I was sitting in my mate Eagle’s place in Hornswood (the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby to Chatswood) on Friday night and we had continued to drown our sorrows during and after the Sea Eagle’s… capitulation.

Me – “I’ve got to drop some weight, I’ve hit a hundred and sixteen kilos.”

Eagle (his poker call-sign as he’s even more of a Sea Eagles tragic than I am) – “Really? I’m hundred and sixteen too.”

Me – “You’re kiddin’?? We’re roughly the same build, I’m six foot tall and you’re four inches taller than me. You gotta be a hundred and twenty at least.”

Eagle – “Nope, a hundred and sixteen.”

Me (looking him up and down) – “No.”

Eagle – “Huh?”

Me – “BULLSHIT. No way!”

We argued back and forth and then his wife went to get the scales. She also believed her husband may be closer to the one twenty mark, than one sixteen.

Eagle – “Cool Hand (my self-ascribed poker call-sign) I’d bet money on it, but I don’t want to take your cash when I know exactly what I weigh.”

I was starting to lose a bit of my confidence. He looked out of shape and seemed to have a gut like mine, but was so much taller.

Eagle – “I haven’t weighed myself for at least six months, but I’m in tune with my body, which is maybe something you need to become Cool Hand. If I do start to put on weight, my body let’s me know and I do something about it!”

Damn, was I about to be laughed at? There was only the three of us there, but still it’d hurt.

Me – “We’ll see… fat boy.” I had no choice but to stay on the front foot.

Eagle – “I can’t wait for the big heart-felt apology from you both.”

Me – “It won’t be as big as your gut.”

Eagle – “Will the apology be written or just verbal? You should start planning it now before I step on the scales and that magical hundred and sixteen pops up.”

Shit, had I made a mistake? Was I going to have to eat humble pie for my piss-taking? Mmmmmm, pie. Apologising is not in my nature and it would really hurt.

Eagle hopped on the scales.

ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY EIGHT KILOS. 128!!

He looked at me like a deer in the headlights, like a hundred and twenty eight kilogram deer who’d just been dropped into the Twilight Zone. He’d gained twelve kilos without even noticing.

His wife and I laughed and laughed and laughed. I got on the scales, one hundred and fifteen.

Eagle – “Gee our Sea Eagles were disappointing tonight Cool Hand.”

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Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. I write stuff for a few small businesses but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out my the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I set up with a few North Shore mates (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

I was at the races with the lads from Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby to Chatswood). We were having a great time on the piss and the punt and the plan was to catch up with all our wives for dinner that night to spend some of our winnings.

McSloth (his poker call-sign), one of the blokes I was with who I hadn’t seen for about half an hour, sent me a text.

McSloth – “CUTN. Winning?”

Obviously, he was in fact calling me the “c” word and had just swapped the last two letters around. It was out of the blue, but that is very much how McSloth and I talk to each other. Assuming he was standing behind me and was showing off about picking the last few winners, I looked around but couldn’t see him.

I replied.

Me – “YOU’RE A FUCK-WIT, but yes, I’m winning.”

I didn’t wish to lower myself to his level and use “that” word. I wasn’t actually winning, but he didn’t need to know that in this situation.

He sent me back another text.

McSloth – “Excuse me?”

Not sure what game he was playing, I went on the front foot.

Me – “Not only are you a fuck-wit, you have always been a fuck-wit for as long as I have known you. And I hazard a guess, that you will indeed continue to be a fuck-wit forever.”

McSloth – “Why so rude?”

Me – “BECAUSE YOU ARE A TRUE FUCK-WIT AND THAT’S GENERALLY HOW I SPEAK TO FUCK-WITS.”

Once I caught up with McSloth about ten minutes later, with a smirk and a nod, we both pretended the little stoush never actually took place.

It wasn’t until we had arrived at the dinner with the wives later that night, that I disappointingly discovered I had not actually been swapping texts with McSloth . I was in fact exchanging them WITH HIS WIFE.

Mrs McSloth was… unhappy.

Apparently “CUTN. Winning?“, actually stands for “See You Tonight. Winning?“

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Four of my Hornswood (the dynamic little suburbs between Hornsby and Chatswood) mates and I were sitting in an indoor spa, drinking afternoon beers. Yes, yes I know it’s always a risk drinking ales while sitting with blokes in a relatively small volume of moving water, but the toilet was right there so I was confident it was ok.

We were all staying at a golf resort for the weekend with our wives. “Hatchet”, one of our mates actually owns a house there and is the sort of guy who never likes to break any rules. Because of this, it took a long time to convince him to join us in pointedly ignoring the NO EATING OR DRINKING IN THE POOL AREA sign that was clearly posted. Eventually, since there was nobody else around and he knew we were going to do it anyway, he just went with the flow.

We could see through the glass wall to the gym where Hatchet’s twenty-one-year-old son was pushing weights and doing an insane workout.

Now this kid is a beast! He’s a monster. Strong as an ox, plays Rugby in the front row in France. Massive barrel chest and shoulders, huge arms, you get the picture.

I stepped out of the spa and moved towards our strategically hidden Esky, the contents of which were rapidly diminishing. As I did so, considering the comment I was about to make I did my best to suck in my expansive gut. But alas, as we had consumed so many beverages it just wasn’t going anywhere. Damn it.

Me (pointing towards Hatchet’s Greek God-built son) – “You know lads, Hatchet’s kid over there actually models his physique on mine!”

Quick as a flash my mate Danger replied with a smirk – “He’s not doing a very good job then!”

Another mate – “I don’t think he’s eating enough carbs!”

Yet another – “He’s gotta cut out the cardio too!”

And one more – “His core work needs to stop!”

They all laughed. Loudly! For a long time. Insensitive bastards.

Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I write stuff for a few small businesses but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out my the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I set up with a few North Shore mates (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

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Things were very different at KPMG in the 80s, where I was an undergraduate right out of school. We’d been at the Malaya for lunch and had drunk so many Crown Lagers, that we didn’t actually make it back to the client. We did however make it to the office for the ever-popular, Friday night drinks.

There were two distinct breeds of undergrad’s when I was there. The ones who were really smart, with attention to detail, great with figures and would make excellent financial people. Then there were a couple like me, who just happened to nail the interview and were on their way to becoming the world’s worst accountants.

So, by about 6:00 things were becoming rowdy and we were all getting pissed before we went out to Jackson’s on George or some place similar, when I noticed my young mate Selwyn was still working diligently at his desk.

Now even by auditor standards, Selwyn could only be described as a “nerd”. Ridiculously intelligent, red hair, freckles, pasty skin, skinny as a rake, brown 3-piece suit and thick black glasses. A really nice bloke, but a full, super-shy, no social skills, Revenge Of The Nerds, nerd.

For some reason the rowdy conversation made its way around to the temperature of the sun and I saw an opportunity to make Selwyn… cool.

Me – “I bet Selwyn knows.”

The place erupted with the general consensus being that NOBODY knows the temperature of the sun. Keep in mind this is before Google and Siri, so people just didn’t know that shit.

Me – “SELWYN WILL KNOW. LET’S GO SEE.”

With that, nineteen loudly-inebriated accountants (and one pseudo-trainee-accountant) all walked and stumbled over to his desk. He was surprised, to say the least.

Then, through my 10-12 Crown Lagers I grew a little concerned.

If he knew the sun’s temperature, he was going to be an absolute legend. I was giving him the opportunity to use his brain to become as coolarino as fuck. But it struck me, if he didn’t know, he’s going to be a laughingstock.

After everybody quieted down a bit I began.

“Selwyn, don’t let me down here. Do you happen to know… the temperature of the sun?”

He turned his blank gaze towards me and didn’t say a word!

OH NO. In his brown suit and lanky limbs, he looked like a nerdy deer in the headlights! What had I done?? I’d ruined his KPMG life.

Selwyn (proudly) – “Surface or centre?”

Me – “And there it is!”

BOOYAH. WE ALL BURST INTO CHEERS AND APPLAUSE. A beer was thrust into his hand and Selwyn was forced to leave his desk and join the party.

Selwyn, was now a made man.

Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. I write stuff for a few small businesses but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out my the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I set up with a few North Shore mates (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

I enrolled in the Lindfield Fun-Run this past April with an old mate of mine. We’re both (for want of a more PC term) … fat. So, it was a completely new experience for us and we had no intentions of actually “running” as we knew it would definitely diminish the degree of “Fun.”

