, because Josh will soon be back' line of thinking. This is a guy that's missed two years of footy, right? And he's supposed to be up to making up for Schofield and Carr leaving? I'm not entirely certain how this logic works, but maybe that's why Port are sitting 11th on the ladder, who knows?!

Richmond:-

The greatest thing about not having easy access to the AFL is that I don't have to put up with probably the most annoying fucking thing in world sports, the Tigers bandwagon! I feel sorry for all you bastards back home having to endure this! It must be horrendous! Things should return to normal next year when the Tigers collapse in a screaming heap, and their 'star' players go missing again, but hey, perhaps this time it's different. I realised that I just doomed the Cats to lose to Richmond, but as long as someone smacks Wayne Campbell, I'll be happy.... ok, less sad. 5th? Too high for this cyclically ordinary rabble-posing-as-a-league-team phenomenon.

St. Kilda:-

Now let me get this right, these guys are in 8th position? How does this work? Didn't they draft Ball, X & R Clarke, Goddard, Koschitzke and Riewoldt with some pretty high picks? Didn't they spend a couple of million on Hammill, Powell and Gehrig, and hasn't Dal Santo already won 4 consecutive Brownlows? Isn't Luke Penny and Matt Maguire the greatest FB/CHB combination in history? What's going on here? Sure, they haven't had Richmond's draw and they've had a few injuries and suspensions, but 8th? St Kilda with a bullet!! They'll finish 3-5 or else the G-Train will go ballistic and kill 13 people in a mass killing spree, of which one is sure to be Colbert!

Sydney:-

This team is overrated, and I don't care what you're thinking on the topic, you're just plain wrong! If Sydney make the 8, I'm willing to do a nude run down the main street of Neasden! They're only in 6th because Paul Roos is 'such a nice guy' and because all the other teams that should be ahead of them are inexplicably bad! This will change, I hope!

West Coast:-

What can you say? Fk the Eagles and the horse they rode in on!! They're too good too soon, and I don't like the fact that Ben Cousins didn't play for the Cats like his father, nor the fact that Chris Judd isn't playing for them either. You'd think the football Gods would be fair. Then again, because Richmond are traditionally so fkn bad, perhaps they are fair! Hmmr!

Western Bulldogs:-

Who does Robert Murphy think he is? What's that all about? Scott West is what? 43 years old? He gets more of the ball than I did when I had mumps. Looks like some of the lads are stepping up, particularly Cooney and Tim Walsh! Hahahaha! Just missing the 8 I reckon, but you gotta give these guys credit, particularly freaks like Brad Johnson!

GO THOSE INSIPID FKN CATTERS!!!!!

Rejoining the Congregation

Given the success of the original Tour de Force, two of the original trio - S-Rob and CBJ - made a return visit to London's most celebrated religious venues, this time with; DJD, TheViking, Kylie, Minger and QuietBrother in tow. The pilgrimage was predominantly in order to indoctrinate DJD and convert him to a new order, and conversion was indeed the end result! To say that DJD took to The Church was akin to saying; a) a duck takes to water, b) Kurt Cobain took to self pity, or c) Michael Jackson takes to little children, but since we not about casting aspersionsl here, we'll retract all that, and just nod, with the knowledge that DJD was not unimpressed by his first impression of the great venue.

However, good impressions didn't start there....

S-Rob who'd been on a complete bender the night before called in at 2:54am to inform DJD that he would be attending mass, and although he couldn't distinguish DJD and CBJ apart, he managed to make the queue before 12pm!

The daily journey started as most ordinary Sundays do, cracking open the first Stella jumbo can on the bus at 9:45am, en-route to Golders Green, for the tube cross to Kentish Town via Camden. Funny thing about this commute is that until you hit Camden, you're the only freaks drinking, but from Camden onwards, the freaks aren't drinking, such is the beauty of Sundays in London, particularly those on long weekends.

If you've never been to The Church on a long weekend, my only sage advise is to get there early, and I mean an hour early, because the queue fills up faster a squat in India, and trust me on this, I have the experience to make such claims! So we're in line, and after a few errant calls, the whole squad has mustered in line, 7 eager zealots already half way towards spiritual enlightenment, or at least half way towards a virtual trainwreck, but surely that's part and parcel of any great adventure?!

When we made the run inside, it was the typical race to get to the front, and to gain a central advantage point, and with TheViking and his 6-8 frame leading the way, our position was never in doubt. Apparently 6 foot 8 is 'pretty tall', or so 53,842 people proceeded to utter. Now this leads me to a concept which is not new to any of us, and it's one that can get quite annoying after awhile. It's called 'stating the fkn obvious'! Now this phenomenon is not new to any of us, but it doesn't reduce how annoying it can be, and it should be up there with the likes of 'self defense' in the legal system.

"I am remorseful for stabbing him 29 times, but he was stating the fkn obvious and there was no other action I could take!"

Honestly, how many people have not been forced to act in response like this?

As much as I tried convincing TheViking to respond with some remarks like, "and you're overweight" or "I'm to height what you are to ugly", there was no joy from the big man. But it wasn't all one way traffic, truth be told, a screaming CBJ pushing his way through the crowd to the bar was overheard to be yelling, "GET OUT OF THE WAY, TALL GUY COMING THROUGH"! Moses would have been proud! Well, he'd have been proud if his mission was to part the crowd in The Church, not sure about that Red Sea bizzo.

Apart from height, there were a few other observations from The Church:-

• DJD is not shy with a digicam, particularly if the subjects are sub-20 and scantily clad,
• Chicks don't care about your looks if you're a well hung black guy dancing on stage,
• Chicks care if you snog someone else 3 feet from them if you're supposedly going there to see them,
• If you hear someone has a friend called 'Min' don't get any ideas that it's some how chick from a 'Wheel of Time' book, as it's probably short for 'Minger', and the best form of reference is www.mingers.com,
• CBJ can be harsh, yet fair.....

After the usual post-Church chants of 'take it off', many people headed their separate ways; some home, and everyone else - seemingly - to 'The Walkabout' in Shepherds Bush. Good times!

Shepherds Bush is a fair hike from Camden town, but when you've got a skinful, pretty much everything seems a good idea, even a 4-11 midget snogging a 6-8 in a crowded subway car. Three words: Awkward, but amusing! There's more than one way to Valhalla, apparently!

So we got to 'the bush', which although not necessarily as revealing as Pi Delta Pi's video frenzy in 'Revenge of the Nerds' still had some sights to be seen! As soon as the motley brigade got out of the tube station, it was like an army of drunken antipodean urinators had been let loose to sow their seed, and restaurant walls soon becoming living urinals. Hats off to DJD, breaking the 15 minute barrier! The guy goes longer than Aza can last without taking a slash! Kudos!

