Category: Meat

What choo lookin’ at??

Sex. Word.

Uw wann xtrar chilli sauwse innit?

U wan xtrar chilli sauwse innit?


Fish gotta swim, Snakes gotta eat


You stink…of success!

I have been swimming since before I could walk.  I first entered the pool as an infant, when my mum saw something in one of her medical texts referring to a baby’s natural instinct to hold its breath.  With that first splashdown, a love affair was born.  I took lessons and was swimming with a local club before the age of six.

I spent my entire youth by the side of a pool.   Because of this, there aren’t a whole load of poolside/locker room activities that surprise me or take me aback.  That is until recently.


While they aren’t typically commonplace, unisex changing rooms do crop up now and then depending on the type of facility you’re using.  At the very least, some pools will have a communal showering area and sexed locker rooms for changing.

But in all my days- in 16 years of competitive swimming -I had never witnessed the following act:


The Vigorous Soapy Pube Scrub. (VSPS)


Next we'll do your tush-y!!

Next we’ll do your tush-y!!


This activity is performed in the communal shower area after exiting the pool wherein one holds their swimming suit open and with soap in hand (or just squirted straight onto the offending area) and then scrubs/shucks with wicked enthusiasm.  Multiple openings of the top of the swim suit to be sure all soap is washed away seems to be absolutely necessary. 


VSPS… capitalised for a reason.  And from what I’ve seen it’s not merely the idiosyncratic behaviour of just one overzealous man.  Yes, I said man.  The VSPS seems to be the sole property of those of us in possession of a Y chromosome.  While I could be wrong, I don’t see a whole load of women yanking the front of their swimming costumes to the side and lathering up their lady bits with shameless fervour.  Though, to be fair, a lady would have to be a proper contortionist to get the job done without exposing herself.


There could be a very good reason for this, but I honestly don’t see it.  I question- how dirty can your tanglewood be after exiting a swimming pool?  Why is it so important that you scrub it in such a gleefully robust manner?  Is there a magical place you go when your waistband springs back whilst making that wet THWACK-ing noise against your wet belly?


I understand that most people aren’t particularly fond of the smell of chlorine lingering on their skin after having a swim.  But show me a guy that can bend over and smell his own pubes and I’ll show you someone who probably isn’t coming to the swimming pool all that often.


I’m genuinely not saying I find this habit particularly offensive- whatever blows your hair back and all that- but I really don’t think it’s all that essential.  I mean, if your skin is so prone to drying out after a few laps round the old swimmin’ hole I don’t think scouring your nethers with soap is going to help all that much.  You could try a nice soothing cocoa butter lotion, or a light dusting of aloe-vera talc with the caveat that you apply it IN THE PRIVACY OF YOUR OWN CHANGING CUBILCLE!


I think I might even have a coupon for that lotion.


adventures and cake and dingleberries! oh. my!

You know you have an incredible mum because when you were younger she let you make your own mistakes , but knew when it was time to step in and give you a hand or help you pick up the pieces.

You know you have an amazing mum when you suddenly realise as an adult that there were many times when she went without, but never saddled you with the burden of knowing that.

You know she’s extraordinary in that she’ll always be there to listen to you bitch and moan,  and isn’t just sitting on the other end of the phone waiting to speak.

But you know your mum has officially entered the realm of UNBELIEVABLY BATSHITTINGLY AWESOME when you ask her, ‘Can you draw me a bag of dicks?’ And she doesn’t even question you about it, this just shows up in your inbox two days later.


Thanks mum, you’re so fucking money.

Shitty Pictures of Food

Okay, let me start with this, I f*cking LOVE food.

(Or with a bit less vulgarity) I love in short order: the process of picking out ingredients to make a home cooked feast; smells of gastronomic indulgence that waft over me when walking through an open marketplace on a Saturday afternoon; the giddy anticipation at my favourite restaurant when I know I’m going to swoon over whatever they put in front of me.  You get the idea.

My soul is that of a middle-aged, borderline obese chef named Ernie.

What isn’t very appetizing about this obsession are my shitty pictures of food.  Oh sure, I can talk about the exquisite meal I had a week ago with the same fervour that most people talk about their children. They’re even allowed to have pictographic examples of little Jonny’s adorableness. Yet, somehow, carrying around a picture of each and every meal that’s made me want to explode with joy is a little insane?  How is this fair?  Then, when I think a little longer about this proposition and I decide that it probably isn’t a good idea anyway, as most of my food pictures end up looking like this-
This could be exotically spicy Tom Yum Talay OR Reconstituted Cat Vomit
Or this
 These could be Tender and Succulent Chiken Satay Skewers OR
Premature FaceHuggers waiting for their moment to pounce 
Or this
 This could be the Chef’s Own Special Saag Lamb OR Proof of Life on Uranus


The events leading to these abominations go little something like this-
  • Enter restaurant/pick out amazing ingredients
  • Peruse menu and select delicious foodstuffs to fill my belly/cook beautifully tasty & nutritious meal
  • Experience apoplectic fits of glee when my plate is placed before me
  • Immediately shove my face into said plate thereby impressing my dinner mates with how long I can hold my breath
  • Come up for air three quarters of the way through eating and I think that it would be ‘Supercool to document this experience and share it, yay!’
  • Attempt to rearrange food on plate so it doesn’t look like it was danced on by a rabid possum
  • Take Photo
  • Take another photo
  • Take another photo
  • Take 12 more photos from various angles hoping that one of them will look even a tenth as good as it tasted
  • Once I get the photos on a larger screen realize they all look like toddler vomit covered in a thick layer of cow drool
  • Cry
  • Forget about the last atrocity the next time I’m enjoying a wonderful meal and repeat above steps in an infinite happiness/disappointment loop


At the risk of sounding like a liar, I’m not trying to turn this into a food/cooking blog.  I know that statement looks like total bullshit considering this is the third time I’ve talked about food this week.  I also know there are already many out there that do it miles better than me and I would never dream of trying to take them on.  That’s like begging a cat to repeatedly bite you on the lady-bean while banging your head with a cast iron pot.

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