Thirty-five minutes

This is the mark my housemate Dennis, has set for me. If I beat 35 minutes, I will get an all expense paid meal at my home away from home.. The Village Belle/Doulton. Affectionately known as the dirty D.. or the Dolo. The happiest place in the world.

A few years ago I got into running. Not exactly because I’m some sort of fitness fanatic. But mainly because I have a tendency to blow out. Growing up, I was what you would say.. pudgy. Actually no. Fat is the term I was looking for. My nickname in primary school was sumo. Yep. True story. Children are horribly mean. And this was a name that was actually given to me by my mates.

Being single, the main aim to working out, is not to become “fit”. But to look fit. Fit enough to be attractive to the opposite sex. Or more to the point, not become fat, as to detract the opposite sex. This is the goal. So I started working out, and more to the point, started running. But then I started to enjoy it. Even getting to the point where I started participating in fun runs. Which I must admit is extremely rewarding. Not only the finishing, the resulting medal and the feeling that youve achieved something. But mainly because of the amount of fit girls that you are able to see.. In lycra. The concentration of fit young females in one place is unmatched. If you’re male. Fairly fit. And single (or not single.. whatevs). Do yourself a favour. Sign up to a fun run. Do it. Trust me. You will not be disappointed.  When you’re out there running, you’ll almost think its illegal how much quality tail you’re looking at.

I started off small. With a 5km fun run. Then decided, that was a little too easy. So I did a couple of 10k runs. After finishing those fairly decently, and having quite a good perve along the way, I wanted to do more. Irrationally, I had it set in my head, that in the next 12 months, I would build up to a half marathon (21km) and eventually, complete a full marathon (42km). Boy.. was I fucking wrong.

Somehow, I completely forgot that my lifestyle does not allow me to accomplish such physical feats. Basically, 2.0 loves a party. Fuck, 1.0 loved a party. This is what turned him into 2.0.  (In your life, did you ever think you’d ever be witness to someone refer to themselves in the 4th person? Well.. tick that box. Because it just happened).  Being single, champagning and campaigning is just what you do. You do it to meet girls. And you work out just enough to meet em. Then you champagne and campaign, and reverse all the good work you have done. I drink. I smoke. I party. I get pissed. Then I eat KFC. I love it. This kind of lifestyle doesn’t let you run a marathon. The thought shouldn’t even conceive in your head.

But alas. With irrational confidence, and the excitement of  running with bunnies, I signed up to a 14km run. Big mistake. I jumped up to 14km thinking I would  eventually ramp up to the half marathon mark. I even trained a little for it. But then the lifestyle got in the way. I had just moved out with a couple of mates, and lets just say those first few weeks were… loose. And it was coming into summer and the weather was starting to warm up. The heat. The partying. The lack of training. Anything after 10kms was a struggle. Struggle is an understatement. Struggle denotes that it was just hard. No. It fucking hurt. Not even the thousands of bunnies helped. The last 4km was painful.. Mentally, more than anything else. Now I understand how Jesus felt when he was tempted for 40 days and 40 nights in the desert. In my head, all I kept trying to fight was the demons saying “Just quit ya dickhead. Who gives a fuck? Just stop fucking running. walk off the fucking course. Grab yourself a beer and light up a dart”. But somehow, I managed to finish.

And that was that. Lesson was learnt. My ill-conceived notion of completing a marathon were dashed. Hell.. the half-marathon was out the window. Well for now anyways. Whilst I’m single. There is a fine balance between being single, loving to party.. and trying to look fit. I have come to the conclusion, that balance is 10km. Being somewhat fit enough to run 10km is the perfect mix, of somewhat looking fit, but still being able to drink, smoke darts, party, eat shit food – basically enjoy the luxuries of single life.

My brother in law recently started running  as well. But he actually dedicated himself, and became good at it.  And is about to run the Melbourne Marathon (the full 42km. the crazy fuck). His journey into the world of running is completely different to mine. Im pretty sure he  actually wanted to become fit. Not just look fit. He is married to my sister after all. (You can read about his running journey at  And thats the difference. If I could just party and enjoy the liberty and freedom thats associated with single life, and not have to work out. Then I would do it in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, this is not the case. So I have to tow the line and run where possible.