The day started badly when Big Show (his poker call-sign) showed up with coffees instead of Gatorade. Outraged, I said to him “we’re supposed to be ELITE athletes, not LATTE athletes.”

Our newbie-concerns were compounded when we noticed the number I had pinned to my chest, was a different colour to Big Show’s. I had accidentally signed up for the 10km-Run instead of the 2km-Walk. Oh God, was this legally binding??

At the start line and the activity level was frenetic! They were all shedding their outer garments for professional looking, Olympic-level running gear. We were not prepared for this multi-layer approach. Lycra clad people buzzing all around us were stretching, psyching, fiddling with watches and taking pulses. I knew Big Show would struggle to find his pulse under his layer of “insulation.”

Being our first Fun-Run we had a few unanswered questions:

• Are there normally this many people out of bed on a Sunday?
• Were any of them still up from the night before?
• Should we stretch?
• Do they know we’re only going to walk? It wasn’t mentioned on our numbers.
• Should we drop to all fours as if using a sprinter’s starting block for the best start, as we had seen on tv? I have a fully-fused spine and Big Show is quite a stranger to “dropping.”
• Is there a medical tent? Just in case.

• Where did the competitors put their keys, wallets and phones?
• Were we meant to line up based on our numbers? We hoped not because only deciding to run the day before, ours were really high. Should we force our way to the front?
• Why is everybody so slim?
• Is there any food or drinks provided during the race? We had seen the tables on tv where runners get Gatorade in little cups and Big Show did have a bit of a sweet tooth.
• Are there any mid-race breaks?
• We noticed we were the only runners that had coffees. Are these sort of artificial stimulants risking our anti-doping status?

We were asking each other these questions while standing under a large blue blow-up archway, which we assumed was the starting line. As it turns out, it was the finish line. We realised this fundamental error when it dawned on us that we were the only ones standing there and everybody else had disappeared, presumably pounding the pavement.

Indeed, WE HAD MISSED THE START. Our time was going to be abysmal.

To our complete dismay, we started to struggle a bit, not being incredibly fit. However once our second wind kicked in, we were confident the running would become much easier.

About halfway through the race we came upon an elderly lady holding a stop sign to control the traffic. Despite our best efforts we had dropped to last place and our time had been ruined by missing the start (and clearly not by Big Show’s level of fitness). She was really old and it was awesome to see her still getting out and contributing to the Hornswood way of life.

Big Show – “Keeping the cars under control? Your dress goes well with the hi-vis.” Big Show was quite chatty and did not appear to be struggling with the pace.

The old lady – “I can’t go home until the last runners are through. AND THAT’S YOU TWO IDIOTS.”

The sweet old lady whacked me on the butt with her stop-sign (I kid you not), I jerked my coffee and foam squirted out the little drink hole. Due to Big Show complimenting her dress, she treated him much more gently, placing the sign on his lower back and shoving him forward to get him moving. I’ll bet Steve Monaghetti didn’t have to put up with treatment like this.

Anyway, we made it to the end. Due to the cheering crowd, the looming finish-line, our own innate sense of pride and the fact that we spotted a professional photographer, we decided to run the last 10 metres. My apologies for the “quality” of the video, at the time I had not thought of writing this blog.

We then rested, visited the rehydration station and proceeded to wash the coffee taste out of our mouth.

Just as we were high-fiving and congratulating each other on a race well-run, we spotted our great mate Andrew Heaven (aka Axe – his poker callsign) who’d actually run the 5km and approached the finish line sucking in air and sweating profusely. We proceeded to heckle.

“COME ON AXE, PUT SOME EFFORT IN. IT’S A FUN-RUN, NOT A FUN-STROLL.”

“ENJOYING YOUR WANDER IN THE PARK THERE AXE? CAN WE GET YOU A COFFEE?”

“LOOK AT YOU SWEATING AXE! TALK ABOUT UNFIT! WE’RE THINKING OF DOING ANOTHER LAP JUST TO KEEP OUR HEART-RATE UP.”

To recharge the batteries Big Show and I headed to Goodfields for lunch, assuming this is what athletes do after a morning of exertion. It’s amazing how many nods of recognition and hearty congratulations you get when you wear your medallion and carry your accidental-10km-Run number.

Big Show and I proceeded to wear our victory medals to the next half dozen or so poker nights. I think the lads were pretty impressed. We were actually giving serious consideration to signing up for the Boston Marathon, having conquered the Lindfield… Damn these Covid restrictions. Damn them all to hell.

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Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. I write stuff for a few small businesses but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out my the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I set up with a few North Shore mates (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

A few years ago, I set up a funky little Surry Hills-type bar (at least we thought it was) with one of my oldest mates from school. It was located in Lindfield and was called “The Blackout.” We ran it for two years and ticked it off the bucket-list however too many late nights and too much fun nearly made our wives leave us, so we sold it.

One night we had four couples come in, settle at their table and proceed to eat and drink heartily. A little too heartily in fact and one of the guys over the next few hours got really pissed and started to become loud and aggressive. The other six in the party had to sit there awkwardly while this tosser proceeded to have a big fight with his wife and was terribly rude to my young staff.

Tosser was one of those guys who turned into Donald Trump once the grog kicked in. His was so bellicose after his fight with his wife, that eventually one of my young waitresses asked me to be the one to tell him that we had run out of the particular wine he wanted.

The Blackout was crowded and chaotic that night (as it often was when we had it) but I made my way through the throng and explained the situation nice-as-pie to Tosser.

He yell-slurred – “YOU’RE FUCKIN’ KIDDIN’ ME? I’M USED TO EATIN’ IN BEST RESTAURANTS IN THE CITY MATE, YOU CAN AT LEAST HAVE ALL THE FUCKIN’ WINES ON YOUR MENU MENU.”

He was loving getting up me in front of his mates and knew as the proprietor all I could do was stand there and take it. I wondered if Tosser knew he’d just bellowed MENU twice. Keeping it friendly I apologised and asked him to select another.

Tosser then stood, wobbled, got right in my face, put two fingers against my chest and poked me. Hard.

I was shocked and a bit embarrassed, but didn’t do anything. However then he yelled at me – “GO AN’ GET THE FUCKIN’ BOTTLE I ORDERED. AN’ DO IT NOW.” Tosser shoved me. Shoved me! Spittle was coming from his mouth.

I HAD BEEN TOSSER-SHOVED.

Now I’m a big guy (112.9kg which I obviously round down to 112) and I wouldn’t normally stand for this sort of disrespect, but I’m in my own bar! I couldn’t get into a scuffle with a patron and for all I knew Tosser could be the North Shore Karate champion (but he looked more like potentially a Lindfield Palates champion). But this guy was pissed, yelling, swearing and shoving. I needed to do something. He was scaring people.

I slowly put down the two Asahis I was carrying. I’m no legendary fighter but I know I look like I may be one. So I came right up to Tosser and whispered in his ear in my calmest, Clint Eastwood voice.

“You’re making a fucking goose of yourself mate. Sit the fuck down, or I’ll sit you down.”

Tosser had a moment of instant sobering clarity which snapped him out of his red wine-induced I’m-Donald-Trump delusion. You could see a look came over his face that said – What the fuck and I doing? I’m pissed and about to get into a fight with the proprietor of my local, who’s much bigger than me, just because he doesn’t have the Claire Valley Shiraz.

One of his mates told him to sit down and Tosser used the excuse to do exactly that, without looking like he did it because I had told him to. In the two years despite having to tell MANY people that it was closing time and they had to leave, even when they were having a great night and didn’t want to, it was the only time I had to diffuse a potentially physical situation.

Anyway, Tosser became a lot quieter and did not give any crap to the waitresses after that. About 11:30 his party was preparing to leave. I was walking past with a jug of Pina Coladas, some bloke moved his bar stool back and I clipped my foot. Having never worked in a bar even when I was young, I do not have any waiter-type reflexes. I tripped.

Then it was like a cheap action movie and everything seemed to happen in ultra-slow motion. My thoughts in those short moments were pure and simply about avoiding falling to the ground and I had zero concern for what was in my hands. Flailing like an infant, I saw people’s faces contort knowing what was coming, my arms swam in the air desperate for purchase on something and I released the Pina-jug.

It landed on Tosser’s chest and splashed into his lap.

He looked like he’d been dipped in milk and his friends all laughed hysterically.

It was terrible. It was a complete accident and I apologised, possibly less sincerely that I should have, however it looked like I’d Pina-Coladad him on purpose. Tosser stormed out, swearing, abusing, shoving and slopping all over our beautiful black and white tiled floor.

