Archive for March, 2009

Do you think Kevin Rudd resembles Harry Potter?

Whilst on the subject of small penis syndrome, don’t you think Australian prime minister Kevin Rudd resembles an older Harry Potter?

Beneath the nerd glasses lies abs of steel

Beneath the nerd glasses lies abs of steel

Harry has always been a fan of Angus Young

Harry has always been a fan of Angus Young


March 31, 2009 at 12:41 pm 3 comments

Do Bikie Gangs in Australia Have Small Penis Syndrome?

On Sunday 22nd March, a bikie gang brawl at Sydney airport resulted in one  gang member, Anthony Zervas being beaten to death. On Monday March 30, Anthony’s brother Peter was shot down in the driveway of his family home in Western Sydney.

The police said this was the result of an ongoing feud between rival Hell’s Angels and Comancheros bikie gangs.

When is this going to stop? When will Australian’s finally feel safe walking around their own neighbourhood? It is disgusting to know that the shooting occurred in a residential area around children.

But we need to ask, why do people join bikie gangs in the first place?

I can’t understand their urge to join an alternative subculture, shun society and say fuck you to the rest of the world.

Were they bullied at school because of their man-boobs? Or breast-fed til they were 14? Or do they simply have small penis syndrome and are angry at the rest of the world?

Bazza's ridicule lasted into adulthood

Bazza's ridicule lasted into adulthood

Gang members claim that they are ‘motorycycle enthusiasts who share a common interest’.

What’s the common interest? We all have one inch in our pants and don’t care about our manboobs?

If you are so insecure that you need to appear tough and intimidate the rest of society, then do so peacefully and join Second Life as a bullying avatar.

March 31, 2009 at 8:40 am 1 comment

The Six Types of Drunk Dancer

Are we human, or are we dancer?

We played a gig at St Marys Leagues Club last Saturday night. (side note: you know you’ve made it in the music industry when you’ve played that club). St Marys is a western Sydney suburb, about 1 hour drive west of the city, 9935 miles from America. The Leagues Club is typical of a good standard Australian RSL/footy club with cheap beer, fast salmonella-free bistro and plenty of pokies.

Don’t get me wrong, it was actually a pretty good gig and the oldies there really loved us. Now, I’m not pretending to be an eastern-suburbs snob now that I’m living in Bondi, but it’s always good fun watching the oldies out in the western suburbs really rocking out to a good tune.

So, whilst on stage (we were on for a good 3 hours), I watched the dancers and segregated them into six groups based on their dancing styles. Who said men couldn’t multi task?

Sharon was practing for "So you think you can dance" auditions

Sharon used this as an opportunity to rehearse for her "So You Think You Can Dance" audition

The Six Types of Drunk Dancer

The Handbag Dancer – Typically a younger, style-conscious, female. Found shuffling on the dance floor clutching her imitation-Gucci handbag with stiff, unmoving arms. Often also falls under the Non-Smiler category.

The Reality Show Wannabe – The glammed-up dancer that spent their weeknights practicing their disco moves in front of the mirror. Now that they have an audience, the Britney and Jennifer moves can break out.

Inappropriate Salsa Dancers – Couples busting out with salsa/tango moves to totally inappropriate music. Obviously had dance classes during the week and thought that this was a perfect opportunity to practice their moves. Unfortunately, Green Day’s ‘Welcome to Paradise’ is hardly ideal to gain confidence in Double Reverse Spins.

The Non-Smiler – These dancers bop around – pulling out the great moves, but with a serious “I have to appear cool by not smiling” look on their face. This unfortunately often translates to looking like they just found out their cat passed away from diabetes.

The Head Nodder – Typically blokes, the Head Nodder doesn’t have any other moves in their inventory but nodding their head out of time to the music. Classic stance is keeping their hands in pockets. Often there because of the close presence of HandBag Dancers.

Wannabe Black Dancers – Wannabe Black Dancers attempt the same pre-rehearsed hip-hop moves to every song. However, they have two problems. 1, They’re not black. 2, They can’t dance

Drunk sluts – Obviously out to get laid, the drunk sluts will rub against and dirty-dance with any guy that looks twice at them.