And this is where the 35 minutes comes in. I recently moved home, to where now, I am able to run home from work. It’s approximately 6 and a half km. The perfect distance to look fit, but actually be a fat fuck. It takes me about the same time to go home by public transport. And the way I see it, no matter what, I need to get home. So I may as well run home and get stupid exercising out of the way. And Yes. I am that douchebag running with a backpack. I started out, running home in about 45min. Then got it down to sub 40min. Depending on how hectic my weekend has been, the time varies from 38.43 (best) to 52.23 (worst. It was summer. and I’m pretty sure I was coming off a bender).

So my housemate Dennis has been kind enough to set me a challenge. He understands my love for food and my love of the drink. He also understands my love for the Village Belle/Doulton. Or more to the point, my love for the girls that work at the Village Belle/Doulton. So 35 minutes is the mark. Forget about half marathons or marathons. 35 minutes is my new running goal. If I run home in sub 35 minutes. I will be shouted an all expense paid meal at my beloved Dirty D. With my beloved wives behind the bar. And thats the point. My goal for running was never to become fit. But just do enough running to  perhaps, attract the girls behind the bar. And then reward myself by smashing a shit load of food and a copious amount of alcohol.


2.0 does the snow

I’m currently in the back seat, on a 5 hour car journey back home, from a week long trip at Victoria’s Mt Hotham alpine resort. The playground of the rich and decadent. It has been one of the best trips I have had and I feel there is a need to share 2.0’s first time at the snow. Ok. That was a gypsy lie. I have been to the snow before. But that was before the coma incident. So technically 2.0 did get his snow cherry popped. And let me tell you, there was a lot of blood…. The best thing about this; I’m going to share it in words… And pictures.. Awesome!

Before the voyage got underway, I compiled a list of objectives for 2.0’s first trip to the snow:

1. Become proficient at snowboarding.

2. Not get injured/die trying to accomplish the first goal.

3. For a week, forget about anything associated with being at home. Work or personal or other.

4. Party every night.

5. Fuck a snow bunny. Meet a nice young lady.

6. Hit the slopes and board in my onesie.

So with my bags packed and my goals set, on a chilly winter’s morning, I, along with seven others, set out on a 5 hour voyage to a much much colder place. I had booked this holiday in the summer. As this winter had been extremely cool and I wake up everyday cursing the cold and dreaming for heat, I had reservations leading up to the trip as to why the fuck I had not chosen for a holiday to somewhere warm. But instead choose to go somewhere even colder than it already fuckin was. By weeks end, I decided I had indeed made the right choice. I had managed to tick 5 of the 6 goals I had set before the trip. Pretty good strike rate if you ask me. I wont divulge as to which ones. I’ll let you decide as to which ones they are.



20130801_145644This is me. And yes. This is me wearing a onesie. And behind me wearing a onesie, is Mt Hotham. I had not been to Hotham before. But had heard many good things. A friend of mine wont shut the fuck up about it being some sort of magical winter wonderland. She wasn’t wrong. As soon as you arrive, the vibe changes. Everything slows and becomes laid back. Everyone is friendly. Although, it does seem like some sort of exclusive country club. With membership existing only to those with.. money. The private school kid types. This, is their playground.


20130731_104812This is me preparing to take off at the top of the run. And yes. I’m shitting myself. I have been to the snow before and was there just a few years back. And I have snowboarded. But since the coma incident, every time I have to do do something that I could do pre-coma, I basically have to relearn with my new body. I don’t have a new body. But I have new muscles. I lost 15 kilos of muscle during that coma stretch. And everything we do comes down to muscle memory. From walking. To picking up an object. Our muscles know exactly how much force to exert to complete said actions. In my head, I knew how to do these things. Unfortunately, my new muscles (or lack thereof)  did not. The first time I tried to walk post-coma, without assistance.. I swiftly fell over. So yes. In this pic, I’m quietly shitting myself.