Walking my 500 metres home after closing that night, I kept an eye out assuming Tosser may try to run me down in his Lexus. The Google review he left us at 1:33 that morning, was… scathing.

Google Review – Tonight I was assaulted in The Blackout. The proprietor hurled a jug of alcohol right on top of my very expensive suit on purpose because I questioned how one wine on the menu was non-existent! Nothing like this has ever happened before to me. I am considering legal action. NEVER go to this establishment or the same thing may happen to you. It was assault.

Google Reply – I completely apologise for tripping over and spilling a drink on you. It was in no way deliberate. My apologies again.

Google Comment (from his mate) – Phil, you were an absolute dickhead, a bully and even though we all know it was accidental, you deserved it. Shit like that happens to you all the time because you’re just flat out rude. And by the way, your suit wasn’t that expensive.

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Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. I write stuff for a few small businesses but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out my the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I set up with a few North Shore mates (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

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Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. I write stuff for a few small businesses but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out my the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I set up with a few North Shore mates (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

I was going to The Greengate with the lads so we met at Hammer’s place and had a few beers first.

We then piled into our designated driver Carrot’s car, with one fresh beverage each for the short trip.

Hot Jonny (his self-ascribed poker callsign) said to me – “Cool Hand (my self-ascribed poker callsign), I have a confession.”

Me – “OH FOR F*CK’S SAKE HOT JONNY. What?”

Hot Jonny (guilty) – “I may or may not have ashed in your beer when it was sitting on the roof of the car.”

Me – “WHAT??”

I hadn’t even sipped the icy-cold roadie in my hand. So it was disappointing news.

Hot Jonny – “I thought it was the empty.”

I noticed a subtle, conspiratorial smile between him and Bolschy.

I had a decision to make. My beer had been disgustingly violated, but if I didn’t drink it I was destined to go the entire fifteen-minute trip refreshment-less! But I was now an adult and not an 18-year-old lad who’d drink just about anything. While hurling abuse at Hot Jonny, I put my window down to pour out my beautiful beer. It was only 15 minutes after all.

The first sip wasn’t too bad. I could definitely taste his ash, but it was a full beer so it was pretty diluted.

Then Hammer let out an anguished wail – “OH F*CK. My wife just text me about my son who’s on his P’s.”

He read it out.

Your son while reversing out of the drive, has put a big scratch up the side of your car. He’s a bit shaken up, so I’m driving now. He feels awful, but I’ve managed to settle him down and tell him it’s all ok.

Hammer was not happy. He loved that Jeep and apparently was always telling his boy that he reversed out the drive too damn fast.

Anyway, by incredible coincidence, at that moment we pulled up at the traffic lights right next to Hammer’s car! His son was sitting solemnly in the passenger’s seat.

Carrot, who had never met the kid, quick as a flash put down his driver’s window and signaled for Hammer’s son to wind his window down also. The boy had no idea what this guy wanted and through our tinted windows couldn’t see his dad or any of us he knew in the back seat, so he wound it down.

Carrot – “MATE, YOU’VE GOT AN ENORMOUS SCRATCH DOWN THE SIDE OF YOUR CAR.”

The kid’s face went bright red and he just looked… deflated.

“Oh…thanks” was all he could muster.

Carrot put up his window and we drove on, pissing ourselves laughing. There’s nothing better than sticking it to the younger generation.

I made my way through my ash-violated beer and I’ll be damned if the horrible taste didn’t seem to get stronger as I drank. I thought I’d get used to it. Finally I took the last swig and then gagged, coughed and nearly choked. On Hot Jonny’s… CIGARETTE BUTT.

I spun on him, trying not to vomit.

Hot Jonny (doing his best to not laugh at my pain) – “I didn’t think you were going to drink it! By the time I noticed you were, I didn’t have the heart to tell you.”

Time with mates is great for mental health, but sometimes not so good for your physical.

Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to be able to claim when meeting a new person at a Hornswood party, that I am in fact… a writer (whereby my wife generally jumps in and proclaims “he’s actually NOT a writer”). If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I write stuff for a few small companies, but I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art of blogging. And check out the brilliant new craft-beer home delivery business I have set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

About fifteen years ago, we arrived at Mel’s 40^th.

She’s a friend but I’m much better mates with her husband and as guests arrived, we all had to sketch on this large canvas a picture depicting where you first met the birthday girl. So people had drawn the Golden Maccas arches, the school gates, Hoyts, etc. Some muscly guy was taking forever, so we went to the bar intending to come back and draw later.

After two hours, I’m with my mates and we were chatting to Trevor, Mel’s husband. He was pissed off about her previous boyfriend (who Trev didn’t even want invited), who was a ridiculously fit and handsome, French, cool guy with a man-bun, called Gaspard. He was also a brilliant artist and had taken an eternity to draw on the canvas an amazingly accurate picture of him and Mel, making out on a beach.

Mel planned to have the canvas mounted, so Trev was stressing that each morning she would be looking at such a reminder of her French lover.

Trev – “What’s that kids? Oh that’s just Gaspard an old friend of mummy’s. What? Why are they kissing while he’s shirtless?”

Trev is a 40-year-old, balding dad, with three kids, a mortgage and a gut. He can’t compete with an annoyingly still-handsome, muscle-bound artist, who’s had a lifetime of facials, gym and was no doubt telling Mel that he stayed single just waiting for her.

So, I whispered in Trev’s ear and snuck off to the front of the house.

Everybody had finished drawing and the canvas was unguarded. Now I must admit, the picture of Gaspard and our Mel with eyes passionately half-closed, was incredibly lifelike. He had used up about half of the canvas, but it was very good.

Picking up the black Sharpie, I drew a penis on Gaspard.

It was not an overly large penis (again thinking of Mel’s husband Trev), but a penis it was. My work having been completed, I returned to the lads who then went to check out my artistry. About five minutes after they returned, slapping me on the back, it started.

Three women I didn’t know approached.

One of them – “WHO’S THE ANIMAL WHO RUINED THE PICTURE?”

I had no idea how they knew it was one of us, but I thought I’d better cop to it. After all, it was a harmless little thing, doodled with honourable Trev-intentions.

Me (in a contrite voice) – “I um… I may have penised Gaspard.”

Well, the women went BERZERK.

They yelled and called me quite a few names. They berated me for a long time. And when they had finished, the next bunch of party goers stepped up, went psycho at me, and then the next. I felt like there was a queue all waiting to rip me a new one for defacing Gaspard’s masterpiece.

Each time I got abused, the boys just pissed themselves laughing. My wife left because of the blow-back (but she normally leaves parties early anyway), Mel spent much of the night shooting me the old stink-eye from the kitchen and I was attacked all night. Too much.

Eventually Gaspard comes up. FURIOUS, doesn’t go far enough to describe his anger. He was IRATE!

Gaspard (in a French accent) – “HEATHEN YOBO! HOW DARE YOU DESTROY MY TRIBUTE TO MEL.” He waved his arms theatrically.

Me – “Well French, you did take up a lot more space than you were allocated.”

Gaspard (with his finger right in my face) – “IT SHOWED OUR PASSION, OUR LOVE. WHO ARE YOU TO DO THAT?”

Me – “SHE’S NOT YOUR WIFE MATE.”

To check I hadn’t crossed the line, I snuck a look over Gaspard’s shoulder to husband-Trev. He shot me a subtle thumbs up, which said thank you my brother. So it was worth it.

I thought the lads were going to collapse laughing. Eventually Gaspard moved on and seemed content pointing and sledging me to other people. The party went along, I copped constant abuse and it finally came to the end of the evening. Mel had gone to bed angry and a mate and I were the last to leave.

On the way out, I went to have another look at my artwork, considering the degree of hatred I had inadvertently created amongst seemingly every guest.

To my horror, I noticed that my harmless little Gaspard-penis, had been vandalised!

The penis was five times the size of the one I had done and somebody had drawn little dashes to represent an ark of momentum and they had added semen, not just being projected from my Gaspard-penis, but landing in Mel’s eye! Her half-closed look of passion that the French artist had so magnificently captured, now looked like she was squinting because she had something untoward, IN HER EYE!

Everybody for the last four hours, including my lovely wife had thought me some depraved, huge-penis, semen-drawing weirdo!

My mate – “Yeah, sorry, we embellished it a little. Why’d you think we were pissing ourselves laughing each time somebody got up you?”

I was dumbfounded.

Mel never forgave me.

I thought to myself, why does this stuff always happen to me??

Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art, of blogging. And check out my new craft beer business I set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

While you’re driving, you can quite literally improve the world in which we all live, raising not just your mood, but the mood of complete strangers sitting in their own vehicles.

“HOW CAN WE POSSIBLY DO THAT?”

Well, I’m glad you asked so passionately.

I was driving to work, singing along loud and proud to “My Sharona”, despite getting a number of the words wrong and those that I got right, not being able to sing them in tune. But I was having a good time.

I paused my singing because I only adequately know the main lyrics, saving my vocals to absolutely belt out the chorus. I let in the sporty-Audi-driving Merchant Banker in a suit, who was waiting to come in from a side street. I didn’t really need to let him in as he had just pulled up at the intersection, but I was in a My Sharona-fueled good mood.

Letting another driver in when I didn’t have to, is a beautiful thing.

The part I knew word-for-word started up, so I commenced singing – NEVER GONNA STOP, GIVE IT UP, SUCH A DIRTY MIND…

The Merchant Banker, didn’t bother to wave! What?? Damn him. DAMN HIM ALL TO HELL.

So here’s the thing, if the drivers who have been let-in do not wave a little thank you (“Underwavers”), then this has a negative impact upon the drivers who let them in (“Saint-Drivers”). Instead of feeling… nice, Saint-Drivers feel annoyed, may stop singing, their moods having been tainted.

ME, WITH MY MOOD TAINTED.

Nothing bothers Saint-Drivers more, than Underwavers not acknowledging our attempts to share-the-nice. It’s not asking much. It’s a wave! I’m not suggesting you get out and buy the Saint Driver KFC (the dirty bird is now dead to me).

If un-thanked, even Saint-Drivers may be hesitant about letting the next driver in and that driver will in turn be annoyed, having no way of knowing about the dreadful Underwaver incident, that just took place. And not being my Audi-driving Merchant Banker, they may have been a guaranteed wave-thanker, but they never got the opportunity.

Then, like an episode of Breaking Bad it becomes an ugly snowball-of-angry. Saint-Drivers, if wave-thanked go to work just a little less inclined to yell at that new guy who cannot seem to remember that you no longer take sugar in your cappuccino. Or because the drive is the last thing you do before you get home, you may be more empathetic about your spouse’s terrible day, or more understanding of your teenage daughter telling you she’s fallen in love with the fullback from the local Rugby League team.

In my situation, if the Audi-Underwaver had wave-thanked:

My wife – “Gee you’re in a good mood this evening. Have you forgotten I want to watch Master Chef and not one of your crappy Arctic Survival Men reality shows.”

Me – “Yes my love. If anything makes you happy, then you can be damn sure it does the same to me.”

This can happen, all the time, to all of us.

There’s three essential steps :

STEP 1.

Always thank a Saint-Driver. Even you have had a shit day at work, you notice your fly has been undone for who-knows how long, your team is getting flogged in the footy and you think you may have been pinged by that speed camera.

And by the way, wait a few seconds until your car is fully straight, to ensure the Saint-Driver doesn’t miss your wave-thank.

Even better, when you do wave, let out a loud, theatrical “thank you”. You will allow more of your senses to become entwined with the nice and you share it with any passengers you may have. Sharing-the-nice with your kids for instance, will incline them to do it when they are driving, thereby giving them a source of nice, that is healthy, drug-free, free and world-improving.

If you are ever in doubt as to whether you are in a wave-worthy situation, wave.

STEP 2.

When the opportunity arises, let other drivers in. The more you do, the more you improve the world. Wouldn’t that be good?

THANKS FOR LETTING ME IN SAINT DRIVER.

STEP 3.

If an Underwaver does not wave… don’t care. This step is the toughest, but if you don’t, there’s little point in following the previous two.

An Underwaver, either – doesn’t understand that they should, couldn’t be bothered or is just a dick (my Merchant Banker). Whichever reason it is, don’t allow it to diminish the niceness you are thriving upon. Underwavers are not part of our club! They don’t even know our club exists. Just smile to yourself and feel sympathy for them missing out.

POOR UNDERWAVERS.

Forgive Underwavers, they know not what they do.

I am so hopeful you all will take this on board. We all have the power, but it’s a numbers game. If a few people follow this plan, that would be wonderful. But if many of us do… whoa Mumma!

Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art, of blogging. And check out my new craft beer business I set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

It seems like an eternity ago now, but just before the lock-down, we had the Hornswood Ladies College (my daughter’s wonderful school) parents-meet-teachers night. 

Being Hornswood (the mythical little suburbs snuggled between Hornsby and Chatswood), nearly every mum or dad there was dressed in a suit or something equally as nice. I drove with another parent, “Bolschy” (his poker call-sign) who’s a great mate of mine, both wearing thongs, T-shirts and shorts. A tad underdressed.

WE LOOKED A BIT LIKE THESE GUYS.

I’ve always relied heavily on the fact that one overweight yobbo in a big crowd, just blends into the background. But when there’s two, in a sea of expensive attire, we stood out like a Trump-fake-tan and laughed when we saw our reflection in the glass of the entry door.

We arrived early, which meant we got full advantage of the coffee and hand-made, buttery golden biscuits. I grabbed three, two for me and one for Bolschy but due to their irregular size, the lowest bickie dropped off the bottom of the stack onto the floor. It landed near the table.

Me – “That was your one, Bolsch.“

Laughing, I handed Bolschy one of the two I held and stayed for a moment to eat mine. As I returned to the table, an exceedingly attractive middle-aged teacher was about to step on the biscuit and grind it into the immaculate carpet. So I bent down behind her, just as her high-heel landed right in the centre of it, unbeknownst to her, breaking it neatly into 3 pieces.

I thought to myself no prob, seeing I’m down here any way, it makes no difference if I pick up three bits or one, it was now going in the bin (there’s no 5-second rule at an HLC function).

But wouldn’t you know it, just as I was picking up the third and final shard of biscuit, she takes a full step backwards, tripped on to me, stumbled, spilled her tea, crushed the bickie and her butt went right into my face as I looked up.

She was understandably surprised to find a man crouched down behind her, in such a thinly-populated space. She was shocked by the stumble and, well, me.

Attractive teacher – “WHAT ARE YOU DOING??”

My clothing did not put her mind at ease at all.

Me – “My um… my biscuit” was all I could come up with.

AWKWARD.

Anyway, Bolschy and I went and sat in the classrooms and thankfully the teachers doing the presentation to our group of parents, were really quick. We were out of there before any others were done and decided to go and find our close mate Dange (short for “Danger”, another self-attributed poker call-sign).

With each of the classrooms in this auditorium, the wall that faces inwards is glass, so you can actually see into all the rooms. We positioned ourselves so we could see Dange sitting at a desk, he could see us, but the teacher out the front couldn’t. When he turned around and saw the two of us just deadpan and giving him the ol’ stink-eye, he laughed.

Like students trying to cut class, we did everything we could to get Dange to come out and blow off the last ten minutes of the talk. But he’s a polite Canadian, so he wouldn’t leave. He was just sitting there, being… attentive.

We had to go after him.

Bolschy wandered in, plonked down next to Dange without taking his eyes off the teacher. I could see him through the glass trying to subtly convince Dange to come out, with a few quiet words and a couple of pokes to the ribs, but no, conscientious Dange was committed until the end. So Bolschy picked up Dange’s phone, held it up in front of his head for facial recognition, and then fled with his now-unlocked, phone.

Outside the room Bolschy and I were having a ball. Now that we had his phone and he could see us, we were pretending to be perusing, looking through all his messages and photos, surfing, all the stuff you don’t want two mates doing. We watched Dange the teacher’s-pet, squirming, wondering what irreversible damage we were doing to his beloved phone.

Hilarious.

We were halted by the exceedingly attractive middle-aged teacher who accidently sat on me earlier.

Ms Attractive (I think it’s a French name)– “What the heck is going on here?”

We were busted. We dropped into silence. In the room, Dange knew we were sprung and was now the one trying to control his mirth.

Ms Attractive – “Other parents are trying to learn what their daughters are going to be doing for the next year, and you two are being silly?”

Me (nervously) – “Very sorry, we… we were just teasing our mate in there.” We pointed through the glass to Dange, and he looked quite disappointed to see us dob him in.

Ms Attractive – “Teasing? That’s rather immature. How do you think that makes him feel?”

Me (looking at the ground guiltily) – “Not very good.”

