I got older without noticing it

Age is a number, they say.  Age is a mental concept, they say.  You’re only as old as you feel, they say.  Well “they” can go and f…ondle themselves on a highway.  “They” are walking around with their head up their ass because growing old is inevitable but ridiculously hard to get used to.  I’ve gained a newfound understanding for how age can creep up on you and then jump and throttle you like a facehugger.

We spend our annual holiday camping at a family resort, which is basically paying a lot of money to live like a homeless person.  I used to be very anxious and actively involved in setting up our camp site making sure everything is done in a proper way because camping becomes a lot less fun when the wind blows your tent to the next country.  The resort we stay at has people who are more than happy to set up the site for you, at a fee of course.  Being who I am, I didn’t oblige because I have slaves working for free, my two teenage kids.   Continue reading

The Olympics made me do it

Men love sport almost as much as we love doing nothing.  (Most males reading this has just given me a mental high five.) Rather just buy me a beer.  I’m cheap and easy. The “others” may be confused about the little contradiction at the start. Let me run another lap around the issue…

Men love WATCHING sport almost as much as we love doing nothing, only for the mere fact that doing nothing becomes a bit tedious after a while. Besides my kids don’t think I’m cool when I lie on the coach for a whole day.  Who am I kidding, it’s not the lying on the coach thing that makes me uncool. It’s my tomato and mustard stained t-shirt that barely covers my protruding, hairy belly, that makes me look uncool.

Now try and shake that image from your mind, why don’t you? Continue reading

The road to the Quarterfinal play-offs.

We have this thing.  With “we” I mean my friends and I.   Some people prefer to do their thing in the comfort and privacy of their own home.  Some even do it in the bedroom.  We’ve found the best way to add spice to our thing, is to do it in the company of each other.  It creates more atmosphere, ups the excitement level and it’s always a thrill seeing the expressions of my friends when our thing turns out better than we expected.

If the moment is truly epic, then there’s loud, roaring cheers and high-fives all around.  And why not, most things are simply better when you do it with friends.  Except off course falling out of a window.  That would be bad with or without friends.  Especially if the window is like really high and you end up falling on concrete and… sorry.  That’s not our thing.  Our “thing” is the LOVE of rugby.  Oops.  I meant to say wives, the fact that we love our wives.  And to watch rugby. Continue reading

Advice for the Wife during Rugby World Cup 2015

I’ve posted this before but there might be an odd chance that the Wife missed it.  Here is the short, personalized version without a back story.  The opening game is tonight and I’m running out of time.  Let’s do this!

For the love of my life:

  1. Leave the remote in clear line of view.  Do NOT move the remote from it’s regular storage space.  If you suffer from a brief spout of insanity and decide to move it, you will hear deafening screams and an occasional f-bomb when I frantically look for it. It’s also your duty as a mother to protect Princess by warning her to leave the remote alone.  Dude knows.
  2. If there is even a remote chance that you would actually be handling the remote, do NOT change the channel. Ever. If doesn’t matter how sick you are of seeing thirty grown men chasing an egg shaped ball.  Do NOT change the channel!
  3. Do NOT ask for permission to watch Binnelanders during games.  At best you will be ignored, at worst, well, I cannot be held accountable for my actions during this tournament.  Don’t we own another television?
  4. Do NOT ask any questions about the shirt I’m wearing.  It IS the same one.  If my dirty shirt bugs you, then it should be washed when I sleep and ready to wear before I wake up.  Unless I’m planning to sleep with it, as would be the case if the Boks are winning.
  5. Do NOT comment on the consumption of beer. It’s going to happen, copiously.
  6. Do NOT comment on the amount of friends running through the house.  You might not care for the smell of testosterone, biltong, beer and the constant shouting but there are some great air-fresheners on the market nowadays.
  7. Do NOT comment on the fact that I might be watching a replay of a game and for the love of god do NOT take the side of the referee during said replay, unless off course I consider the referee to be the best human being on the planet.  Besides you off course.
  8. Do NOT expect my normal level of attention.  Well, maybe just a quickie, after the game, if our team won. But then I won’t be taking off my Springbok shirt.  Don’t worry I’m planning to buy you flowers before the first game.  Hopefully they would last for the full tournament.
  9. Do NOT ask any questions about the rules of the game.  You will only get grunts.  Unless it’s interpreted incorrectly by the idiot referee in which case everyone watching will have an opinion on how the rule should be interpreted.  My advise would be to sit back and learn.
  10. Do NOT expect any help or assistance whilst a game is on.  This includes, but are not limited to our house being on fire, you going into labor, the dog dying or one of our kids falling down the stairs.  You are a strong, independent, gorgeous woman whom I know will be able to handle all of life’s little mishaps on your own. After you bring me a beer.