20130801_103918This is me on a chairlift. And it quickly became my favourite part about snowboarding. Not just because of the picturesque views. But because of  the actual sitting down and resting. Snowboarding, especially if you don’t do it often, is painful. Fucking painful. You’re whole body aches. The strain on your legs. The falls. The cold. It all takes a massive toll on your body. By the second day, I could barely walk. But it was worth it. When you’re out there snowboarding down the mountain, you start to immensely enjoy going through the surreal beauty of the place. And then getting to the bottom. Just so you can sit down, rest, and enjoy the chairlift back to the top and do it all over again. So yes. this became the my favourite part of snowboarding.


20130801_150456-1This is me snowboarding in my onesie. Note the ease and extreme control. This was on day three. Day one was a lot different. It took me a day to confidently get down to the bottom and get on the beloved chairlift. The first day I mostly fell. A lot. I even bled on that first day. I took a pretty bad stack on day one. Straight on to my face. And my nose instantly started to piss blood. And it wouldn’t stop. I thought I may have broken my nose. For 5 minutes, I turned the white snow, pink. But It wasn’t broken and that was day one. To become proficient, you have to get that first stack out of the way,  just so you know, that even though you may draw blood.. Falling.. Is not so bad and you can get that fear out of your head. That’s how you learn.. That was day one. By day three. I was doing 360s in my onesie. Like a boss.


20130802_192615This is alcohol. Delicious. Refreshing alcohol. The routine at the snow quickly became to board during the day. Then drink all other times. A lifestyle I could quickly could get used to. We got up early and boarded till midday. Had lunch. Had a jagerbomb. Or four. Got back out onto the slopes til 4 when the lifts close. Then drink and party until we couldn’t feel feelings anymore. And then do it the next day. Its a splendid way of spending a week away.


horseheadThis is horse DJ. Or a DJ horse, whichever way you want to look at it. We partied on  the last night at one of the many local clubs/bars. That was surprisingly the best part about the place. It really was just one big party. The playground for the rich. People partying in their onesies. DJ’s with horseheads. It didnt matter. Everyone was just keen to get fucked up. Again, a lifestyle I could quickly get used to.. I may or may not have also been on acid this night. So this horseheaded DJ, may or may not have actually been real.


20130802_021059This is me. This is me passed out. This is me passed out with heels, a handbag and a cashmere shawl. Note the content happiness slapped on my face. For a whole week I was able to forget about home/life and all the problems/griefs associated with it. And Just enjoy my time away. Even if I was passed out. Wearing heels. A handbag. And what I later found out to be a cashmere shawl.. You couldnt wipe away the content happiness on my face.



On a chilly winter’s morning, eight people embarked on a five hour trip for six days and five nights of unrepentant fun at one mountain. Bonds were strengthened. Friendships were born. Blood was drawn. Alcohol was drunk. Shots were had. Drugs consumed. Vomit thrown up. Despite the fact I had chosen to go somewhere that was actually colder than the extremely cold winter we were already going through, It was one of the best weeks I have ever had. In this life. Or my first one.

I’m about to buy my own gear. It has been decided, that the drinking, drugs, partying snowboarding is definitely up to 2.0’s alley and I cannot wait to do it again next year.


N.B. One night it started to snow. I hadn’t actually seen it snow at night before. I cant put it down to being magical.. or extremely eerie. There’s something about the silence of snowfall that just makes  it kind of…  extremely odd.

Off the grid


Every morning (well Monday to Friday) I line up at the tram stop, see these same faces, and wait to board the tram to take me to work. Every face waiting for the tram tells the same story – It’s too early. Its too cold. And who could be fucked?

Except one particular morning. This one particlar morning, there was a face I had not seen before. It was of a man lying on the footpath. He was laid out in the sun enjoying its warm rays, whilst watching us all wait for the tram like a herd of sheep being led to the slaughterhouse. He laid there, in the sun’s warmth with a smug smile on his face. He was too well groomed and too well dressed to be homeless. Why was this fucker smiling? Why the fuck wasn’t he going to work like the rest of us suckers? And then it dawned on me. The smug motherfucker was off the grid.

Off the grid. What is this ‘off the grid’ you speak of? Good fucking question. Well there’s 2 types of off the grid..
1/ No job. No income. No home. No life. Homeless… or..
B/ No work. Disposable income. Has a home. A great life. Dead set legend.