Bolschy (also looking downward) – “Pretty bad.“

Ms Attractive – “Do the two of you think that’s a good idea? Do you think you are improving this situation? I would expect better of my Year 7 girls.”

Bolschy (looking contrite, like he would have looked when this used to happen thirty years and forty kilos ago) – “Sorry.”

Ms Attractive – “I think it’s time you two left. We’ve had enough of your trouble making.”

Me (shyly) – “But we… sort of… have his phone.”

Ms Attractive just shook her head in disgust. “Well one of you is going to have to go in there and return it, aren’t you?”

Moving with the speed of a startled gazelle, I grabbed the phone out of Bolschy’s hand and said “I’ll return it”, thinking he would then have to stand with the beautiful, but angry, Ms Attractive .

BUT SHE CAME WITH ME!!

Ms Attractive apologised for the interruption and I slunk in and returned Dange’s phone. Luckily the teacher then introduced her to all the parents in the room, so the attention wasn’t on me.

Ms Attractive then rejoined Bolschy and I outside the classroom. Having promised my daughter I would be on my best behaviour, I had then been accidently sat on by a teacher and busted razzing Dange.

Me – “Is there any chance you could not tell our daughters?”

So Bolschy and I made our way to the carpark.

Bolschy – “Let’s go. Dange isn’t coming out.”

Me – “Let’s just wait for him. He’ll ring us.”

Bolschy – “No he won’t. He’ll just drive home.”

Me – “Oh he’ll definitely ring us.” I jingled car keys in front of him. “I palmed his keys.”

We laughed and we laughed, having checked Ms Attractive wasn’t around.

Thanks for reading. I write blogs oftentimes just to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art, of blogging. And check out my new craft beer business I set up with a few North Shore dads (gettincrafty.com.au) Cheers

Being born and raised at Bilgola, my brother and I are absolute Manly Sea Eagles tragics. One day last season, not only did we get to hang with the legendary players of our beloved club, we got to be one of them! We got to be… LEGENDS.

All we had to do was be dishonourable.

Oracle (my brother’s self-ascribed poker call-sign) and I, were at Brookvale Oval one weekend to watch the big game. It was the excellent “Golden Eagles – Legends Day”, when champion ex-players were glorified for achievements on the footy field. It was awesome. They’d erected a fenced-off marque and it was crammed absolutely full with our heroes of yesteryear.

Oracle and I, along with a huge number of fans, went right up to the area to see how many of our idols we could spot.

One legend who we instantly recognised, walked past us and up to the table positioned at the entrance to the marquee, where a young security guy was sitting.

Security guy (to the legend) – “Legends function?”

Legend – “Ooh yeah.”

Without checking the clipboard in front of him, the security guy put a yellow wrist band on the legend. In he went, to cheers from the myriad of other legends already in the marquee.

Me – “Quick Oracle, follow my lead. Look like a legend. We’re goin’ in.”

Oracle – “Wait… what?”

I approached the table and my brother shadowed me.

Security guy (to us) – “Legends function?”

I was nervous, but the place was an absolute oasis.

Me (with as much confidence as I could muster) – “Been looking forward to this all year mate.”

Then, within seconds, we had yellow wrist bands on and we were in! The place was full of free food, free grog and free… LEGENDS.

We had an immediate problem if we were to avoid having our unfortunate, non-legendary status discovered. They were all wearing special legend jackets. So we casually headed over to the guy giving them out and he gave us one each. It was going brilliantly.

Of course the legends all knew each other, so we had to be on our toes. After an hour of the greatest day of our lives, we had worked out the comments we would throw out, if any legends questioned our identity.

If they got suspicious and asked “when’d you play”, with a laugh we would reply with things like:

About a lifetime ago mate… ’bout a lifetime ago.

When? When I had a full head of hair and knees that didn’t click!

Mate when you’ve taken as many head knocks as I have, I can’t bloody remember myself. It’s still 1988, right?

When? Back when my shoulder didn’t ache, my wife wasn’t angry and the game wasn’t so soft.

(After lifting my shirt and patting my sizeable gut) – There’s a Legend six-pack for you!

Or my brother would slap me on the back and say “jeez you must have put on a heap of weight, nobody recognises you!” And then we’d quickly wander off to chat to other legends. Flawless.

Now I won’t use his real name, or even his real nick-name, but “Horse” one of our favourite players of all time, started to chat to us. We just couldn’t look one of our Grand Final-winning heroes in the eye and lie, so we came clean to him. Horse just laughed and said as long as we don’t go out onto the ground for the Legends Lap of Honour, he wouldn’t rat us out.

I nearly blew the grift when we joined a particular legend-group and I helped myself to one of the exotic looking sandwiches in the middle of the little table. It turned out one legend had special dietary requirements, so he had brought his own food.

Special-sandwich-legend – “WHAT THE F#CK YOU DOING? YOU BIT INTO MY SANDWICH. WHO ARE YOU ANYWAY?”

I struggled for a few moments to think what to say.

Me – “Mate, we’ve all bled for the same team. And that’s what’s important.”

Then luckily, they all started to file down on to the ground for the Legends Lap of Honour. After a moment it was only Oracle and I left in the marquee.

Security guard (down the front) – “YOU DON’T WANT TO MISS YOUR LAP OF HONOUR AND TUNNEL FOR THE PLAYERS, GENTS.”

Oracle and I looked at each other. We were brazen, but it was time to leave the marquee-of-greatness and head on back to the general populous. It had been an amazing few hours, but crashing the Legends Lap was one step too far. We were men of decency after all.

Me – “NO MY GOOD MAN. WE WOULD NOT WANT TO MISS OUR LAP OF HONOUR.” And down onto the ground we went.

Here’s the photo I took of Oracle on the ground while the players are warming up.

Here we are doing our Legends Lap. Giving back to the people.

Here we are with the cheerleaders.

It was an incredible feeling, the Lap of Honour (without dwelling on exactly how dishonorable we were being) with our fellow legends, all our loyal fans cheering and clapping. What a buzz.

After we’d done our lap, we formed a tunnel for the First Grade players to run through and on the opposite side to us… stood “Horse!”

He looked directly at us and then pointed at our faces. Damn, was he going to expose our deceit? It would be a tad embarrassing. But Horse, being a team man, just shook his head and laughed. Like one of us legends does.

Anyway the day just got better and better. All us legends watched a brilliant game of footy from the marquee, in which the team we had all bled for, won a magnificent victory. We then went back to a private room at the club for the rest of the night and the current players and sponsors joined us. It was unbelievable and the respect the players and the fans in the club showed us legends, was incredible.

The private room with Tommy Turbo, Man-of-the-Match.

Later that night we received a text from our dad (also a Sea Eagles tragic). He sent us a video he’d taken of his tv at home –

Boys, tonight I sat down to watch the game. They had the Legends Lap, which I watched really closely to see which players I recognised. You can understand my surprise to see my two sons, at the front of the f#cking tunnel no less! I’m getting older and forget the odd thing, but I don’t actually remember either of you playing for Manly. I got no idea how you pulled it off and I don’t want to know. How the hell did my boys end up being so dodgy?

That’s me in the blue cap and Oracle in the scarf.

That day last season, we became… LEGENDS.

(disclaimer – If anybody from the brilliant Golden Eagles Assoc. or the Manly Warringah club do read this blog, please ignore)

Thanks for reading. I write blogs, oftentimes simply to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer.

If you could Share far and wide via the buttons below, that would be amazing. Please do. I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art that is – Blogging.

Cheers. Jase

When my son was in primary school there were twin brothers playing in his Hornswood Junior Rugby team. One was a hilarious, smart-ass, piss-taker, the other one was… really nice.

Tommy was tall, blonde, handsome, broad-shouldered, super-fast, skilled, scored 2-4 tries every match, our best player, smart, confident and brash.

His brother was Carl, was not tall, red-haired, not quite so handsome, a bit chubby, pale, a slow toiler, shy, good-guy front-rower who had never scored a try despite the team having been together for years.

Right on the full-time whistle in one of the last games of the season, Carl scored his first ever try with a great push from his mates in the forward pack. A Christmas miracle in July! As he jogged back to the half-way, us parents and coaches cheered and high-fived. Being a very close-knit team we were overjoyed Carl was finally in the spotlight.

Great stuff Carl.

Tommy (sprinting over to us parents on the sideline) – “IT WASN’T A TRY! MY BROTHER DROPPED THE BALL OVER THE LINE. NO TRY!”

Mark (dad of the twins) – “Quiet Tommy. The ref paid it. We win, be happy for your brother just for once.”