Let’s back the Boks!! Go South Africa, bring it home!!

mzl.llgourxh

Remember love, these are the times when we should remember our wedding vows, love you!!

A survival guide for woman during the Rugby World Cup

Our hope is in you!

Springbok warriors…our hope is in you!

The world is entering confusing times. And it’s not only because of spring arriving in the Southern Hemisphere when some animals will start humping like rabbits in time with the first blossom on a peach tree.  It’s also because the world is about to embark on a quest.  A quest that happens once every four years.  A quest that requires fifteen fit and capable (depending on who you ask) warriors or lords from twenty different countries to go into battle for total supremacy.  Supremacy of power and perseverance.  Of speed and skill.  Of attack and defense.  Of scrums and line-ups and drop goals.

Once the final battle is won, the victors will stand proud in Twickenham, looking down at all the slain contestants who will worship them as gods.  And the leader of twenty-two will wipe the mud and spit from his face as he drinks from the ultimate reward, the Web Ellis Trophy as winners of the Rugby World Cup 2015… Continue reading

Why men watch sport

The rumours are true.

I’ve won the Superbru world cup challenge of our office and I’ve walked away with the cash.  What’s really frustrating to my collegues is that I did NOT watch a single game of the whole extravaganza in Brazil.  Unless you count the final, when I saw Germany receive bragging rights for  the next four years.  For football?  Moving on.

I have to explain myself.  I don’t like soccer.  Or even football.  Twenty guys running around for a VERY long time, kicking a ball, trying to get it past some guy with gloves guarding the goal?  And then to only win by a measly one point!  That’s beyond frustration.   Maybe they should remove the goal keeper to facilitate bigger scores and higher entertainment value.  I’m with William Web Ellis, who after catching a football in his hands, decided to run with it.  And henceforth created rugby.  I’m still confused why any able bodied person would want to compete in a sport where you’re not allowed to use your hands, unless that sport is featured in the paralympic games.

My rant is not about soccer. Continue reading

Curling is an Olympic Sport…and I’m not joking…

First off, isn’t this video inspirational? Doesn’t it just make you wanna get off your ass and grab a broom?

Don’t get me wrong. I love sport as much as the next guy. Focus, Concentration, Tension and Motion are all elements highlighted by this video, the same things I’ve had to endure in some of the strenuous activities I’ve participated in.  Like Backgammon and Pictionary. But that doesn’t qualify it as an Olympic Sport, now does it?

Where I come from being skillfull with a broom doesn’t really constitute an Olympic athlete, rather a housewi… let me quit while I’m ahead.  This post is about Curling, which is not a reference to what my daughter does with her hair when she wants to look pretty, it’s the Olympic sport.

My first reaction to Curling was hysterics, as I deemed it another entertaining skit on the Olympic Games by the team of Saturday Night Live.  Imagine my utter astonishment when I realised that it is actually something people in the Northern Hemisphere, not only partake in, but also consider a sport.  But who am I to judge?  It probably takes countless hours to perfect the scientific art of sweeping.  And even more time to get the hang of the weird skiing technique required for exquisite curling.  You know, the one where you drag one of your legs several metres behind your torso.  I’m really surprised that there are no reports of raptured you know-what-I’m-implying, whilst attempting to do that split-in-motion-thing.  And then the face.  The concentration face, or as it’s called in my house: Constipation.

Curling has been around since the 16th century and originated in Scotland, which is the same country where men wear skirts, by the way. And it became an Olympic event in 1998. It’s similar to shuffle board, or not, depending on your point of reference.

My question is this: How challenging or entertaining does an activity have to be for it to be considered a sport?  And even more so, qualifying as an Olympic Sport?

In the Southern hemisphere and some parts of Europe there’s this a thing called Rugby.  It takes teamwork, skill, hours of training, peak physical conditioning and ball skills to forge a winning team.  It’s highly entertaining and people, mostly men, will schedule game viewings and/or live attendance, months in advance.  It’s big, take my word for it. And it is not an Olympic sport!

I am keen to understand what arguments were used to convince the decision makers to include Curling on the roster for the Olympic Games.  I’m not even sure how a commentator would go about trying to make the event sound exciting.  And what happens after the Games, do we consider the gold medal winning team of Curling to be in the same league as Michael Phelps or Usain Bolt? Can we expect some endorsements from Nike or Adidas?  Wait, what about a reality series?

Maybe it’s just the intensity and degree of  tension, concentration, focus and motion that’s required in this specific event that I don’t fully appreciate.  You know those qualities supposedly NOT present in other non-Olympic sports like cricket or baseball.  Maybe the secret is in the sheer spectator value, all the excitement that’s generated…seeing women using a broom.