The Bush is pumping, there's seriously 212,000 Aussies in there! It's wall to wall bodies, kinda like, ummm, I'll refrain from this analogy! There's a lot of people in there! Move along, nothing to see here.

So after who knows how many extra beers, TheViking disappears to Finnish off the Sunday biz, and we're all left shaking our heads as to what transpired, particularly those with patchy memories! DJD apparently leaves a few hours later, leaving CBJ to run into random male nurses who he met in another life, and hang out with the ubiquitous Nick from Willesden.

Random Conversation Quote:-

"I'm that horny I'd shag someone of any gender!!! "Wait! Race! I meant race!!!" -- Anonymous.

Pet Peeves

With the AFL back, the constant mention of 'excitement machines' and 'live wires' has had me on the brink of randomly assaulting people, and just when I thought that I couldn't take anymore, something worse came along.

And with a bullet.....that annoying fucking 'crazy frog' ringtone! Honestly, whoever put that fella in the public domain needs a bullet. Have you heard that ringtone? It's got to be right up there with Mumps in the list of 'world's shittiest things'.

To make things worse, they've now brought Harold Faltermeyer's 'Axel F' in, and mixed it with the crazy frog. Truly, there is no justice in this world.

Next it'll be a mix of the crazy frog and Bruce McAvaney using the words 'excitement machine'.... that will seriously tip me over the edge.

Celebrity Love Island : Societal Dysfunction

Just over a week ago, ITV released an abomination on us all, called 'Celebrity Love Island', which saw 12 'celebrities' - and I use this term very loosely - being placed on some exotic island near Fiji, all in the so-called name of love. Now I'll throw caution to the wind here, and rate this as possibly the single lamest 'reality television' concept to have ever been aired in the history of television. Sure, if I was producing this abomination, it would be interesting, as the 'celebrities' would be a fine mix of individuals, unlike this mud that ITV is throwing at us. I'm not sure which is saddest; the show, it's following, or the fact that I'm actually spending time bashing out a few lines about it. If I wasn't so angered by the article about the article I read about Rowan Bonson, I would not be writing this, but since angry I am, writing is I, for want of token Yoda-isms and to extend this opening paragraph to even more unwieldy of lengths.

So let's look at the 'celebrities'...if you aren't living in the UK and you have any freaking idea who any of these are, then I'm both surprised, and ashamed at such a revelation....

Apparently there were 12 contestants, but one seems to have vanished, and although it would have been entertaining if she'd been devoured by Piranha or sharks, I'll let the more intrepid and interested reader (how does one spell oxymoron?) do some research on that puppy, because I'm not going into it....but on with roll call....

BLOKES:

Callum Best (George Best's son),

Fran Cosgrove (I'm a celebrity & fiance of some Atomic Kitten chick),

Paul Danan, (Hollyoaks),

Michael Greco, (Eastenders)

Du'aine Ladejo (Olympic Athlete),

Lee Sharpe (Footballer)

CHICKS:

Lady Isabella Hervey (Some silver-spooner),

Rebecca Loos (Some scrag that shagged Beckham),

Liz McClarnon (Atomic Kitten),

Jayne Middlemiss, (TV Presenter)

Judi Shekoni (Model & Actress),

Abi Titmuss (UK's Paris Hilton).

Now seriously, if you're not from the UK - or here now - the chances of you knowing any of these muppets is pretty low, but being the top bloke that I am, I'll give you a quick bio of each of these monkeys.

Callum Best

Can't deny that his old man wasn't a champion footballer, but that gives you no right to tattoo the word 'Best' above your arse-crack, particularly if you're a bloke. Let's face it, it's hot for chicks to have some subtle tattoo in this location, but for guys, it's....it's impossible to convey just how wrong this is.

Fran Cosgrove

I'm not sure what this guy's claim to fame is, but it seems pretty tenuous, to say the least. I would have thought that he's the token 'guy who loves himself', but there's far too many of those going 'round, that I'm at a loss to figure out what's brought him here. He must have been in Coronation Street or one of those shows.

Paul Danan

If this guy doesn't have a batch of Rohypnol hidden in his luggage, then I'll go he. He's a dead set date rapist! He is to being a wanker, what Jordan was to basketball, but having said that, he's more of a certainty to scoop every 'Unintentional Comedy' award of 2005 than Nick Dal Santo is to win the Brownlow.

Michael Greco

The token 'totally uninteresting' participant. The only memorable thing he'll be renowned for is for articulating what everyone in the UK must be thinking; Abi Titmuss is an annoying fucking bint.

Du'aine Ladejo

The token black guy, who is probably the least abrasive person in the group.

Lee Sharpe

One of the greater England footballers of recent years, with 1 cap, and erm, a quickly burnt out career. Rumour has it he was banished/deported to Fiji because of his pathetic efforts in the worlds most hilarious television production; celebrity wrestling (sense a theme here?).

Isabella Hervey

Some silverspooner socialite who was responsible (with the Date Rapist) for possibly the most boring television in British boring television history.

Rebecca Loos

Token bisexual whose claim to fame was being banged by Beckham. Has a magnificent set of cans, and more hair on her upper lip than Merv Hughes. No doubt she'll receive a few of the Best before the end of shooting, so to speak.

Liz McClarnon

First chick to crack due to being 'conscientious of her body' after some lame-arse challenge where weight-guessing was the arduous task engineered by the pioneering team producing this viewing masterpiece. Redeeming point: people being reduced to tears on 'reality tv'!

Jayne Middlemiss

Fair dinkum, how many times can this drama queen be reduced to a blubbering mess in a week? What's the record, surely she must be getting close? Someone? Anyone? We need to know these things! I like Lee, he doesn't like me, I thought he did, I think I'll cry. As Dennis Leary so poignantly said, "Life sucks, get a fucking helmet!"

Judi Shekoni

Perhaps the Date Rapist killed her, put her in a 44 gallon drum and hid her in an old unused bank in some backwater South Australian town? Who knows?!

Abi Titmus

She's got the old 'leaked sex video' credential on the CV, and in true slapper style, she's pretty bloody average. There's no way you'd do her sober, unless of course it was a footy trip, and your name was 'Wes', then maybe you'd hit it.

So yeah, these guys are on an island for 5 weeks together, and 'true love' is expected to be the end result. That's unintentional comedy, particularly given that most of the 'contestants' have all spent considerable time with each other prior to the contest, what a concept.