Tommy (who’d already scored three tries that day) – “HE DROPPED THE BALL.”

As we always did, the parents stood in a group with the kids on the ground in front, while my good mate the coach awarded the Man of the Match. This one was a no-brainer and he wanted to put special focus on Carl, to illustrate to the kids that continued commitment and effort will eventually be rewarded.

Coach – “Our Man of the Match today, who also scored the winning try is… CARL.”

In a beautiful team moment, everyone cheered louder than we ever had for another player. The one who had always lived in his brother’s try-scoring shadow, deserved no less.

Tommy – “He dropped the ball.”

The coach tried to ignore Tommy and we parents made sure we hid our amusement at the comments.

Getting hard to hide.

Coach (to the team) – “So boys, where do we start when talking about Carl?”

Tommy – “Can start with the knock-on.”

Mark (his dad) – “TOMMY!! EITHER ACCEPT THAT YOUR BROTHER SCORED A TRY OR GO AND SIT IN THE BLOODY CAR. YOUR CHOICE!!”

Tommy (thinking on it) – “Guess I’ll have to go and sit in the car.”

Off he went and sat in the back seat while the coach went on. We were all finding it increasingly difficult to contain our laughter. The problem was, the car was only about ten metres away and within earshot.

Coach – “Every team needs players like Carl.”

Tommy (yelling from the car) – “IF YOU’RE COLLECTING NON-TRIES.”

Mark – “TOMMY!! SHUT UP OR I’LL CLOSE THE WINDOW.” Just to us parents, “God help me I’d love to.”

Tommy puts up his hands in a sign of mock surrender.

Coach – “Lots of props never score a ‘meat-pie’ in their whole Rugby careers.”

Tommy – “IT WAS AS ‘MEAT-PIE’ AS A BROCCOLI SALAD.”

By this stage all us parents standing behind the players had tears running down our faces. But Carl, in his shining moment, was focused solely on the coaches words.

Coach – “It just goes to show that you don’t have to be the fastest or the most skilled-“

Tommy (interrupting from the car) – “OR HOLD THE BALL.”

Coach – “A Rugby team is made up of all different types. You can’t win with a team of just halfbacks and wingers. You also can’t win with a team of just Carls.”

Tommy (from the car) – “NOT IF YOU WANT ANY TRIES SCORED.”

Mark – “TOMMY!”

By this stage, us parents are pissing ourselves laughing behind hands and caps. Carl was completely oblivious to his brother’s heckling, he’d learned to just tune it out.

Coach – “But Carl wouldn’t have scored, if his teammates hadn’t been there to help him.”

Tommy – “OR IF THE REF HAD SOME GLASSES.”

Coach – “Persistence!”

Tommy – “OH MAN, I’D HAVE PERSISTENCE TOO IF I GOT AWARDED A TRY EVERY TIME I NEARLY SCORED. I’D BE ON A WHOLE LOT MORE THAN 31 THIS SEASON.”

Carl’s smile just beamed.

I was shaking with barely-stifled laugher.

One of the mum’s – “There was some excellent non-selfish passing today also everybody.”

Tommy – “PARTICIPATION TRY! HERE YOU GO EVERYONE, HAVE A TRY.”

Eventually we got the speech done. Mark had the shits with Tommy, said his goodbyes, got Carl in the car and was reversing in the carpark.

Coach (just to us parents) – “I can’t let Tommy have the last cool line. I have to get one more in before they drive away, so Tommy can’t retort.”

Coach (approaching the about-to-drive-off car and yelling to the parents as much as to Carl) – “HEY CARL, I WISH I HAD YOUR TRY ON VIDEO. I COULD EASILY SHOW THE ENTIRE TEAM WHAT I MEAN WHEN I USE THE WORD TENACITY.”

The coach flashed a smile and wink our way. We understood the magnitude of what just occurred. The coach, the old bull had put the young bull right back in his place. The coaches parting words, were to be the last ones exchanged between them on the matter. Drop the mic.

The car moved off slowly.

Another dad – “Well done, coach. I’ve never laughed so much. I certainly didn’t think you’d be gettin’ the last word in. You are The Man.”

Coach – “Thanks mate. It seems juvenile, but I couldn’t let him be the last to have made a clever comment. As coach I need to be the top-dog to this age group, otherwise these kids will run all over me, metaphorically and literally. How could I get them to jog around the oval six times, do 100 pushups, tackle and put their head in a ruck, if I don’t have that… top-dog respect.”

We high-fived, while all the parents continued to hide their laughter.

Top-dog respect.

Tommy (leaning out of the window as they drove away) – “I WISH WE HAD HIS TRY ON VIDEO TOO… FOR THE VIDEO REF”.

And the car was gone.

One of the dads (immediately being reminded of a funny line from a country song he once heard) – “Maybe you’re top dog, coach, but gee it appears as though you’ve been neutered.”

Hilarious.

The coach just stared at the cloud of Hornswood Oval carpark dust left by Tommy’s car.

Gotta love kid’s Rugby.

Thanks for reading. I write blogs, oftentimes simply to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. At other times, to allow businesses and business-people to get their message across.

If you could Share via the buttons below, that would be amazing. Pleeeease do. I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art – Blogging.

Cheers. Jase.

Would you be impressed if I told you I’m successful enough to have recruited a celebrity guest blogger?

Well sorry, all I have is a mate of mine, who goes by the poker call-sign Hammer. He’s certainly no “celebrity”. The term “guest” implies he’s… welcome to come over. And he’s absolutely not a “blogger” by any means.

Living in Lindfield, I worry too many people in Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby and Chatswood) work too hard and don’t have enough… fun.

So, Hammer is an American now living in Hornswood and he told me what I thought was a very funny story, so I asked him to write it. Here is the result:

AN AMERICAN BOY, DISCOVERING AUSTRALIA (guest blog by Hammer)

A number of years ago our family ventured a long move overseas to Australia. As part of our newfound excitement we took to experiencing as much of the local landscape as possible. Travel, food, social culture and much more. During the first year, the youngest of our children embraced many local sports and activities.

He’d always been very quizzical, wanting to learn new things and full of questions. We have always considered him a bit of a Renaissance kid, happy to try just about any activity or new experience. However, when I say he has always been full of questions, this child averages hundreds a day. Every day. Still to this day.

Being from America, there was certainly a learning curve for the young lad and his various undertakings. Learning about rips and ocean safety during Nippers and surfing lessons. The fact that baseball falls a far distant second to cricket in Australia.

Not a baseball bat in sight.

Despite the tribulations, he persisted in his education and most importantly had fun playing with his new friends.

One evening, my wife and I were enjoying a glass of wine after dinner, still at the table. The meal was over, and kids had headed off to homework and other activities. Into the kitchen walks our youngest with his typical youthful exuberance and stands across from the two of us announcing that he had a question to ask.

Thinking nothing out of the ordinary, I respond to the miniature version of my wife and myself, “What can we do for you?”

To the absolute surprise of both me and my wife, the youngster says, “I have been checking out what sort of stuff you can do in Sydney. I do have a question. What is a hooker?”

We have always been open in our household about subjects regarding the human body, relationships and educating oneself about anatomy and other possibly socially sensitive topics. In reality, these typically just fall into the category of ‘we are all just human’. Teaching our children about what their bodies will experience, and that sex is natural (but should be done lovingly and responsibly), has been part of our approach to child rearing.

After a painfully long silence in which our child took turns alternating glances between the two of us, I finally conceded to his mother that she is likely best to address this shocking question. “Why don’t you handle this one, babe?”

As my wife took control of the situation, I was amazed by her ability to explain the ‘world’s oldest profession’ to the child, in terms that would make sense to a young mind, while at the same time shielding the child from some of the harsher realities of prostitution. She navigated the conversation with an expertise that only a woman speaking to her own offspring, could handle. I was amazed at how well my life partner was able to manage the situation into which we were suddenly thrust.

I decided at this point to offer my encouragement, “Do go on, dear.”

After her explanation, the boy was apparently full of many, many more questions than before he started his quest for an answer. He pondered the new information quietly to himself, but was not satisfied that he was wiser from the moments preceding his entrance. He wanted answers and was not getting the correct ones.

He turned to me, his father, his mentor in life for guidance and stated to me questioningly, “I don’t understand?”

Being the source of all knowledge to a young boy, his father can always provide. A man of many years’ experience surely has the information needed and can put it in a relatable way that will keep his trust for a lifetime. An oracle to a knowledge seeker.