A mate at work and I speak about option B a lot. When I say a lot. I mean every fucking day. Surely there is more to life than waking up early, five of the seven days of the week, just to make a wage, and really.. just to make some other fucker a rich fuck.. and basically, just wait for the weekend. Same shit. Different week. Day in, day out. Nothing fucking changes. I fucking hate Monday. Hate Tuesday. Hate Wednesday. Thursday is getting better? (but deep down, still fucking hate it). Love Friday. Well, Friday at 5 that is. (Friday at 5 is the best moment in the whole week.. why? cos its the furthest fucking point from having to return to fucking work again). Love a fucking Saturday. Love Sunday..  and cry Sunday night. Then repeat… Kill me. Kill me now.

This could have been a lot different. In life, you basically have 2 choices. You can live to work. Or you can work to live. I chose the latter. You know those people who rave on about how they love their jobs? They have these interesting jobs that they cannot shut the fuck up about?.. I hate these fucking people. Go away and die. I cruised (not surprisingly) through high school doing the absolute bare minimum, not really caring about anything except what was happening after school and/or on the weekend. And now I’m stuck in some, (granted, reasonably paying and highly rewarding, but ultimately) very monotonous sales job. I could seriously, wake up tomorrow and be fifty.

Why the hell do they keep insisting on fucking with our Monday to Fridays??!!

If only they had  mentioned this to me when I was a kid, I would’ve never had fucking signed up. First you’re a baby. Then you’re a toddler. Your monday to friday was an extension of the weekend. Then you go to school. And this is when they start fucking with your monday to fridays. Not as extreme as now I must admit, but that’s where it begins. School. This is when you begin to realize that your monday to friday will never ever be the same. The reason you go to school is so you can prepare yourself for the next step in life.. Work. This is the moment where your monday to fridays are never ever the same, ever the fuck again. Yeah I realize that some people work weekends, night shifts, 3 days on, 3 days off, 2 weeks on, 2 weeks off,  have RDOs (my personal favourite. my housemate is a tradie… fuck RDOs!), work overtime, part-time, from home, online, on the road, interstsate, overseas, blah blah blah whatevs.. But it all comes down to one thing, you still have to clock on and fucking work..

This is exactly what school was about. Monday to Friday you’re at school. You have the weekend off. And holidays. This occurs from ages 4 or 5 all the way to about 16, 17 and 18 (depending on circumstance)..Then you fuck around for a few years. During this semi-free period (and probably one of the best parts) of your life, some people get apprenticeships. Some get scholarships. Sponsorships. Internships.  Some get diplomas. Some get Degrees. Some get doctorates. Some.. (present company included).. don’t get shit.

And then you work. Depending on what you were able to ‘get’ in those years you were fucking around.. some work.. granted, is definitely much better than others. But no matter what; your monday to fridays are forever fucked. Yeah-yeah some people work weekends, night shifts, 3 days on, 3 days off,overtime, part-time, from home, online.. I fucking get it. But your freedom is still set by a clock. Your hours have been set. Just like, when you were at school. You were free from the hours between’ish/three-thirtyish – when the bell rings to go home.. Till about 830ish/9am’ish – when the bell rings, and you have to fucking go back again. And, you’re free all weekend. And you get holidays 4 times a year.

This is your freedom time. This is your small scale ‘off the grid’ time. This is the time that counts. Not your stupid monday to friday nine to five.. or whatever hours you’ve happened to set for yourself… This is the time that matters. During this time you do what you want. All the important things that matter in life. Spend time with the fam. Hang out with friends. Fall in love. Fall Out of love. Get married. Have kids. Take a trip. Eat out. Eat in. Go Interstate. Go overseas. Play sport. Play music. Play video games. See a play. Watch a film. Watch porn. Party. Get Pissed… whatevs. Do whatever the fuck you want.This is your freedom time.This is what matters.This is the real time. BUT.. just be sure you are back between those set hours. And just like at school, your personality and behaviour, between these set hours is much much different than when you’re on real time. Have you noticed how much different you act on real time? than when you’re on the clock? Its astonishing how much your behaviour changes. I bet, as soon as people clock off, they’re like “oi cunt fuck, fuck cunt”… okay. Too far? Im sorry. That was an extremely bad example. My apologies.. But you get my point yeah?