I'm not interested in what will happen, because the mere fact that this show has gone to air - and I'm chronicling it no less - is bona fide evidence that we're all (apart from me because I'd never watch this rubbish) lemmings for viewing this, and that society is most definitely in decline.

I can safely say that this is the worst reality show that has ever hit any network, and the worst 30 minutes of my writing career. In need of some sagely advice, I turn to Coach from 'Revenge of the Nerds'....

"Well if I was you I'd do something about it. I would get up and redeem myself in the eyes of my father, my maker, and my coach!"

At least I've set myself a low foundation to bounce back from.

No idea why the formatting has gone to shit....but oh well.

Anniversary

Today represents the three month anniversary of having left Australia, and although I don't suffer from being homesick, there are plenty of things and people that I miss, and will continue to miss whilst over here. As there is a touch of melancholy, I've decided to listen to two hours straight of 1980's music, and if that doesn't send me over the edge, nothing will.

Whilst Go West's 'We close our eyes' crackles from the poor-excuse-for-speakers that this craptop has, I will compose a quick list of 20 things that I miss most about Australia. I'm not including people in this, because I know that I'll offend someone, and I'd rather not discriminate, and offend everyone equally. This list is in no particular order, and of little comic value, but hey, I've been tacitly promoting that for a number of years now.

20 Things I miss About Home

1. Decent Steak,
2. Good Fruit & Veg,
3. My House and not sharing with 4 freaks,
4. Clean Water,
5. avoidance of the Mumps,
6. Seeing Collingwood competing for another wooden spoon,
7. A lack of snow and -4 days,
8. 'The Comedy Channel' (Not the TV channel),
9. Good water pressure,
10. Having access to a car,
11. The beach,
12. Decent radio stations,
13. Not being the ethnic minority,
14. Not having to write bulk emails or a blog,
15. Toothpaste for sensitive teeth,
16. My Mp3 collection,
17. The relative comfort of V-line,
18. Not looking out of place because everyone else is fat,
19. Them Cats,
20. James Boags.

To be fair, it's not all bad.

I don't have to put up with seeing Eddie McGuire every 15 minutes, and only 30% of the newspapers over here have reported Del Santo winning the Brownlow!

I'm sure The Ashes will be a redeeming feature, and when I finally get myself to the continent, I'm sure I'll have a greater appreciation of what this place has to offer!

Now, I'm contemplating which of the following songs to listen to;

• Toto - 'Africa',
• Steve Winwood - 'While you see a chance', or
• Nik Kershaw - 'Wouldn't it be good'.

These after the veritable feast that was;

• Mister Mister - 'Broken Wings',
• Murray Head - 'One Night in Bangkok' &
• Womack & Womack - 'Teardrops'.

And no, I'm not gay! Even though it could easily be argued that I'm heading that way......

It could have been worse, I could have opted for 'The Tears of a Clown' by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles...but mentioning it was sad enough.

I did briefly consider listening to Pseudo Echo's 'Funky Town', but that has been forever ruined, from my trip to India, when we (Newman, Vinnie & I) were walking through Siliguri and Vinnie starts singing, 'Wont you take me to........a shanty town!'

Anyway, this is a short post, I'm saving up for the long weekend, where I'll endeavour to do something that merits posting, and if - on the off chance - this doesn't happen, then I'll just create some fictitious tale and pass it off as reality.

One last thing:-

GO YOU REDS!!!! CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FINAL!!!!

Still can't believe S-Rob is flying to Turkey for that puppy!

Take care all! I miss a lot of you some, and some of you a lot! Others, well, I've dedicated eight words to you!

Journalistic Excellence

In no way is the title of this post meant to be linked to any mud that I post, which masquerades as a poorly written blog, rather it is a tribute to the writers of www.afl.com.au, which is surely the last bastion of excellent journalism.

Earlier on, I posted a quote about that fat Essendon aboriginal bloke - whose name escapes me now - and although I was beseiged by some lazy public servant pulling the race card on me, I went on to - in my estimation - accurately portray the portly abilities of Dean 'the podgey one' Rioli, as opposed to those that were posted on the aforementioned web-site.

Now fancy my total exasperation as I was checking out the AFL website today and I came across this pearler...

"Essendon coach Kevin Sheedy has lauded the performance of excitement machine Andrew Lovett, who booted five goals in his side's 35-point victory over Fremantle at Telstra Dome on Sunday."

Read that again... 'excitement machine'!!!

Guess what race Lovett is?! Someone answer me this, why are aboriginals always either 'excitement machines' or 'live wires'? Please explain this to me! I need to know theses things! For once, would it hurt for the media to use another label (unless it's 'Dean Rioli' and 'classy')?

And why can't white guys be excitement machines? Is it a physiologial thing? Does it require a higher level of fast twitch muscle fibres? And if this is the case, why is it not documented?

40th Follies!

Last weekend I was fortunate to have been invited to a 40th birthday, which was to take place near Putney in south London. The slight difference with this party was that it was a 'wig party', which not too surprisingly, a number of us less-than-hirsute individuals approached with a little too much gusto, but for the purpose of this medium, we'll put it down to the fact that we were just getting into the spirit of the celebrations.

Because it was a wig party, we thought that it would be fitting if we found some type of 'fancy dress' to go with the wigs, and although DJD was keen as mustard for us to wear either leather gimp suits or tight fitting latex, including full hood, I was not too sold on the idea. For the record, my reticence was mainly due to the allergic reaction I have from tight-fitting leather and/or latex, much to DJD's chagrin.

Without the leather/latex thang a-happening, we needed something else to wear, so we headed up to Camden to give the well-known market a bit of a spin!

We'd heard from BTLC that there was some excellent 70's clobber to be found in Olde Camden Town, but we weren't able to find anything of particular interest - aside from some knee-high 3 inch heeled leather boots - so we became desperate in our search for something 'retro' that might go with the hideous wigs that we'd picked up from the local wig shop, which incidentally DJD had a Gold Membership card, affording us 15% discount.

Our desperation led us to a 'Hawaiian' theme, and the only two 'decent' (always a relative term when discussing the abomination of clothing that is the Hawaiian shirt) shirts cost a paltry £70 and £150 quid each. Read that cost again! And no, there were no Swedish massages, happy endings or outrageous Lez acts included in those prices. That was for the shirt! Sure, they had a 'Made in Honolulu' tag on them, but it still doesn't make it right!

This had a devastating impact on our positivity at this stage, and we needed some success in our search which was by the minute becoming like our own personal quest for the holy grail.