March 24, 2009 at 8:29 am 1 comment

Hangovers in London and insane Fleet Street cabbies

So I’ve been back in Australia for the past 5 months now. During this time, I’m now leaner, healthier, fitter, and can run from Bondi Beach to Tamarama Beach along the clifftops and back without the need for pre-warming up my personal pocket defibrillator.

Living in Australia does that too you though doesn’t it? It brings out the fitness freak in anyone.

My 3.5 years in London were pretty much spent traveling in a sweaty crowded tube to the pub, drinking at the pub, walking home from the pub or spending my waking hours at the office looking forward to the above 3 activities after work.

The problem is, the Brits just love a drink don’t they?

Give a Brit the option of going to his 5 year old daughter’s birthday party, or hanging out at the pub with James and Charles (notice that every male Brit is called James or Charles?), and you’d have a friend with one very disappointed daughter.

If I ever suggested to my Brit friends that perhaps we should slow down with our drinking and not drink on Monday’s anymore, they’d assume I’d had either one too many beers or had found Jesus.

But the problem is, they don’t see it as a problem….their bodies are just accustomed to it.  I once went on a Monday night bender with a good mate of mine Ranga.

The events of the night in bullet points essentially went as follows:

  • “See yas later” to everyone in the office
  • A nice quiet pint at the Crown
  • A nice lovely pub dinner at the Crown
  • 3 ‘after dinner’ drinks at The People’s Republic
  • 2 slow-burning ‘after dinner drinks’ beers at the Frog
  • 2 stubbies of VB at Temple Walkie (yes you can actually get it there)
  • 1 very “fuck this is burning my throat coz I just spewed and swallowed it” pint of snakie
  • A line of white naughty stuff in the dunnies
  • Topped off by 3 more beers to wash everything down

We’d then proceed to make our way home by flagging a cab and heading back to Clapham.

Are taxi drivers the smartest creatures in the world? Imagine – you’re driving Mertie (your beloved black cab of 3 years) along Fleet Street at 2 am on  Tuesday morning looking for another fare.

Oh great, here’s two potential fares. Oh dear, one of them seems to have had a whoopsy on his polo shirt. Oh and the other one seems to be supporting himself with all 4 limbs. But bless the first one, he seems to be helping his friend up….nice Christian kindness. I better get these two home to their mum’s before they catch a cold.

If I were a cabbie and I saw Ranga and I that night, I’d have been out of Fleet Street faster than a pre-credit crunch investment banker with hindsight could remove his shares before the turmoil.

My point of this whole story is, that the next day, I woke up feeling like Paris Hilton’s gay pink poodle had the runs in my mouth (a typical Tuesday morning). I indifferently placed my puffed up cheeks next to the glass windows in the insanely over-crowded tube station at Clapham (more on London’s Tube over-crowding in future posts).

Do not take the London tube if you are hungover

Do not take the London tube if you are hungover

I staggered through the door in the office to find Ranga already there, tea-cup in hand, on the phone to a client discussing the latest monthly figures. No blood shot eyes, no accidents in the shower, no breath resembling the dark murky water that accumulates at the bottom of the crisper drawer in the fridge.

“O’ight Jeffro?”

He even had perfect hair.

March 20, 2009 at 3:51 pm Leave a comment

Chai-latte drinking qualities in a spouse

Is chai latte drinking a desirable aspect in a future spouse?

When considering potential partner-attributes, how much is too much of a quality? Where do you draw the line?

I had a beer last night with my old primary school friends KennyD and NavMan (they say hi by the way).

KennyD is looking for a girlfriend.

….on a side note, I thought I’d give a shout out to all my female readers out there. If you like smart, sophisticated, American computer scientists who like walks along the beach, Harley Davidson’s and can recite the periodic table of elements backwards (I’ve seen him do it at age 8, it’s actually very impressive. He can also do it in Latin)….then KennyD is your man. Email me for more details.

Karate and quadratic equations are KennyD's strengths

Karate and quadratic equations are KennyD's strengths

Anyhoo, KennyD has two new flatmate additions to his house. The first is a guy who is one of Australia’s leading graphic-designers specialising in 18th Century Stylistic Oriental Typography. He currently works the afternoon shift at Video Ezy as Senior Product Replacement Officer (he stacks shelves).

The second flatmate is a female who in KennyD’s words  is “a bit too arty”.

Hang on a minute. What exactly does “too arty” entail?

Don’t get me wrong, an ‘arty’ quality in a partner can definitely be a desirable attribute. I’m thinking modern apartments that feature nice hand-painted splashes of colour on framed canvas. You know, the kind that you see at the Tate Modern that look like a blind 3-year down-syndrome paraplegic painted with a paintbrush in his mouth….only to read the price tag ever so closely to see the painting valued at £500,000.

Sorry, getting sidetracked. The point is, how arty is too arty? Where do you draw the line and say “hang on a minute honey, no I don’t want to see the photography exhibition at the Australian Art Gallery this weekend featuring visual exhibits of the endangered Botswana tree frog.I’d rather go to the pub with Robbo instead.”

KennyD explained that she frequents establishments that specialise in chai latte’s.

We established last night that yes it is safe for KennyD to pursue this woman, but he should definitely draw the line if he ever sees her ordering an artificially sweetened soy chai latte with yeast-free Vegemite on wheat-free toast washed down with diet-sparkling water.

Thankfully, such specimens of female are strictly confined to Surry Hills.

March 19, 2009 at 12:28 pm 2 comments

Bungee Jumping over the Zambezi River and mates that always have a better story than you

Don’t you just hate it when you’re telling a yarn about something cool in your life and someone always has an even better story, faster car, cooler stereo, bigger MP3 collection, hairier dog, bigger caught fish,  spikier hair, funnier traveling stories or nastier scars than you?

One of my good mates Kenno typically always “out-story’s” me in pub-yarning.

Like the other day I was rambling on about a recent death defying, boxer short-soiling fishing adventure near Bondi Beach. You know, the type of scary rock-climbing adventures to get to your fishing spot that makes your life insurance company take out further business insurance.

Anyhoo…Kenno goes ‘that’s nothing, listen to this story about when I was bungee jumping over the Zambizi River.

20 of them from their hostel had signed up to this bungee jumping adventure in Zambezi, between Zimbabwe and Zambia. They had to proceed down this wiry little bridge that spanned two big cliffs. The bridge was the type of bridge straight out of Indiana Jones, with missing wooden planks.

The bungee instructor didn't fill them with confidence

The bungee instructor didn't fill them with confidence

They slowly made their way to the middle of the bridge where one of the instructors proceeded to tell them the day’s proceedings.

After the brief, the first person got ‘wired up’ in the bungee jumping sense. The bungee cord was attached to his leg with….guess it….an old beach towel that was rolled up, tired around his leg and tied to the cord.

So he jumped…survived…and the two instructors pulled the poor bugger up.

Next in line….

The SAME beach towel was taken off the bugger number 1, rolled up and retired to bugger number 2.

At this stage, the remainder of the group proceeded to simultaneously repeat Hail Mary’s.

And so, one by one, the instructors threw the poor sods off the bridge, each time re-tying the same beach towel to the next in line.

Kenno was number 13 in line, at the time he weighed over 110kgs. He went over, but the poor girl behind him subsequently had shat herself so much by this stage that she opted out.

I’ll stick to extreme-fishing.

March 18, 2009 at 10:19 am Leave a comment

The Cureheads in Teatro Caupolicán, Santiago, Chile.

Well….so I’ve been thinking and that previous theme will clearly not last more than one more post.

Back to back meetings all day today and I’m completely and utterly exhausted, and it’s not even home time yet! Proposals, WIP meetings, more proposals….

Continue Reading March 17, 2009 at 5:53 am Leave a comment

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