Yeah?.. ummmm.. I don’t even know the point I was trying to make anymore…

Oh yeah, that’s right..

Fuck you monday, you cunt fuck.

Sliding doors

Recently I was at the shops and was witness to a young checkout girl at Coles being verbally abused by a middle aged woman. Naturally.. I began to eavesdrop. The middle aged woman was basically cracking the shits because the toilet paper she had bought was 20cents above the advertised price. 20cents!!!? I immediately inferred that it wasn’t actually about the 20cents. I mean who gives a fuck about 20cents? If you found 20cents on the ground, would you even bother to pick it up? It definitely wasn’t about the checkout girl either, who seemed sweet and was very apologetic and courteous. It was the middle aged woman. You know the type. Bitter. Angry. Rude. Scorned? The type of person that would send meals back to the kitchen if she didn’t like it. The type of person who always requests to speak to a manager.. What in the world makes people this way? Was she abused as a child? Did her uncle touch her special place?? Perhaps she made a choice or a decision in the past that she now regrets 20 years on??? And now she feels the need to take out her frustration on an innocent 16year old…

Do you remember that movie ‘Sliding doors’, with Gwyneth Paltrow? Actually, better yet.. Have you actually seen that movie ‘Sliding doors’,with Gwyneth Paltrow? About a girl whose life is split into 2 parallel universes. All dependent on whether she got on a train or not. Basically.. If she catches the train- She meets a guy. They fall in love. Have child. Beautiful.. And if she doesn’t catch the train- Her boyfriend gets her preggers. She catches him cheating on her. They have child anyway. Terrible.

I’m by no means endorsing this film. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t nominated for an Oscar. Gwyneth is kinda hot I guess. In a girl next door kinda way. But that’s about it. It’s just another run of the mill, sappy romantic comedy. Nonetheless, the film does get you thinking about those moments in life where, had you done things differently, perhaps your life would be a lot different today. Perhaps you wouldn’t feel the need to now abuse a 16 year old checkout girl at the supermarket. Either your life would be for the better, or possibly be for the worse.. What if you did choose to do something differently? Every relationship. Every encounter. Every major event in your life. What if you actually asked her out? What if you didn’t break up with her? What if you didn’t force her to break up with you? What if you didn’t chase strippers? How different would your life be? In some far far.. extremely far.. faraway parallel universe, I’m probably happily married. With kids. 3 kids in fact. 3 girls. Brandy, Candy and Tammy-Lyn.

But this is not the case. I live in this universe. And who you are now is a direct result of all the choices (or non choices) you have made. I don’t have any regrets. None. Not even the coma incident. I admit. It was definitely stupid. And I hated the consequences. But fuck it. It’s who I am now. I even have a fucking tattoo on my arm commemorating it. So you cant look back and think, if only I did something different. Sure, in some other universe I may or may not have a beautiful wife and be happily married with 3 wonderful daughters (even if Brandy is a slut), but I regret nothing. I certainly do not feel the need to now abuse the 16year old checkout girl. (Although she was kinda cute.. Hmmmmm. No no. That’s terrible).

My dad once told me a story that before he decided to pack a suitcase at the age of 20, and come to Australia, that he had left behind a beautiful long term girlfriend (or girlfriends as my grandma would tell it). But he made a choice to come to Australia and leave his girl(s) behind, so his unbeknownst future 3 children would have a better life . I cant even fathom a decision like this. He decided to leave his life, family and friends behind and come to a new, unknown country by himself so his kids, who he doesnt even have yet, could have a better life (even if his daughter is a ….). Is this fucking crazy??  He also once yelled “Fuck you asshole!” at a maccas drive thru kid.. but that’s beside the point.

Back to that terrible movie with Gwyneth Paltrow. In the universe where gwyneth meets the love of her life, she also gets hit by a car. And is killed. So perhaps, what you thought may be right the choice. Wasn’t the right choice at all.

Born in the 80’s.. Grew up with dial up internet..