And then not being a witch about it…

Times flies…No, it moves like a friggin bullet.

Tic-toc. Tic-toc. Two seconds gone.  Disappeared forever.  Unrecoverable.  And the older I get the shorter these seconds become.

The latest signpost on my journey, highlighting this fact, is the coming Easter weekend.  Since when do we celebrate this holiday twice in one year?  Didn’t the last Easter weekend happen like two months ago? And we had Christmas in between.  I am convinced we still have some chocolate eggs left somewhere.  Is time moving so fast, that my life only consist of holidays and birthdays now?  What’s happening?

When I was younger a summer holiday felt like it lasted forever, there were days when you didn’t know what to do.  I now understand why mom chased us outside, when we would walk into the kitchen, slump down on the table and complain: “I’m bored.”

In my annual summer break, I barely have enough time to stop thinking about work or shut down like my friend says, and then when I finally get in my zone, I have to start work again the next day!

Father Time has an obvious inferiority complex, probably because he didn’t feature in Rise of the Guardians.  So here’s what he did.  He got some steroids from Lance Armstrong, who obviously doesn’t need it anymore, and now he is pumping iron and training like shit.  I heard he chucked his sandals and stick for some Nike’s and a bike and now his gunning it!

My wife’s theory is less dramatic, but I’ll share it in any case.  She reckons it’s because people only live for weekends.  During the week we are constantly making plans and counting the hours until the next Friday.  By doing so, we actually don’t appreciate the shitty other days of the week. Like Monday or Tuesday.  Urrgh.

If you consider this theory to be true, and we only enjoy Friday, Saturday ad Sunday, people are actually only enjoying 43% of their week or worse of their entire adult life. This is really scary, and I checked the stats with a calculator.

We need to understand that time doesn’t just fly anymore, it friggin moves, like a bullet or a rocket of Flash or Superman.  Just think of the fastest thing on earth and you get the idea.

We therefore need to consume time, we need to grab it and use it for that’s the only way to keep it, even if it’s only in our memories.  We should be like children again and not allow time to pass us, because if it does, we will not catch up again.  I am convinced that the older we get the faster time moves, and therefore it should give new meaning to the phrase “Make every second count.”

By the way Happy Easter, and don’t worry if you miss my daily post next week, I’m taking a short sabbatical with the family.  The only condition is that we all have to leave our electronics at home.

Yes, feel my pain.

A stick and a ball

Golf… I don’t play, I rather drink at home.  And Saturdays are for, well all together now, “Doing nothing!”  I have quite a few friends who play.  (Yes I have friends!) They call it the sport of business men, drinking men, serious men.

I will not trash anything that has the potential to create millionaires.  Unless its slot machines and/or casino’s or pyramid schemes.  But I have to admit, as I was typing the word “S P O R T” in the same sentence as golf, I couldn’t control my own laughter.  In my mind sport = exercise, which implies an activity that increases your heart rate and pump blood faster.  It is supposed to create a range of motion that extends further than an elbow and a glass of beer.

A few of my friends have taken up golf as a sport based on the fact that “We need to start doing something.  We need to become more active.  We just sit around and gain weight.”  I have sprayed numerous mouthfuls of liquid and choked on several food items when this specific discussion is recycled.  Especially when they start motivating each other to take up golf.  My point is being outside in the sun, with shorts on, doesn’t immediately qualify as being active.

Golfers hit a little white ball with a club, get in a car and drive as close as they can to where the ball is, endangering numerous lives doing so.  Then they hit the ball again, drive, hit, drive, hit until it is sunk into the little black hole.  Everybody says yeah and repeat the whole process another 17 times.

Now this scene plays out totally different when the late arrivals on the golf course are stuck without golf carts.  It’s swearing and cursing and complaining about the inefficient resources and the demise of good, solid management.  The reason for the unhappiness is evident as these poor players now have to, heaven forbid, walk!  (The horror!)  There will be sweat!  (No, stop!)  There will be heat!  (I can’t take it anymore!)

And the gates of hell opens when there is nobody to carry their golfbags around the course.

Who decided that golf should be classified as a sport?  What was the criteria used?  I mean if using a stick and ball is the only requirement, then we can also include sex in the Olympic games.  (I can hear the support right through the screen!)

For most men standing around a fire; topics of conversation are limited to politics, cars, women, sport and golf.  (Note two separate things.)  I’m always there to correct my friends, and then I end up being bombarded with handicaps and putting and drives and par and birdies and you name it.  I never learn, but if the shoe fits…

Most people assume I play, and it’s probably due to my chosen career as a marketer.  So when I’m asked what my handicap is, my reply: “Golf”.

(Maybe my cynicism stems from the fact that I can’t hit the damn white ball.  No, that can’t be it…)