And then we saw it.....

Our salvation.....

Boy scout uniforms!

For better or for worse, I was never a member of the scouts, and although I knew kids that were 'scouts', who spoke of learning to tie strange knots, going to 'jamborees', and indulging in other activities that we ostracized them for, the way of the scout was never something that held much interest for me.

I'm sure Michael Jackson would have enjoyed scouts, but that there is a whole other entry, for want of some really bad pun.

Anyway, we both warmed to the idea of donning scout uniforms and wigs and heading to a 40th, as is the average want on a typical London saturday afternoon! Little did I know when we decided upon this tact, but DJD was actually a scout as a kid. Funny thing was, he wasn't familiar with the DYB DYB DYB DOB DOB DOB credo, nor did he know who Robert Baden-Powell was. Actually, that wasn't funny, it was disturbing! How do I know these things, and why doesn't a former scout? Am I a closet or wannabe scout? Is the choice of the scouting uniform a manifestation of psychological issues which have been bubbling under the surface since I became too old to be a scout, and realised I'd missed the boat?

Am I being melodramatic and ridiculous? Absolutely!!!

But scouts we were, and onward bound we were to meet our other three comrades for an assault on the 40th.

Edgeware Road tube station was our destination, where Scams, Blinkers and BigStu were pretty much wigged-up and also ready for some 40th action! Pity we had to wait 15 minutes for the freakin' Wimbledon tube, and we then got incorrect directions in Putney and ended up at Upper Richmond Road, as opposed to Lower Richmond Road, but karma has it's place, and our random direction-giver will undoubtedy have a shocking bout of colon cancer, and the gods will mock him from above for his cruelty!

Arrival at the 40th was like entering the wigged twilight zone. There were wigs of all shapes and sizes, colours and types! It was a good start! It was a mixed crowd, but is there a better type? Aside from a crowd of liberally minded naked glamours intent on fulfilling your every fantasy, I think not!

The night itself was relaxed and funny, with a good mix of folks, some piss funny transvestite performer, some retro 80's classics and far too many digital cameras for DJD's liking.

Some random observations about a 'typical' 40th wig party

• Sambo looks like a 'hooker' with a blond wig, according to DJD.
• Drunken Kiwis are easily convinced that 28 and 30 year old Australians living in London can be members of 'The Boyscouts of America'.
• Beer prices can randomly fluctuate by 5 pence at any given time.
• If you take on a Six Footer in the paint, a digical camera is sure to catch you.
• Our host had been seemingly shopping for high heeled shoes in Camden!
• 'Private Cabs' can make serious calculation errors, mistaking your longer destination for shorter ones.

Good times!

The Mumps

Chances are, with so few people bothering to read this abomination, no-one noticed the month-long absence of new content, but it wasn’t because I’m being particularly lazy, nor due to living life to the fullest and having no time to poorly construct a few sentences or paragraphs, rather the impact of a really shitty virus, commonly referred to as ‘The Mumps’.

Now, I don’t want want to sound like the sissy crybaby that I'm more than likely to be, but the mumps is a horrendous affliction, and if you haven't had the misfortune of suffering it, then get your arse down to the doctor and get an MMR shot, stat! It's a fucking awful virus, and there is quite simply no other way to put it.

Yeah, you read about how it's 'worse as an adult', but that is grossly misleading. In actual fact, the warning should be, 'If you get mumps as an adult, ready yourself for up to a fortnight of constant agony', because that's precisely what the mumps has in store for the average punter.

My experience started with an aching jaw, and when I chewed, it felt like my jaw-bones were dissolving, and I had a constant pain similar to having been punched in the side of the head, which suffice to say, was not the most comfortable of starts on a two-week journey.

A day or so after my initial aches and pains, the glands near the top of my jaw decided it was their turn to gain attention, ballooning to Billy Brownless proportions, and making it fairly obvious that there was something wrong with me. The excrutiating headaches, loss of balance and appetite, strep throat, fever and full body aches was also a bit of a give-away.

Because I'm stuck in the UK, and it's almost impossible to get a National Insurance number, I hoped that the local 'doctor' would have mercy on me, and I struggled into the local clinic, and after having 4 different conversations with 2 'administrative assistants' I managed to wrangle an application form, and a doctors appointment.

I walked in to the 'office', told the Indian 'Doctor' why I was there, he examined my glands, checked my temperature and calmly stated, "You have the mumps! The mumps often attack the testicles!"

Now don't get me wrong, I think it's a good thing when a medical practitioner can confidently diagnose problems, however, when they make mention that said affliction will 'often attack the testicles', it doesn't go a long way to ease any trepidation one may have.

It would have been different if I was at the Playboy Mansion, and Heff, in all his finery was pointing to a potential Bunny suitor and gave me a wink and a nod and said, 'she'll do you well, she's been known to often attack the testicles'. Hell, it would have been significantly different.

When questioned as to whether I should have a day or two off work, Dr TesteApprehension ordered me to have 1-2 weeks away from work. What the??? Just how bad can this thing be? I was soon to find out.....

Later that night I found myself in a foetal position, with a rampaging fever, chronic migraine and throbbing gonads. Surely the boys could hold off a bit of a virus, the Mumps hype must surely be that, hype. PLEASE MAKE IT HYPE!!!

The problem was, there was no hype at all, things got steadily worse. Things got much worse.

If you're a guy, and you've been kicked/kneed/hit in the gonads, then you know of the sharp pains that are often resultant, and the feeling of nausea that can engulf you from such impact. Now, with the mumps, it's kind of like that, except a helluva lot more painful, and frequent.

My 'nads started swelling, and they just kept on expanding. Eventually, they were literally the size of a - pardon the pun - softball. Seriously! A softball! Have you ever seen a set of balls that large? The call of 'leave the size, but take away the pain' never crossed my mind, because every time I moved, some unseen assailant stabbed me in the 'nads with a razor sharp knife, and this literally continued for days.

The problem was, because I was suffering from some heinous fever, and I would have hot sweats, followed by cold sweats, I had to keep the fluids up to stop me spiralling down into the abyss, but the water, paracetamol and electrolytes made me want to piss, and the ritual of taking a piss must have been one of the most feared things I've ever had to face. The first part was getting out of bed, which although not usually an arduous task, became a nightmare. I had no balance and no strength, but I had to ever-so-gently move inch-by-inch into a sitting position, trying to ignore Jack-The-Ripper slashing my poor lads to pieces.

Once in a sitting position (which usually took 3-4 minutes), I had to stand up (1-2 minutes) and then walk upstairs (including mandatory rest, 2-3 minutes) where I'd then have to face my demons. There's a phrase that's sometimes used, and it's known as 'pissing razor blades', few phrases ring more true than this. Having finished the biz, you'd think there'd be some respite for our intrepid adventurer, but alas no, finishing going to the toilet usually resulted in chronic stomach cramps, and at one point I found myself writhing on the bathroom floor, where I ended up sleeping for an unknown length of time. I woke up, needing to take a leak....only karma can explain this, seriously! Fortunately, I didn't need to walk up stairs, so there was some anciliary benefit.

Two words can aptly describe the mumps: NO GOOD!

Nearing the end of the first week, things got worse! Not only was I suffering from the aforementioned problems, but because I couldn't eat, I started hallucinating and often found myself shivering on a saturated bed (sweat), totally unaware of where I was or what time it was. Things were not good!

In the first week of the Mumps (Mon-Sun), I ate the following, literally:-

• 1 bowl of cereal,
• 1 tomato,
• 3 mandarines,
• 2 slices of toast,
• 1 bowl of ice cream,
• 1 bowl of fish pie (I don't think I was hullucinating),
• 2 bananas.

You don't get to my size with a diet like this, so to say I was somewhat weak and lethargic, was like saying that my mate Az pisses alot when he's on the turps.

I was indeed overlooking the abyss for a while, and there was a time where all I wanted to be was laying on my massive green couch back in Hamlyn Heights, watching DVD's.... oh what I would have given for that!

I'd outline the 'highlights' of the mumps, but there weren't any, just a steady stream of excrutiating pain and suffering, punctuated by bouts of the following:-

• Migraines,
• Swollen & Painful testicles,
• Nausea,
• Fever,
• Dizziness,
• Lethargy,
• Anxiety,
• Loss of Appetite,
• Hullucinations,
• Aches & Pains,
• Mindnumbing boredom.

It didn't help that I couldn't watch television, look at a computer or read for more than 2-3 minutes at a time, nor the fact that most of my friends and family were 21 hours away, and with no transport I was at the mercy of the mumps, but now that we (my testicles and I) have overcome the mumps, let the good times roll!!!!

Sunday Soiree

A couple of weeks ago (or thereabouts), DJD and I found ourselves soaking up the ambience that can only be offered at a Neasden Polish disco, which was seen to be the choice option in Neasden for Saturday night soirees. This choice was based essentially on two things; it looks the safest option, and it was the closest to my place, in case I/we needed to get out of there – and home – in a hurry. These are the things that you need to think of when ‘partying’ in these parts. However, for football viewing, we found that ‘The Outside Inn’ (TOI) was the place to be, and the two reasons for this choice were: not dark and dingy, and the cheapest beer in town (£1.35 pints of John Smith bitter). You need reasons to go to pubs!

Yesterday afternoon we decided to watch the game (Tottenham vs Newcastle), so we meandered down to TOI in the hope of seeing Newcastle self combust again, but since Dyer and Bowyer were suspended for fighting each other in the previous match, it limited the chances. DJD was keen to place a bet, and not too surprisingly there were good odds being offered for Newcastle, so he laid on a fiver on this horse, hoping Shearer could ride them to victory. Personally, I was looking to put a couple of quid on Peter Ramage to rabbit punch Nicky Butt during the game, but my hopes of seeing the “Butt attacked from behind by Ramage” headline wasn’t to happen, as P-Ram wasn’t selected in the Newcastle lineup! It could have been a great day for journalism, but obviously, it wasn’t, and today isn’t either…..obviously.

So we cruise into TOI and the month’s beer special is Guinness for £1.59 a pint, so it’s all good so far, the Skysports is playing on the plasmas, so we settle in for the long haul, only the game never comes. You see, TOI doesn’t have the right Sky Channel, so I’m there sipping an ale, DJD nursing his pint of lemonade (and no, I’m not taking the piss) and we’re watching all the sporting updates from around the globe. But still no football! We did see that the Aussie chicks won the cricket world cup, but the game was what we’d come for…..and the game – it would seem – was not being played at TOI.

At this stage, it is ‘options’ time, being 15 minutes into the first half, so we could either take a walk back up to our local Polish haunt (4 minutes) or the 30 second traverse to ‘Diceys’, which is probably the most aptly named establishment in the Northern Hemisphere. Since we’re blokes, we choose the 30 second option, and purely because we’re lazy, not because it’s some warped representation of our prowess in the bedroom, not that I’d want to speak for DJD!

Diceys…..where does one start?! We open the door, and there’s three screens playing hurling, which don’t get me wrong is a good sport, but given the choice of that or Football, it’s a no-brainer. I wanted to yell in a Brummie accents “is this a fooken paddy pub? What’s this shite!”, but survival instincts took control, and after further investigations, we found that the football was being shown on a large screen out the back bar, so our fears were allayed, albeit temporarily.

DJD scoped out the environs, selecting a location to watch the game, whilst I performed my civic duty, and bought myself a pint of Guinness, and DJD an orange juice. At this stage I decided that Reading was not a place to go, as it had turned DJD into a screaming nancy, well that and the fact that my only other reference to Reading was this chick I met when living in Alice Springs, called Claire. She had a ‘great personality’, was generally can-tastic, but pulled the old ‘if you don’t sleep with me, I’ll commit suicide’ line. Perhaps I was drunk at the time, and the suicide comment was based on what she’d prefer given the option of sleeping with me, I don’t really know?! Anyway, as desperate as I generally am, I passed on that option, and that led to one of the funnier ‘Alice’ moments, but a court order gags me from discussing THAT episode….But anyway, I’m no anti-Reading-ite, so don’t take offense all you reading from Reading! And Claire, if you’re reading, I was joking when I said that your friend was the preferred method of transport, really!

Soooooooooo, back to our surrounds. DJD is sitting down, and I’m ordering drinks, and standing in front of me is the real life ‘Groundskeeper Willie’ sans beard. But from one look at this guy, he’s obviously insane! He’s got that wild look in his eyes, and he’s literally twitching, and staring straight at my face! Scared? Damn straight, I was touching cloth there, hoping the smegging barmaid would hurry up with my drinks before this freaks metal plates sent him into a psycho-pathic rage. But in the meantime, I do everything I can to avoid eye contact, which is hard if you want to check out if you’re about to be glassed….as I’m evading his gaze, I spot a Staffordshire crawling under DJD. Now I’m concerned for two reasons; I’ve seen two dogs in this country which were both Staffordshires, and secondly; there’s a fucking dog in the pub!!

