Please, Let Me Kill You – Or At Least Get Angry At You a Bit

A newly formed habit gradually creeps up on you. You wake up, pick your nose, roll it between your thumb and forefinger and drop it over the side of your bed. It’s only when you vacuum and it sounds like you’re sucking up scattered sand that you realise you’ve been rolling snot and dropping it next to your bed for pretty much as long as you can remember.

‘You can relax, little one. The chiwawa is gone.’

Of course, probably, when you become aware of your new lazy-arsed, snot rolling and dropping habit, you’ll stop – although there will always be something satisfying about mining out a booger the size of a small cockroach. But what if you’ve formed a new habit that you just can’t shake, like wishing a stranger would outrage you enough so you can kill them?

Men, Get the F##k Off the Couch and Do Some Housework

The majority of guys are lazy, sooky, mummy’s boys. Don’t believe me? Have a conversation with any woman in a relationship with a dude and you can bet pretty much most of them will say their man does absolutely nothing around the house. And they mean nothing. As in doesn’t lift a God-damn finger, nothing.

How does this happen? How do two people get to the point where it seems totally normal for one to do every piece of housework while the other doesn’t do any? To me, it sounds like utter insanity.

Beers and Spray Tans

‘Wow, I look pretty good for 37!’

I’m going to tell you something I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone, ever. And to be honest, I’m a little nervous about it. However I feel this is a safe place. A place of non-judgment. Somewhere we can let it all dangle in the breeze and save our sniggering for later when we aren’t around each other. Not that I do that of course.

Turning Into a Caveman

Are you scared yet? You should be.

I get a varied response when I tell people I go to Caveman Training. The first is usually one of confusion, understandably, and then it’s often a jump to believing I attend some kind of new-age, men’s group where we dress in nothing but a piece of bark over our junk and try to reclaim our lost masculinity. And while dressing like that does sound kind of fun, although a little drafty now that winter is drawing close, Caveman Training isn’t a new-age men’s group, it’s a place where I go for motivation, inspiration, hardship, pain, euphoria, tears, sweat, satisfaction, mateship and maybe a little bit of vomit. And the reason I’m telling you about this is because it’s changed my life.

Man. You’re A Real Mate

The other day I witnessed one of the most masculine displays of emotional outpouring I’ve ever seen. That’s right, masculine and emotional. Some say those two words don’t mix, like mixed-netball and enjoyment, but after what I saw I can guarantee you they do.

To be fair to my argument the man getting all emotional was Hugh Jackman. That guy could be getting a man-Brazilian and make it look blokey – except when he dances. Stop the dancing Hugh. Stop that right now. It was during a 60 minutes interview and after being asked a few questions about his father he began to tear up. Rather than stopping or trying to hide the tears, he wiped them away and said “Sorry mate,” to the interviewer and continued on.

Stop the Black Dog

Today it’s been exactly seven years since an ex-girlfriend of mine committed suicide.

I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for me, or I’m trying to ruin your day by dragging you along to feel shit with me. It’s more I feel the need to try and explain why after seven years it’s still present in my mind, especially today, as I’m sure it is for everyone who was involved within our lives back then.

Suicide doesn’t simply go away when someone dies, as I’m sure you already know. I can wholeheartedly vouch for that, and I’m sure the parents of my ex-girlfriend can vouch for that too.

There can be no self doubt.

There can be no self doubt.

Is self doubt making you rethink your path? Shut up and watch this.

Freebies? Are You Kidding?

Honey? Should my new toothbrush make my teeth smoke?

Remember freebies? I’ll bet you do. They were great, weren’t they? They created loyalty, excitement, and just a little bit of alcoholism.

Not anymore though. Getting a freebie from a business these days is like trying to catch a fart in a strainer – it’s just not gonna happen.

Back in the good old days, like, 2002, I could walk into every second bar and be greeted by a smiling, beady eyed manager who would ply me full of free booze.

Say Goodbye to the Nightly Guilt Train

"You're a shit person. A shit shit shitty shit shitty shit person!"

So, my T.V. broke a few weeks back. I know, right?! But please, calm down. No seriously, you can calm down. Stop running around your living room – or toilet or wherever, how do I know where you read stuff on your computer?! – with your arms up in the air and screaming at the absolute horror. Wow. Ok. You really are upset. Jesus Christ, CALM DOWN! It’s gonna be alright.

At the time of it actually breaking I simply stayed sitting on the couch and looked at my own reflection in the black screen for a while, hoping the team from NCIS would suddenly just reappear. They didn’t. I tried turning it off, then on, then on and off at the wall, then shook the remote and tried it all again. And that’s it. That’s all I had. I’m the first to admit the technology in my house may as well be run by magic, or tiny sexy fairies, because other than pushing a button to make it go I have absolutely no concept of how something like a television works. In the end I had to face the fact that it was indeed broken, and also that I’d never get to see who killed the latest unlucky Marine.

The thing is, the next day I didn’t race out and buy the first moving screen thingy I could find, and I still haven’t. Now three weeks on I’m starting to notice a few changes in my life. Big changes. Emotional changes.

Men Are Stupid

I wanna be a caveman – they get to wear sexy dresses.

Men are stupid. Yeah, I’ve heard that sentiment before. And most of the time I’d have to agree. However in saying that, I don’t blame anyone for thinking it. Much of our behaviour can come across as childish in an I-like-to-hit-things-with-my-caveman-club kind of way.

Over the last week I’ve had two questions posed to me. The first being – ‘What is it with men and jets?’ and the second being – ‘What is it with men and ribs?’

The first question comes in context from my city’s River Fire Spectacular.

Sudden Fame and Photos of Your Junk

‘You aint seen nothing yet, Queeny’.