In the same year that saw the Ash Wednesday fires, Bob Hawke elected as prime minister, Return of the Jedi open in cinemas, the Chilli Peppers release their first album and the invention of crack cocaine.. I  too, was born. I seriously tried to research the events of 1983, and these were the best returns. Oh wait. The high court of Australia blocked the construction of the Franklin dam in Tasmania, and seat belts became mandatory in the United Kingdom..

Which means I was born in the 80’s and grew up in the 90’s.

In any developed country, this was by far the golden age to grow up in. Every generation you speak to will always defend their time because.. They simply know no better. But anyone older than us sat around a ham radio for entertainment?? And anyone younger, simply have no appreciation for.. well. pretty much anything. Us 90’s kids, grew up during the advancement of every single industry we take for granted today. Telecommunications. Transport. Entertainment. Gaming. Hospitality. Internet. Aviation. You name it. We grew up with it.

We saw the birth of the cordless phone, mobile phone, SMS, MMS,  flat screen TV, plasmas, LCD, LED, CD’s, DVD’s, MP3’s, MP4’s, MPEGs, AVIs, HD, 720p, 1080p, the internet, 54k dial up, wireless, broadband, DSL, ADSL, naked ADSL, ADSL2, 2g, 3g, 4g,  and every other single  acronym we use in modern day society.  We lived through and grew up with the birth of them all. Do you remember the home phone where you had to drag each individual number counter clockwise to dial out? What the fuck??  When you think about it now,  this is equal parts bizarre and equal parts hilarious. Now, we have smartphones. Where we basically run our entire life on one device. Need to update your Facebook status? Need to check the footy score? Need to find the number of that pizza place down the road? Need to see a video of a woman blowing a horse? To the smartphone! Did you know that less than 1%  of what we do on our smartphones, is actually used for calling someone? I just made this statistic up.. but you totes agreed. (And I just used the word totes. In context. Please excuse me while I go shoot myself in the face).

Technology isn’t the only advantage we had growing up in the 90’s. As kids, we had so much more fun than the kids of today. The kids of today are pussies. Correction. The parents of today are pussies. I have very fond memories of riding my BMX around the burbs with my primary school mates for an entire day. If you’re a parent now of a child in primary school, ask yourself if you would let your kid ride around on bikes for the whole day? Until it got dark? In a time when mobile phones did not exist? The answer would be no. Hell Fuck no. You wouldn’t even dream of it. (Although we had this luxury growing up, we also had the luxury of  physical punishment.. If we  did something wrong, we got the belt. Didn’t do your homework? Belt. You cursed? Belt. Answered back? Belt. Looked sideways? Candy.. No no.  Belt. By today’s standards, if you do something wrong? No internet for half an hour).

So what has changed? Are human beings worse now, thus needing us to protect our children more? Or are we just scared more? Personally, I think its a little from column A, and a little from column B. Actually, you could say column B is a direct derivative of column A. Even though we are a lot more politically correct than yesteryear; crimes also continue to rise every year. Did you know that 1 in 5 children in Australia are sexually assaulted by the time they are 18. I swear, I did not just make this up. Hugh Riminton just informed me of this on the late night news. And every week there seems to be a new story of some young lady that was sexually assaulted whilst she walked home in Melbourne’s north at night. (sidenote: If you’re a girl under the age of say 40. Actually.. lets make it a female of any age.  And you happen to be north of the river. DO NOT FUCKING WALK ANYWHERE ALONE!).

Why is crime, specifically sexual assualts, rising you say?.. Is it the population growth? More people. More crimes? No. In actual fact the percentage of crime per square capita in Melbourne has actually decreased. But the amount of sexual assaults has risen. Are we more perverted in today’s society? The answer is simply.. Yes. The advancement of technology and the wealth of information readily available, is helping groom the Adrian Max Baileys of the world. Sure, you cant smack your kids anymore, but the growth of the internet has allowed sexual deviants to fuel their desires. Back in the day, if you wanted to see porn, you had to trade your old man’s VHS tapes with your mates to watch some grainy footage of a girl with an afro bush having sex with a pool boy.. Nowadays, if you wanna see a girl blow a donkey whilst being violated by a midget?