I don’t claim to be particularly knowledgeable when it comes to health and safety, but a mangy fucking mutt wandering inside a pub doesn’t seem overly hygienic, but I guess it’s all relative, and on further investigation, it’s probably safe to say that the dog was as clean – if not cleaner – than the clientele.

Previously, we’d been to the ‘Redback’ and we saw some bona fide freaks, but this place was equally freaky, but a ‘less safe’ type of freaky, not the type I prefer, given an option. Playing pool in the corner were a group of Indians (the curry kind, not the Comanche variety), there were a group of yobbo Brits saying ‘fook’ a lot, looking impossibly aggressive and cuddling their Staffordshire like it was a kid, whilst their baby was crawling around on the floor, only making noise when it became stuck and entangled on the viscous grime which turned the venue into a quagmire. Behind us, there was a group of English guys, who looked like they’d feature on an episode of ‘Rohypnol – The Date Rape Drug of Choice’, and a pair of strangely shaped characters in front of us who DJD pointed out, with a casual, ‘man, look at those two ugly old chicks kissing’. It was a motley crew indeed, and I’m not sure we were wiser for the experience, but at least it had the game, and what a shit game it was.

The highlight from the game was DJD’s face when it was discovered that one of the ‘ugly old chicks kissing’ was actually a guy. Gold, pure gold! But I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt on this one, I doubt he’d have taken a crack at either of them anyway, but that’s mainly because he was drinking lemonade and OJ. You see, Reading definitely has it’s ups!

Newcastle played like utter dogs, and although Tottenham didn’t look particularly good, it was bound to be an inglorious game, with only a brain-explosion from Harper being the set-up for Jermaine Dafoe’s winning (and only) goal. I was so glad to have spend 75 minutes in Neasden’s own private ‘Deliverance’, and the prospect of ‘Real Madrid vs Barcelona’ was just the tonic and impetus we needed to remain, which in retrospect boggles the mind, particularly since the cleanest place was the toilets, which we put down to the fact that no-one used them, and probably explains the strange looks we got when going to/from the can. Either the locals thought we were mad for walking 5 metres to the toilet, or they just didn’t know what lie beyond the doors with ‘Gentlemen’ scribed upon them. On reflection, this does make sense!

Confident having survived over an our in ‘Diceys’, we figure that watching a game featuring arguably two of the greatest teams on the planet on a big screen isn’t a bad idea, when the bar-thing announced that they were shutting down the screen, because ‘the band is about to set-up’. Leading to this exchange:-

CBJ:- ‘Band, what band?’
BarThing:- ‘Those guys, our Sunday band!’
CBJ:- ‘Ok…..’

Bar Thing meanders off….

CBJ:- ‘Can you believe this? Look at these guys, that guy's one of the original Village People! Are they going to crank out ‘YMCA’ for us?’
DJD:- ‘Young man, there's a place you can go. I said, young man, when you're short on your dough. You can stay there, and I'm sure you will find many ways to have a good time.’
CBJ:- ‘Frightening! DJD, putting the DJ back into DJD!’

Upon set-up, the ‘lead singer’ dons a tie and does his best Blues Brother impression…. We see this ending badly, very badly….

The game was an out and out cracker! And even though we were forced to watch it on smaller screens, it was one of the better La Liga matches I’ve ever seen.

4-2 to Real. Goals all round! Zidane, Ronaldo, Raul, Owen, Eto’o and Ronaldinho!!!! A veritable whose who of world football.

All this excitement, with Country & Western – Neasden style, pumping in the background!!! (No Village People, unfortunately!).

And what's more, Willie Nelson, no less!!! It doesn't get any better than this....

Ronaldinho takes on Helguera….Promise me, son, not to do the things I've done,
Great challenge by Helguera!!...Walk away from trouble if you can
Beckham brings it down the right….Now it don't mean you're weak if you turn the other cheek.
Beckham sends the cross in.…I hope you're old enough to understand:
Good save by Valdes….Son, you don't have to fight to be a man!


Verdict:-

Unless you’re up for some ‘Sunday Country’, or there’s nowhere else (on the planet) showing the game, avoid this place. Avoid it like the plague!!!!

Classy or just a fat plonker???

No, I'm not referring to my good self, rather a sentence that I read on 'The Age' website..

"Essendon has erred on the side of caution for tomorrow's clash with the Hawks, by not recalling classy midfielder Dean Rioli."

Since when has the lard-arse been classy? He misses 6-12 games every year because he's a fat lump of shit, and when he does play, he can't run out a full game, but because he's Aboriginal, it's ok. Difference with him is that because he's fat and slow, they can't call him "an excitement machine" nor can they call him "a livewire" so in lieu of the ill-fitting media labels they are unable to place on him, they label him as "classy", fuck me!!

I'd be chanting the following, if I was in Australia:-

He's fat, not class;
So sack his chunky arse!
Rioliiii, Rioliiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Rioli:- He's about as classy as Geelong's performance against the Dee's. No Good!

Four things about Chelsea that piss me off...

Apparently Chelsea is a very nice place, with some really chic places to hang out in, and rather than give the impression that I have an issue with Chelsea (the place), let's get it straight from the outset, my 'beef' is with the football club.

Admittedly, this 'broadside' will no doubt be put down to jealously from any Chelsea fans, but I'm not in the least bit jealous about their method in obtaining the glory, because teams like Manchester United (and all the top Spanish and Italian teams for that matter) have been doing it for years, but Roman Abramovich has just made it so 'in your face', that it's finally got to a stage where people from all quarters are really looking to de-value Chelsea's success on the back of the insane money that Abramovich is throwing into the ring to purchase a few trophies.

So let's count out four of the best reasons about Chelsea:

1. John Terry
2. Jose Mourinho
3. Mateja Kezman
4. The 'scapegoat' effect

John Terry:-

Don't get me wrong, he is one of the finest English defenders in the game today, and if it wasn't for the two best English central defenders of the last ten years (Campbell & Ferdinand) he'd be a total no-brainer to hold the key defensive spot, and I wont deny that, but my dislike of John Terry is not based on his skill, it's on who he thinks he is.

Tell me this, who the fuck is this guy? And why has he suddenly become the media darling that he is? I need to know this! This year - whilst riding on Roman's gravy train - he's suddenly become an outspoken wanker who seemingly has a fucking opinion about everything, few of which are at best plausible.

Every morning, when getting the tube to work, I read the local free London rag (the 'Metro') and without fail, there's always some dickhead comment by John Terry in there, with a reference to 'Captain Couragous' or some other bullshit monikor. It really gives me the shits!