I looked the boy in the eye an explained, “In the scrum, the player in the centre who rakes the ball back with his foot.”

He looked at his father knowingly, “Thanks, Dad!”

As he left the room, off to learn more about his new favourite sport, I felt a burning emanating from the other side of the table. The staring glare of both confusion and disappointment from my wife was remarkable. To clarify her suspicions, she needed to ask, “Did you understand his question from the beginning?”

As a proud father, I let her know that my connection with the boy was strong, “Absolutely.”

She responded, “And you just allowed me to explain this topic knowing what he was really asking?”

Proudly, I replied, “Without question.”

Thanks for reading. I write blogs. Oftentimes simply to enable me to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. At other times, to allow businesses and businesspeople to get their message across.

If you could Share via the buttons below, follow me on Facebook, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase. 

Living in Lindfield, I worry too many people in Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby and Chatswood) work too hard and don’t have enough… fun.

So, here’s what happened to me. Last Friday we needed a lawyer to look at a simple contract, and by the time we were going home, my lovely wife was irate at me!

Right from the start I knew the lawyer was not my sort of bloke. He kept us waiting twenty minutes, despite not having anybody with him.

When he eventually could be bothered seeing us, he was an absolute dick! Three piece suit, massive red wooden desk, kept talking over the top of my wife (so he at least was brave) and seemed to frown at my chewing gum. To rub salt into the wound, he refused to give us even a ball-park fee quote. He thought he was a fancy Pitt St lawyer, not a suburban Hornswood one.

A real dick. A dick-lawyer.

But in his defence, he did have a glass bowl of Werther’s Originals on his desk. The Charles Bronson of lollies.

Anyway, dick-lawyer’s PA made me a mug of tea and it came without a saucer, so I had a chewing-gum issue. I helped myself to one of his post-it notes and plonked the pink gum down onto it, on his desk.

Dick-lawyer stared down at it. Looked up at me. I looked at him. Then he looked down at the chewy. Then he looked back to me. I looked back to him. Then he looked to my wife. Then back down to the chewy. I looked at my tea, was distracted by the thought that it looked way too strong, but no worries.

My wife wondered what was awry, because dick-lawyer had stopped talking enough for her to actually get a few words in. She followed his line of sight.

My wife – “Oh my God.”

Having been together for many blissful decades, she’s rarely surprised by things I do. But this one seemed to take her aback. She rummaged around in her handbag, found a tissue and snatched up the chewy.

Dick-lawyer (ignoring me and talking to my wife) – “Would you like me to get somebody to take that away?” He picked up the post-it pad and put it in his drawer.

Me (to them both) – “I was going to continue chewing after my tea. I wasn’t going to leave it there. I’m not an animal.”

After sitting there for half an hour hearing him prattle on and not listen to my Chartered Accountant wife at all, we had to leave the document with him. He would peruse it when he had less pressing matters and then His Magnificence would give us some idea as to what he would charge.

Over lunch I texted his PA and said tell dick-lawyer (not using that exact moniker) not to bother, we wouldn’t be giving the job to him.

She texted back – Mr Large Toss (not dick-lawyer’s real name) is quite surprised, as he gave you thirty minutes of his time, and he’s a very busy man.

I replied – I could tell he’s busy by the way he kept us waiting twenty minutes and has no time to give us a ball-park fee expectation.

After lunch, I went back to dick-lawyer’s office to get the document. Due to an earlier chewing gum… incident, my wife refused to go in and waited out the front.

To show there’s no hard feelings, I stuck my head into dick-lawyer’s office to give him the traditional “thumbs-up of thanks”. He was on a conference call at his desk, saw, but didn’t acknowledge me in any way. Dick-lawyer looked like he’d been tucking into the Werthers Originals, with the bowl moved in front of him in his fancy red chair.

Acknowledging I probably had no right to grab one, I did an over-exaggerated, comical tip-toe into his office, so as not to disturb him. I can be considerate.

I mouthed “cheers” as I leaned over his desk and dipped my hand into the bowl and pulled out a golden-wrapped Werthers. Beautiful.

I’d got away with it.

He gesticulated his hands with a “WHAT THE HELL” movement, but due to the conference call, he couldn’t say anything.

Now you must understand, it is extremely difficult for a man of my nature to grab just one, Werthers Original. It was like I could hear them calling to me, come back sweet prince, take another of us. Dick-lawyer was having none of that. He covered the top of the bowl with his hands.

Realising I’d been blocked, I pretended I was actually coming in to grab the post-its that had been placed again, on the desk. Like a moth to a flame, dick-lawyer moved one hand to protect the post-its, leaving the bowl foolishly half defenseless. I swooped in and like taking candy from a proverbial baby, plucked up another Werthers Original.

Dick-lawyer, had been taught a hard lesson.

A while later, outside:

Wife – “You sucking a lollie?”

Dammit.

Me – “Huh?”

Wife – “Is that a Werthers?”

Me – “Huh?” Cleverly trying to throw her off.

Wife – “Is… that… a… Werthers?”

Me (with a look of contrition) – “Yeah… dick-lawyer said I could.”

Wife – “You honestly took one? After us deciding not to use him? After putting gum on his desk?”

Me – “Yep.”

We walked a few metres.

Me – “Just one.”

Thanks for reading. I write blogs. Oftentimes simply to enable me to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. At other times, to allow businesses and businesspeople to get their message across.

If you could Share via the buttons below, follow me on Facebook, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase.

Most of us men instinctively bottle our emotions, so we need to be able to occasionally bare our soul to other blokes, ask that it be put in the “Vault” and know it will be taken to the grave. Talking in confidence to a mate, is integral to our mental health.

THINGS I WISH SOMEBODY HAD TOLD ME AT TWENTY: PART III

THE “VAULT”

If you haven’t read my previous blogs in this series about “managing the beer shout when you’re 20” and “dealing poker when you’re 20”, you should, it’ll make a lot more sense.

First read Part I – https://writehandman.com.au/2018/05/17/things-i-wish-somebody-had-told-me-at-twenty-jase-gram-hornswoodexpress-com-au/,

Then, Part II https://writehandman.com.au/2018/05/22/things-i-wish-somebody-had-told-me-at-twenty-part-ii/)

Basically, single mum Sandy, asked me to help her twenty-year-old son Rick, become less socially awkward. I agreed to use the noble art of blogging to cover things that he may struggle to find written elsewhere.

I’ve never met Rick, but if we did have a chat:

Thanks for reading. I’ve put my heart and soul down in words, for you. Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream of being able to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer.

If you could Share via the buttons below, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase. 

While drinking with your mates at bars, The Beer Shout comes with inalienable rights and obligations.

THINGS I WISH SOMEBODY HAD TOLD ME AT TWENTY: PART II

MANAGING THE BEER SHOUT

If you haven’t read my previous blog about “dealing poker when you’re 20”, you should do so before reading this one. It’ll make a lot more sense (https://writehandman.com.au/2018/05/17/things-i-wish-somebody-had-told-me-at-twenty-jase-gram-hornswoodexpress-com-au/)

Basically, single mum Sandy, asked me to help her twenty-year-old son Rick, become less socially awkward. I agreed to use the noble art of blogging to cover things that he may struggle to find written elsewhere.

If we did have a chat:

Rick – “Getting the first shout upon arrival Cool Hand (my self-ascribed poker call-sign), you’ll probably be buying less beers right? Because not everybody is there yet?”

Me – “Clever, however if any blokes arrive within ten minutes of your shout, you are obligated to offer them a beer, thereby having to go to the bar twice.”

Rick (with a cocky smile) – “Not eleven minutes?”

Me – “Ten. You want to hear the rules or not?”

Rick – “Yes, sorry. If there have already been a few jugs bought, am I obligated to get the same type again?”

Me – “Nope. Your jug, your choice.”

Rick – “Can I ask for help carrying the drinks?”

Me – “You are entitled to a beer-helper, only if there are five or more glasses.”

Rick – “Is it better to quietly shout when it’s your turn?”

Me – “Absolutely not! When it’s your turn you loudly announce to the table – MY SHOUT LADS. And when you return you are Jesus, turning water into…beer. Make sure everybody knows about it!”

Me – “And try making the shout jugs, not individual beers. It’s a hell of a lot easier to carry 1-2 jugs than 3-6 schooners. And if anybody is a little more or less thirsty, they can fill their glass as full as they wish.”

Rick – “What if people argue when it’s their shout Cool Hand?”

