Did he leave a message?

Drunkest Man in the World

Myself and a number of good friends have just returned from a golf/stag weekend in the South West of Western Australia. The 4 day "tour" takes in 4 and a half rounds of golf , one 8 hour and two 12 hour drinking sessions, so requires a good level of stamina.

The only problem I have with these weekends is the total depression I feel at the conclusion. The school boy excitement I felt at 4am on Thursday morning when getting in the car for the 2 hour drive to the first tee has been replaced with a deep, dark, black dog depression. A confirmation, perhaps, of the endless studies on the effects of excessive alcohol on the mind and body. Whatever it is, I am struggling.

I did have a good laugh though whilst catching up on the emails with the video I present here. There are many versions out there with various mashups of sound, or trying to re-create what it would sound like (although generally the commentators repeat "oooo ... I shit my pants" a lot, which is actually not very funny) but I have selected the silent original version because, well, it speaks for itself.

All I can say is that I hope there were no CCTV cameras around the Dunsborough and Margaret River region over the last few days ... not that we achieved this level of pissedness (is that a word? It is now).

I dedicate this to the boys of the SCQT stag ... you know who you are!

Armstrong, Miller, Mitchell and Webb team up

Had to share this, one of my favourite comedy sketches is the WWII pilots from Armstrong and Miller ... if you have not seen this then look it up on youtube or some shit like that.

Here is the 2009 Comic Relief sketch ... isn't it

Standard

Royle Family vs Royal Family

Like many people I love the Royle Family, there is something very familiar to many of us, especially the English (and more specifically the Northern English). I love how the creators make sitting round watching TV so fascinatingly funny. If you have not watched the show then where have you been? Go out, this minute, and buy it.

It was inevitable that there would be some spoof take offs too. Without a shadow of a doubt the best and funniest is Alistair McGowan and Roni Ancona in the Big Impression.

Anyway, I won't go on ... I'll let them speak for themselves ...

The Royle Family - Red Nose Day Special 2009

The Royal Family - McGowans Big Impression

Living Statues

A lot has been said in the past about living statues. I hate them, not all of them. I have a healthy regard for anyone who can stand perfectly still for an extended period of time.

But there is one living "statue" in Perth which irks me. She can usually be found standing on a box painted silver in the Murray Street mall. Now I would like to take her to task on her "statue" skills

When I were a lad, "living statues" were to be amazed at for their ability to stand completely still. People focus mesmerised for 10-15 minutes trying to spot any slight movements. Not seeing any movement was worthy of a couple of bucks.

This one, on the other hand, feels that moving very slowly is a suitable alternative ... IT ISN'T

Then there are the tactics, she focusses on the kiddies, encouraging them over with a slow, deliberate finger movement (if I were the kids, I would reciprocate with an entirely different finger gesture). Then sprinkles some glitter in their hands and smiles slowly. That's it ... and people run up and pay for this shit?

So, if you want to make money in this manner, here is the basic receipe:

1. Paint yourself silver all over
2. Put on a silver suit and some silver wings
3. Fill a little silver bag with glitter
4. Stand on a silver box with a silver money receptacle
5. Move around slowly, blink often (but slowly)
6. Get money from gullible tourists

Maybe there is hope for us all when talentless bint like that can make a crust by doing nothing special but making a twat of herself in front of total strangers.

Men don't take advice

It's true, we don't ... I could go on about reading maps or instruction books like everyone else but I have a more personal experience to relay.

A few years ago on another enthusiastic but ill-fated health kick I purchased a proper racing bike ... not a Target cheapy, a proper one from a proper bike shop with biking people and everything. It is orange (I still have it, albeit in the garage covered in dust) and weighs as much as a hungry church mouse with three legs and no tail. It also has those pedals which require special shoes which make you walk as if you have a carrot stuck up your arse. You know the ones, the cube thing on the bottom that clips in.

Anyway, when I collected the bike the sales man gave me some advice ... practice on a quiet road first to get the hang of unlocking your shoes from the pedals. Then he tried to demonstrate, of course being a man I didn't need this demonstration, after all, I know how to get on and off a bike! How hard can it be?.

In the haze of that initial excitement one always gets in the first 10 minutes of owning something new, I decided to take it for a spin, just a short one to start. If I had my time again I would not have chosen a popular beach.

Things started off brilliantly, the bike was very quick and easy to ride (something to do with the wheels apparently), I flew down to the beach, glided along the coast bike path until I reached my destination. The clock tower at Scarborough Beach. At this time the beach front area was being regenerated (it's very nice down there now if anyone is interested). By this time I was cocky, riding in that slow, swaying style they do in the Velodrome where they stare at each other then start pegging it.

Then it happened. I had to stop for a truck coming out of the building site, in my defense it did take me by surprise. I had to quickly brake and put my foot down, which of course I was not able to do. In the panic of the moment I could not connect brain to foot quick enough to tell it to twist. So I just frantically tried to lift it, but nothing. As I slowly started to keel over towards the tarmac, all I could think was, don't damage the bike, don't damage the bike, before deciding that the right shoulder region would be the best place to take the inevitable blow. By now it was like slow motion, which seems to be gods way of ensuring maximum embarrassment.

THUD! followed by a succession of sniggers and gufaws emanating from the throngs of workers who all conveniently seemed to be on a fag break at the time (do they ever work?). Picking up my bike, head bowed and directed away from any human being around I reflected on the advice given to me by the bike shop salesman as I limped away with my body and my pride hurt (but not a scratch on the bike!!).

So will I learn my lesson? Probably not ...

Expat Supporters

Why is it that when one moves to another country one all of a sudden takes an interest in sports which they (rightly) previously thought rubbish.

I am referring to myself in this case. I grew up in the north of England (Yorkshire), the extent of my sporting interests were restricted to, well, football (or, *shudders*, "soccer"). My school didn't even have a cricket team as far as I remember, Rugby League was frowned upon and only the school neanderthals played Rugby Union (the thought of someone using my face to plough the pitch was not overly appealing).

As soon as I moved to Australia I took an interest in any sport involving England which also has an Aussie team. Most notably Cricket and Rugby Union. How we rejoiced in November 2003 when England beat the Aussies in the Rugby World Cup Final (which Englishman didn't shed tears of joy when Jonny Wilkinson put over THAT fieldgoal?). We jumped with Joy as Freddie demolished the Australian batsmen in the 2005 Ashes and winced with embarrassment at the 2007 debacle which followed.

I have also become somewhat of an expert on the sports too. What looks like a bunch of yeti's piling into a bar fight is now referred to as a ruck. I even know what a wrong-un and a googly is. I can chat for hours about strategy and technique with the best of them and I even know that Rugby has rules.

So why then? Why do I get a lump in my throat for glorious victory? Why do I care about going to work the day after a thrashing? I have 3 theories here:

1. It's because I am English and I am sick of waiting for another 1966 to happen and just want to celebrate a win of some description in a World Cup (even though there is only one competition with the participation rate to be truly called "The World Cup" ... but don't get me started on that one :))
2. It's because I am an Englishman living in Australia and I want to see Australia lose at everything because they are such shocking losers and even worse winners.
3. I can't stand the stupid names Australians insist on calling themselves such as "Socceroos" or "Wallabies" (Not one of the Rugby team looks cute and cuddly)

Whatever the reasons ....

Come on England!!

Come on whoever is playing Australia!!