Well you can just jump on your smartphone.

NB: When I began writing this entry, it was never intended to be a social commentry piece. It just happened to turn that way. I really just wanted to write about the joys of being born in the 80’s. For this I apologise. Wait. I take that apology back. Scroll to the top of this page.. see how it says “the incoherent rambling of an idiot”?? well.. 

What I do when I’m blackout drunk… is none of my business

Recently I celebrated my dirty 30th birthday. It was a lavish and decadent affair filled with music, drinks, laughter and good times… Well so I have been told. I remember none of this. My last clear memory of the evening, was actually welcoming guests early on in the night. No, I didn’t pass out.  I was not roofied. Wasn’t sick. And was there all the way till the end.

So, who is this person that inhabits our body when we are blackout drunk? It certainly isn’t me. I mean, if you cant remember.. then how can you be certain that it’s  really you? I have had plenty of blackout moments in my career. Probably more than the next person. And although I should probably be used to it by now. Its still scary when you wake up the next day and you cannot remember the events of the previous evening. Its still, damn right frightening. What would happen if something bad happened whilst you were blackout drunk? What if you hurt someone? Or..What if your blackout alter ego killed someone? Would this hold up in court? What if your blackout alter ego decided to slide down a handrail instead of walking down the stairs? Can you blame your alter ego on the consequences?

It would appear the answer would be no. By all accounts my blackout alter ego (and yes i’ve named him. his name is horatio) is actually not too bad of a guy. Fun. Outgoing. Confident. Loud. Always keen. Up for anything. Good for a laugh… I personally, do not like him. Well actually I haven’t met him. And never will. But I hate him. With a Passion. Horatio is the worst kind of human being. Selfish. Arrogant. Careless. He basically takes over the best part of my night/day/party. Has all the fun. Runs a muck. Then kindly leaves me with the ensuing repercussions. Hangover/comedown/injuries.. Worst. Bloke. Ever.

Once at a festival, I blacked out at about 1ish in the arvo. And then came to at about 7pm. On the dance floor. In the middle of a thousand people. Dancing. With a drink in one hand. And a cigarette in the other. What the fuck had I been doing for the previous 6 hours??? How the fuck did I come to have this drink in my hand??? And who the fuck lit this cigarette!?? Its kinda scary if you really think about it.

Which leads me to the coma incident. The best way I can explain the coma incident (see previous posts) is that its exactly like a blackout episode. Just with greater repercussions. I remember up to a certain point. Then it gets vague. I remember getting to the hotel with my brother in law and mates. Having drinks. Having shots. Then I remember being chauffeured in an ambulance from hospital to rehab. A full month later. I do not remember the strippers. Nor the chasing of the strippers. The sliding of the handrail.  The fall. Nor the ensuing month in hospital.. I remember everything before and everything after.

And this is why I hate Horatio. The guy has such a good time, dancing with thousands of people, chasing strippers, sliding down handrails. And then he’s gone and leaves me to pick up the pieces after. Prick doesn’t even leave me a postcard. Or thank you note. Its been over two years, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about that coma incident. Not so much the actual accident. But the aftermath. The impending grief it caused everyone. And the rehab. And the rehabilitation. And how it took 6 months of my life. Fuck Horatio.

Does this mean we will never see Horatio again? Apparently not.

He’s not ALL doom and gloom. Once, coming out of a blackout, I was actually in the company of a girl. Mid pash. And she was hot. Smoking Hot. I’m going to go with a 9.. So perhaps, Horatio isn’t such a bad guy after all. Perhaps hate is a strong word.

I really.. can only hope that Horatio and I, ONLY cross paths like THIS from now on..

“I’ve got 99 problems.. but a bitch aint one of them”

Yeah cheers. Thanks for that Jay-Z. Thank you for parting with me, such wise words of wisdom on how a real man should live.  It didn’t take me long to realise I am definitely not Jay- Z. Nor a real man it would seem… Since the beginning, the opposite sex is something that always intrigued me. I’m pretty sure I got in trouble for trying to kiss a girl in kindergarten. Kinderfuckingarten. That’s like five years old. What the hell was I thinking trying to kiss girls when I was five??? The only thing I should have been worrying about at that age were my army men. And whether I had enough Legos to build them a fort.

Fast forward through twenty-five years, and I pretty much still have the same mentality. Kiss the girl. Forget about the real things that matter. It’s all part and partial with living. Unless you’ve found one early, or knocked one up, then chasing girls takes a significant amount of your time, effort, money and sensibility. Your whole world is encapsulated by them. 99 percent of the conversations guys have revolve around women. Hey did you see that chick? Would ya? Did you get her number? How was she? Did you do the dirty? She have any friends?  What did she say? Did she reply to your message? Oh she didnt?? That bitch!.. At home. Work. In the car.  Walking to the shops. Cooking. Eating. On the dunny. Pretty much everywhere. It’s perplexing how much we talk about girls.  But it’s fun. My two housemates and I are all single and thirty. I repeat. Single. And thirty. So this is pretty much ALL we do. Sit around and part wisdom on our respective conquests. Past conquests. Current conquests. Future conquests. Or conquests we don’t even know could be or would be future or past conquests. The amount of rubbish our neighbours must hear when we gas bag in the backyard… I can just imagine them rolling their eyes as we huddle in the backyard on a Sunday morning to discuss last night’s match report.

Truth be told though..Girls do my head in. Actually that’s a lie. I do my own head in. But it’s their fault. Ive always been this way. Always wondering whether she liked me or not. Or what that message meant. Or why she hasn’t messaged back? Within three minutes of me sending the text?? I don’t  care that you’re washing the dishes. Drop the plate bitch and write back!! Am I insecure? yeah probably. No. That’s not it. I may just care too much. I’ve always been one to fall too hard.. and fall for those who really, in hindsight, probably shouldn’t have had anyone fall for them at all. As some of my past relationships would attest to.

But that’s why I’m single and thirty. Girls are retarded. Or maybe the girls I’ve seen are retarded. Yeah. The latter is probably more to the point. I once saw a girl who broke into my house whilst I was asleep. Hid in my room whilst I was out. And stole my Ipod. And broke my sunnies. Needless to say I still continued to see her. Or another one was so blase about our relationship that I was actually convinced that she cheated on me. I cannot confirm this with facts. And looking back now she probably didn’t. It just seemed like she would have or was capable of. She was as emotionally detached as a girl would be, to say.. sport. Needless to say I continued to see her. And its not just the ones I did go out with. The worst ones, by far, are the ones you haven’t even been with yet. The chase used to be something we’d actually enjoy. Now, its just a pain in the ass.  Figure your shit out. You either want. Or you don’t. Simple. Mind games is something we played in high school. Now that we’ve hit thirty. Ain’t nobody got no time for that.

Does this mean I’m NOT looking for love? Definitely not. Hells Yeah I am. Isn’t everyone? I see my mates who are married and have kids, and I  admire them. I do want, what they have. But as you get older it just gets harder and harder to see yourself settling with someone. Your idea of the trophy wife just gets narrower and narrower. Has to be a good girl. Has to be fit. Has to be smart. Well spoken. Not from the hood. Cant be taller. Cant be bigger. Must have blonde hair. Must have brown hair. Must have light eyes. Big tits. Small tits. Must be cute. No. Must be sexy. Actually, needs to be the perfect mix of cute and sexy???!!

Your whole world revolves around attracting and procuring girls. From the clothes you buy. To the haircut you got. The workout you just did. The run you just went on. Say what you will, but if you’re single, most of these things, you do just to attract the opposite sex. And if you say it isn’t. Then you my friend are a fucking liar. And once you’ve attained said girl from all the chasing, and the mind games, and the wooing, and the dating.. A whole new pleasure game awaits you. From the lying, to the arguing, to the shouting, to the make up and the make up sex. Then again to the lying, and the arguing and to the shouting and to the inevitable break up and the inevitable break up sex. (Which I have to say is by far the best sex a couple could have. Ever) And to the all NEW chasing and new mind games and NEW inevitable break up and inevitable break up sex. Sheeeesh.

Jay Z is either a fucking liar.. or some sort of demigod. Cos it would seem I’ve got 99 problems.. and bitches be ALL of them.