It’s all over the news today that Kate Middleton’s sister, Pippa, went topless during a holiday with Kate and Will in Ibiza five years ago. There just happened to be a few (probably thousand) photographers floating around nearby to take some happy snaps.

There’s a few glaring questions; like why the hell didn’t she contemplate the amount of paps obviously around (duh), and is it actually cool to get your norgs out in front of your sister’s boyfriend? But there’s also another issue:

How do you plan for sudden fame?

Pink Jobs, Blue Jobs

‘My old enemy, we meet again.’

It’s safe to say society has changed since the middle ages. We have running water, garbage trucks, and the ability to check Facebook from the comfort of our own beds. The days of brushing our teeth with charcoal and having to marry the first person we accidentally knock-up, or get knocked-up by, are way behind us.

I Think I Hear My Youth Screaming Goodbye

‘Hey, I’ve got your enthusiasm right here.’

We’re all getting older.

You’re now older than you were since you just read that line. Now you’re even older again. It’s unavoidable. Like a hangover, or farting in bed.

I mean, we all know we’re on a constantly ticking journey towards a tearful eulogy and eager relatives at our will reading, but there are some parts of growing older that seem to sneak up on you. You turn around and suddenly bam! Father time has kicked you in the balls and stolen a few things that you once held closely and dearly to your younger, more enthusiastic self.

Holiday in Hell: You Won’t Want to Leave

You should totally check out my specials on Wotif!

For my next holiday I’m going to hell.

No seriously, I am. With all the so called ‘bad’ behaviour increasingly getting hoovered out of our lives via constant public service announcements and thousands of years worth of God praising, I reckon we need a bit of time off to suck up the sulphur fumes of Lucifer’s chalky farts and let the good times roll.

It won’t be good for us – but shit it’ll be fun.

It seems more and more people are deciding to not only take a relaxing holiday, but are also deciding to tell their holier-than-thou everyday life to get the hell out of their face for a while.

We’re Two Steps Away From Crazy

Jump for crazy.

Sometimes I believe I’m two steps away from wearing a garbage bag for a shirt and yelling at cars.

The more I look around my sweaty, nudging, city the more I realise we’re all only two steps away from crazy. Every block or so I’ll see someone executing behaviour that makes me pause, and say why, for Jesus’ knickers on earth, would any normal person be doing what I’m witnessing?

Dear Lack of Confidence

Feel the confidence. Feel it right in your bright red undies.

Dear Lack of Confidence,

I hope your day is going well. I’m just dropping you a line because I believe we have some long awaited issues to discuss, and it’s always easier to write it out, rather than talk about it over coffee, or a beer. Discussions such as this have the ability to suddenly turn into a public outburst of defensiveness and fear, which I’m sure you wouldn’t want on display.

I guess I should just get to the point of why I’m writing instead of hedging my words, I know how infuriating that can be – sorry, I’m doing it again. The reason I’m writing to you, Lack of Confidence, is that I know we’ve been part of each other’s lives for as long as we can both remember, but I feel I’m outgrowing you.

This is going to hurt, and I apologize, but you haven’t been the best friend over the last 35 years.

Diary Of A Scared Kid

Damn! The Little Mermaid is scary shit!

A while ago whilst driving through the outback on the way to a wedding, I passed a little hotel with a sign on the roof stating ‘Grey Nomads welcome’. Now, I can be a bit naive at times and my first reaction conjured up thoughts of bikers piling in at sunset to bathe in Jack Daniels and watch their skanks pole dance on the pool tables. ‘Shit, we must be in biker country,’ I said to my girlfriend while studying the road behind in the mirror. It wasn’t until my much smarter and streetwise girlfriend let me in on the secret that Grey Nomads were actually elderly people travelling around Australia in camper-vans making the most of their retirement, that I started to relax.

‘Are you scared of motorcycle gangs or something?’ she asked. ‘No’, I replied maybe a little too quickly.

One Man Salad Please, With Extra Balls.

Sneaky camouflage salad.

What is a Man Salad?

A man salad, according to one of my mates, is a salad you would be comfortable eating in front of a group of other blokes.

Sounds simple enough in this age of readily available moisturiser and brutes getting pedicures on their Bali holidays – on the insistence of their girlfriends of course – however a Man Salad is a difficult and slippery concept, and one that if executed wrongly will make you run screaming to the nearest pie shop in shame.

Where is that fine line between a salad that gets a laugh and condolences over the tragedy of your lunch, and one that looks good enough to get jealous stares and guilty glances at our own bloated beer-guts?

Real Men Don’t Read Harry Potter

Harry, your wand has obviously grown with age.

I went to see the latest Harry Potter the other week. I’ve seen them all. Right from when Daniel Radcliffe looked like a little half man, half boy, leprechaun, with a voice to match, right up until now where he looks … actually, the same I guess.

Before I anger the diehard fans out there and end up being accosted in the street with ‘arseaholeous’ spells being thrown in my direction, I must say, I really like the movies. Before watching the most recent film I went out and actually watched all of them over again. And by the end of it I actually thought for a moment I could perhaps be a wizard, until my girlfriend got over me pointing a chopstick at her and saying the word ‘clothesoffious’ with different inflections and force. Sadly I had to concede the whole notion was fantasy.

What’s Your Porn?

So earlier today I was thinking about porn.

It’s not what you think – although with that opening I can’t blame you for going there. I don’t mean the old school magazine kind that would get handed around between sweaty confused teenage boys. And not the triple X kind that’s so readily available online it’s a wonder that 99% of men the world over actually make it to work every day, rather than hiding away with the curtains drawn riding out waves of pleasure and guilt.

I’m talking about porn of another sort – Personal porn.

Personal porn is something that no matter what you’re doing or how busy you are, when you see it you just have to stop and stare, or indulge, as it were.