Fair enough, he's about the only decent Chelsea player that's graduated from the lower ranks, and on the field, he is an exceptional player; as such he's to be afforded some leeway. However, I'd argue that any token leeway has now been used up, and the actuality of the situation requires the media place a gag on this dimwitted fool.

This morning's 'Terry-ism' had him not only whinging about Michael Ballack apparently taking a dive, but yet another Chelsea anti-referee crybaby effort. This is just a team of fucking wimpy upstarts and UEFA need to ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING about them. It's pretty evident that Chelsea have no problems in paying fines, and it doesn't take any degree of intelligence to figure out that their demeanour is only going to get worse unless they are put back in their place.

Then again, maybe the press are just making John Terry a media darling because he sounds more switched on than that dumb fuck Rio Ferdinand....if so, it's still no excuse!

John Terry, you are a fuckin' wanker!

Jose Mourinho

The guy can coach, and from all accounts, his training sessions are ran like clockwork, and he ensures a consummately professional environment, but fuck him! He's just a manipulative fuck, it's as simple as that. Seeing the bullshit that went on after the first leg against Barcelona Mourinho pulled his spoiled-brat-crybaby routine, and fabricated enough bullshit to whip the English media and dumbarse Chelsea fans into a state of frenzy, which not too surprisingly led to Anders Frisk pulling the pin, on the basis of receiving death threats.

I'm not for one minute accusing Mourinho of wanting death threats to result from the process, but it's pretty plain to see that he wanted to focus enough spotlight on UEFA and the refereeing in general, in order to force UEFA's hand. It certainly worked, and although some may claim that this reaffirms his 'success' or some other such horseshit, I maintain that it reaffirms how much of a cock the guy is!

Of course, it doesn't end here! With a 'radical' two match UEFA ban, our little crybaby Mourinho decides to 'boycott' the match, citing (or pulling the press puppet strings) a total disappointment in Chelsea in not appealing against the ban. Once again, the marionnette effort works, and suddenly he's getting offered an extra £20,000 a week to stay on....fuck me!

Jose Mourinho, you are an arseclown! Sure, you can manipulate like few others, but an arseclown you remain!

Mateja Kezman

So let me get this straight... you play for Chelsea, you have a midfield consisting of Lampard, Cole, Duff, Geremi, Makelele, Tiago, Parker and Arjen Robben and you're not scoring goals? Are you fucking kidding me? No really! You must be kidding?! The only goals that Kezman can score at this club are the goal-line skirmishes from a foot, and these are far too few and far between for a 'top level striker' which I think he's loosely been called in the past.

What I think seriously happened here was that Mateja Kezman was killed in some Serbian conflict and PSV - realising their striker was no more - actually contacted Dylan Lewis (formally from ABC's 'Recovery') who had was trying to actually overcome his own death (career-wise), struck up an agreement, and was subsequently on-sold to Chelsea. Check out their profiles some time, and tell me it's not what happened. I would score more goals than Kezman if I played for Chelsea, and I'm certainly not the footballer that Dylan Lewis is. Shithouse!! Yet another quality Chelsea buy. Put him up there in the productivity stakes with Veron & Mutu!

The 'scapegoat' effect

This is more a jibe at the excuse that clubs can use in not winning the title than a direct go at Chelsea itself. Sure, with the purchases that have been made over the past two years, I could manage Chelsea to a few titles, and it's because of this that teams like Arsenal and Manchester United are able to divert attention away from why they've not got close to the title this season, and that rankles, it rankles deeply!

Then again they have certainly splashed out the cash, read it;

• £16,800,000 - Hernan Crespo
• £6,900,000 - Geremi
• £15,800,000 - Adrian Mutu
• £3,800,000 - Alexei Smertin
• £13,900,000 - Claude Makelele
• £7,000,000 - Wayne Bridge
• £17,000,000 - Damien Duff
• £6,000,000 - Glen Johnson
• £6,600,000 - Joe Cole
• £500,000 - Neil Sullivan (I bet this broke the bank)
• £12,500,000 - Juan Sebastion Veron
• £10,000,000 - Scott Parker
• £19,850,000 - Ricardo Carvalho
• £24,000,000 - Didier Drogba
• £8,000,000 - Tiago
• £5,000,000 - Mateja Kezman
• £9,000,000 - Arjen Robben
• £9,000,000 - Petr Cech
• £13,200,000 - Paulo Ferreira

At the very least, £205,000,000 can add some depth to the squad, and it's obviously no surprise that the team is sitting 13 points clear of Manchester United and Arsenal, but it really annoys me that ManUre can - justifiably, no less - use this excuse, and get away with it, when in actual practice, it was Manchester United that have - relatively speaking - been the Chelski of the Premier League historically, and now that they're copping it on the Premiership front, it's easy for their failure to be hidden. Manchester United started this frenzy, but now the tables are turned as Malcolm Glazer's millions aren't as welcome at Old Trafford as Roman's mafia millions are at Stamford Bridge.

Funnily enough, the following players weren't free...

• £29,100,000 - Ruud van Nistelrooy
• £28,100,000 - Juan Sebastion Veron
• £30,000,000 - Wayne Rooney
• £12,850,000 - Louis Saha
• £7,050,000 - Alan Smith
• £3,500,000 - Eric Djemba Djemba
• £2,300,000 - Tim Howard
• £5,930,000 - Kleberson
• £12,240,000 - Christiano Ronaldo
• £6,900,000 - Gabriel Heinze

Yeah, £140M is substantially less than £205M and United purchased around 10 players (to Chelsea's ~20) but they rate far higher in terms of rubbish, so it's hardly fair just to go on about the Premiership being bought, particularly since their spending clip hasn't been historically lethargic. They've just been out-Manchestered!

But fuck I despise the way they can worm out of it now, and for this, I blame Chelsea. May all their fans, coaches and players get rotten cases of gonorrheia!!!

Easter Services

I realise that we're a little past Easter now, but similar to the freedom of information act, there was a need to hang off in posting what could well be considered sensitive materials, and having progressed beyond a week, it's time to briefly chronicle the events that unfolded...

Rumour has it that I'm Catholic, but it's fairly accurate to say that I'm not particularly devout, nor do I practice particularly consistent religious activities, aside from absenteeism. However, when S-Rob asked me if I'd join him at 'The Church' in Kentish Town, I was seemingly swept up in an unprecedented zealous fervour, and promised to join him in the local congregation.

However, I'm not sure that Fosters for breakfast is necessarily the healthiest start to the day, and I wouldn't be one to argue that Fosters consumption doesn't border on crime, but we'll leave that discussion in order to focus on the journey at hand...

So as the three of us pilgrims (S-Rob, Stevie Waugh and I) get on the tube, S-Rob cracks open a couple of cans and we start chugging Fosters in the train. Fortunately, this is London, and drinking in public is almost encouraged, so there's little chance of problems occurring. Well problems consisting of the Bill and public drinking offenses, anyway. For Waugh, not only is Vodka a poor breakfast substitute, it's also something that should - for posterity - be filed under "obvious foreshadowing", if at all learning is capable from this fine stroke-maker. Similar to the form shown in 1985/86 when 14 digs yielded a paltry 172 runs, Waugh struggled mightily with the early pace of 'The Church' and was soon playing and missing at a rapidly alarming rate, but more of that later.....

If you've not visited 'The Church', then you're obviously not an antipodean whose been to London, or you've failed a core component of 'Stereotypical Aussie in London 101', because the place is an institution, and it's an institution for a reason. The place is just chock full of good old fashioned fun, particularly if your definition of 'old fashioned fun' involves good looking individuals dressing up as a cowgirl and getting her gear off! Personally, I find this type of behaviour abhorrent, and I was loudly protesting the exploitative concept, but alas, my cries for equality were drowned out by the outlandish behaviour I was witnessing on stage, which seemed to have been voluntary!!! To make matters worse, and in an obvious act of defiance, the said 'cowgirl' deliberately targeting me, literally thrusting her naked buttocks into my face! It was inexplicable in itself, in how I managed to find myself front and centre at the front row, but only coincidence or divine intervention can truthfully explain it.

As you can see from this I was not particularly impressed by the debauchery of the event, even in the presence of such sobering moralists like S-Rob and his parents....I blame Waugh, and the obvious foreshadowing I casually referred to earlier.

You see, things were going along swimmingly until Gavin Henson's twin was seen prancing around amongst the front rowers. From here, Tugger was on the back foot, as Gav's doppleganger was really bending the back! It wasn't before long until young Tugger was squaring up, but in typical fashion managed to crack it not only through the covers, but ensuring that each ball was dealt with accordingly. But the cavalier innings couldn't last forever, and in the end the dismissal came - quite literally - within inches of the boundary fence, much to the disgust of the onlookers, including S-Rob's parents, who stood spellbound watching the spectacle unfold. It was at this point that Tugger must have traipsed back to the pavilion in disgust, as S-Rob and I didn't catch up until about 10 hours later, in a beer and kebab induced haze.

The sermon at the church ended in typical fashion, with a boatload of choirgirls strutting their stuff on stage, but the congregation ultimately disappointed by the vocal offerings, but not disappointed by the fine array of religious diversity offered in general. With the formalities out of the way, it was time for 'confession', the venue just happened to be a place called 'The Walkabout', which was located in a small and relatively quiet haven known as Shepherds Bush! If the cast from 'Revenge of the Nerds' had been involved, this may have caused quite a stir for Dudley 'Booger' Dawson, but they weren't so it wasn't!!!

Shepherds Bush Walkabout!!! As an Australian in London, could it possibly get any more stereotypical and backpacker-esque than this? If you were doing one of those lame 'on-line purity tests', then this would surely tip you over the edge, and probably into the category of "Stupid fucking aussie that needs to go back to Australia, or hang out with people that aren't Antipodeans", but since this is not one of those lame tests, we don't have to concern ourselves with such theoreticals. Hell, who'd be caught dead doing an online test, it's right up there in the farcical stakes as a) writing an online blog, or b) reading someone else's. Fortunately, we can escape such things.....

Actually, that reminds me, it was during this time that S-Rob and I were talking about our lives (as drunk guys do) and considering the things we ideally could/would do in the future. And it was at this time that the-debacle-that-is-this-blog was truly born! S-Rob was talking about how cool it would be to become a sports journalist, and since I was pissed that he'd used my idea, and it didn't seem particularly tenable, I decided to go with either option 2; taking over from Hugh Heffner, or finally, attempting to write an account of various life aspects whilst over here, as the 'reality' of a profession change, didn't look to be occurring in the foreseeable future.

Anyway, after a really damn good night of chatting to complete and utter strangers, it was time for S-Rob and I to head back to his crib, and as finding a bus or cab was nigh impossible, the most sensible option was to accept/pay for a ride with a complete stranger who was moonlighting as a cabbie, which at 1am makes a bunch of sense.... no really, it does!

Midway through the journey, said moonlighting-cabbie, pulls over to a petrol station and demands cash from us. S-Rob is not particularly happy, and my comment of 'I'm sure I can do more than £15 damage if you try shafting us' didn't go down particularly well, but I've never prescribed to the notion I'm a particularly sharp operator, and this was clearly yet another bona fide example, that I'm shrewd in some respects.

But our angst was quickly forgotten as there was a really cute girl with a Staffordshire Terrier in line, and S-Rob went straight to work...sometimes there's no stopping a leviathan like this once the momentum has kicked in!

Without a word of a lie.....S-Rob walks up and starts patting the dog, totally disregarding the owner, who it must be said would have been able to command attention in any film featuring the likes of Rocco Siffredi. She was good looking, really! S-Rob was about as interested in her as any man would be in Germaine Greer. I've seen many things, but nothing can explain this.

S-Rob:- "Whose the cute little doggie!"

Rubbing dog's belly....

S-Rob:- "You are! YOU are the cute little doggie!

Girl getting annoyed she's getting ZERO attention...

S-Rob:- "You're a cute little doggie that likes getting his belly rubbed, aren'tya?!"

Girl not happy, threatening to walk unless attention is forthcoming.

S-Rob:- "You cute little doggie.................."

It was like I'd stepped into bizarro world! The next thing I expected to see was the UN actually concerning itself with the Oil-less countries self combusting, Telstra Dome not running out of fresh pies, the average reader understanding my references and people suddenly finding my bizarro examples remotely humorous, or inoffensive!

Nevertheless, it wasn't a bad looking Staffordshire!

After the 'cabbie' dropped us in Willesden, we hit the local kebab house, loaded up with some tucker and headed back to see what had happened to Tugger.

Tugger had surprisingly made it back alive - and what's more - alone, which was fortunate in some respects, but it led to an hour of some of the best mocking encountered in NW London. S-Rob - god bless him - showed a clean pair of heels on this contest.

Although.............

I still don't think that either Tugger or S-Rob washed their hands after their respective displays of 'patting the dog', and surely none of us are better for this experience.

Verdict:-

The Church; worth a visit!