Me – “Every time you’re asking a bloke to put his hand in his pocket to provide you with beer, there’s going to be a momentary push-back – IT’S YOUR F#CKING SHOUT MACCA, will automatically be responded by something akin to – NO F#CKING WAY, I GOT THE SECOND LAST ONE. The person you’re calling out, always has a right to defend himself initially, then you work out whose turn it actually is. It’s very structured.”

Rick – “What if people try to avoid their shout?”

Me – “Rick, an under-shouter is the lowest form of life in an Aussie bar setting. “Whisperers” (because they under-shout) are like an All-Blacks fan, a soccer injury-feigner and a Steve Irwin-hater, rolled into one. You have the right to lambast with lines like – MACCA WOULDN’T SHOUT IF A SHARK BIT HIM.”

Rick – “Does every group have a Whisperer?”

Me – “Unfortunately they do in “Hornswood” just like everywhere else Rick. So don’t be naïve. Watch them like Delta Goodrem watches a muscular, young male contestant on The Voice. They will tend to be the same Whisperers, so you’ll know who to hawk.”

Rick – “Do over-shouters exist Cool Hand?”

Me – “Despite their best intentions, a “Bellower” (over-shouter) causes nearly as much chaos as a Whisperer. If some brief discussion is going on as to whose turn it is and a “Bellower” says “I’ll go”, it screws up the order completely and lets the Whisperer temporarily out of his shout.”

Rick – “What if I want to stop drinking?”

Me – “It’d just be dumb to ever drink more than you feel comfortable with Rick. Really dumb. You can stop after your shout.”

Rick – “What if somebody is drinking faster than everybody else?”

Me – “They get themselves a “wedgie”, a personal in-between-shout. This has no impact on the rights and obligations of the regular shout however.”

Rick – “What if everybody else is ready for another and I’m still drinking?”

Me – “As irresponsible as it sounds, if you are in the shout, you have to roughly keep pace, or drop out.”

Rick – “Cool Hand what if somebody asks for a bourbon and coke?”

Me – “Despite many shouters getting annoyed at this, bottom-shelf spirits are roughly the same price as beers, so let it pass. However, you are entitled to complain about the extra effort – OH FOR F#CKS SAKE MACCA. WHAT AM I YOUR F#CKING SERVING BOY?”

With all due respect to actual serving boys.

Rick – “What about offering waters with my shout?”

Me – “Very responsible, but unfortunately likely to be met with derision. When you are shouting, just scull two glasses of water yourself while you’re at the bar. If somebody throws in – CAN I HAVE A WATER ALSO? You reply – OH FOR F#CKS SAKE MACCA. WHAT AM I YOUR F#CKING SERVING BOY?”

Rick – “What if somebody is drinking softies?”

Me – “Coke Zero comes cheap, but not free. However, softies are excluded from the shouting process. So if your mate asks for one, you are obligated to get him one and he doesn’t have to shout-partake. But you are permitted to get up him in lieu of a drink – F#CKING HELL MACCA! GET IN THE F#CKING SHOUT OR GET OUT OF IT.”

Rick – “Thanks Cool Hand. You’re generously explaining things that could take years to learn myself, if at all.”

Me – “Don’t mention it mate. Just being a good man is thanks enough. Look after your family and remember… shout responsibly.”

Thanks for reading. I’ve put my heart and soul down in words, for you. Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream of being able to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer.

If you could Share via the buttons below, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase. 

For a little while my blogging may have a different theme. Meaning, for a little while my blogging may actually have a theme.

THINGS I WISH SOMEBODY HAD TOLD ME AT TWENTY: PART I

DEALING POKER (AND MOST CARD GAMES)

An old friend at the Rugby, introduced me to her neighbour Sandy from Hornswood (being the dynamic little suburbs from Hornsby and Chatswood).

In quite a moving way, Sandy proceeded to explain to me that her husband walked out 13 years ago and left her to raise her seven-year-old son and two slightly older daughters. I was wondering why she was sideline-baring her soul to me and was a tad nervous she was a bit of a nutter (which it turned out she wasn’t). Luckily she got me at half-time, so she had my full attention.

She told me her son Rick is smart, caring and gentle and she’s incredibly proud of him, but having grown up with three women, he’s socially… (she was looking for the right term).

Me – “Socially shithouse?”

Sandy – “Awkward”, (damn, I shouldn’t have suggested a word). “I’m concerned Rick doesn’t yet know what it means to be a man, especially in social settings”.

I nodded as she spoke.

Me – “Does he support NRL or Rugby? I know Sea Eagles and the Aussie Super Rugby teams are in a bit of a slump, but club Rugby is amazi-”

Sandy (interjecting) – “Soccer”.

Me – “Oh dear. Ok then, has he never seen a bloke publically get up an old mate who’s put on a heap of weight?”

Sandy – “Absolutely not”.

Me – “Shit. He’s never been told on the sideline with a bloody nose, I know you’re hurtin’ son but you have to go back on, your team needs you?”

Sandy (her lip trembled) – “He plays tennis”.

Me – “Aaah. Never learnt the basics of poker?”

Sandy – “Hearts.”

Me – “Yikes. He does need some help. Doesn’t know he can piss in the backyard if it’s just too far to walk back to the house?”

Sandy – “I didn’t know that was a thing.”

Me – “Oh it’s a thing. Never seen a bloke lying hung-over on the couch, wasting a perfectly good Sunday after having been out with the lads the previous night?”

Sandy – “No! He doesn’t know any of that! Could you write some blogs on things my twenty-year-old son should know? He won’t listen to me, even if I knew what to tell him.”

I thought, sipped my latte and subtly checked how many minutes before the second-half started.

Me – “Sandy I’d love to help Rick, especially the stuff he probably won’t find written about by anyone else.”

She hugged me and left. Lindfield kicked off.

THINGS I WISH SOMEBODY HAD TOLD ME AT TWENTY

POKER DEALING

Rick, there is one overriding principle you should learn early and practice often, as it will make your life-progression much smoother and easier.

Don’t annoy the older blokes!

Let me give an example.

It’s best to go through life never gambling.

In the same way it’s best to go through life – never getting on the piss, never having a ciggie, never eating KFC, never getting stoned, never skipping lectures, never having a messy room, never vomiting in your mum’s Maidenhair Fern, never getting fired, never coming home with one shoe and never coveting your mate’s girlfriend. But realistically Rick, that shit happens when you’re twenty.

There will inevitably be a time that you’re playing poker, whether it’s at the local pub, on a buck’s or in your mate’s garage. There’s one piece of etiquette which must be heeded to not give the absolute shits to the older blokes (those of us who do know poker).

When you’re dealing, DON’T… FLIP… THE… CARD… TOWARDS… YOU… and NEVER LOOK AT IT FIRST.

If you’re dealing you must flip the card away from you, towards your opponents. And you must flip it quickly and don’t look at it before the other players.

This sounds to non-poker players, a small thing. However to poker-experienced men, small it is not. A “deal-peeper” is generally either a newbie (if that’s the case you probably should prepare for a night of really hard lessons) or just doesn’t give a shit about common poker courtesy. Both of which you want to avoid. A “deal-peeper” unfairly gaining that one extra moment to decide on a “clever” comment like “you got a hand like a foot” or “you played that like a vegan”, is unacceptable.

Don’t go pissin’-off the older blokes at poker.

Another important part of poker Rick, is knowing how your chip stack compares to everybody else’s. So it’s polite to stack yours so all players can quickly see how many/much you have at any time. There is nothing more freaken annoying than some bloke who conceals his valuable chips behind a wall of red ones, hiding it like it’s his f#cking Browsing History! Nobody’s going to steal them! You’re not building the Trojan Wall out of Lego!

Put your chips in rows, by colour, so we can all see instantly what each other have got and get on with the game.

Rick when my brother and I in the early 90’s had to travel to Campsie, Marrickville and Blacktown to play cash-games in the homes of dodgy blokes of… ill-repute, we luckily knew to flip the cards away from us, without looking at them and didn’t try to hide our chips. Luckily. Can’t say the same for our old mate Brett “Deal Peeper” Jorgenson… God I miss him (just joking, he’s fine… now).

Welcome to being a man Rick! It’s amazing, but it comes with certain obligations. One of which is don’t annoy the older blokes! More things I wish somebody’d told me at twenty, to follow.

Thanks for reading. I’ve put my heart and soul down in words, for you. Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream of being able to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer.

If you could Share via the buttons below, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase.