The bikini is 70 years old

I follow Time magazine because let’s face it, I need some intellectual input in my life as well. I need all the help I can get.

And that is why I know the bikini is a geriatric this week. And one of the main reasons why most men have been rejoicing for decades!


“Isn’t this a little bit sexist?” asked no man ever.

Hop over to the link and see how swimsuits evolved since the Victorian era up to the birth of the bikini seventy years ago.  It starts off with a woolen jacket on a provocative pose in 1840.  Then moves through an array of dresses in the early 1900’s that was subject to length violations.  Then it jumps to body-hugging leotards in the 1930’s, until the big reveal of a small bikini worn by a 19-year-old nude dancer, named Micheline Bernardini, for a beauty contest in Paris in 1946. Because where else? Continue reading

I was the only one

The Wife and I are blessed with a pigeon pair.  A boy and a girl.  This presents an opportunity to experience the full range of hormones and mood swings that exist in teenagers of both genders.  It’s not as pleasant as it sounds.  We have front row seats to observe how men develop and eventually tuck their balls into a gym bag and migrate to Mars, whilst women on the other hand, reach maturity, take their broomsticks and fly to Venus.  Seeing our two develop into little adults provides me with a profound understanding on what’s happening in the mind of the Wife.  And visa versa.  Which is much easier for her, as we all know there’s not that much happening in the mind of man. Other than the obvious sex, sports, friends and beer. Continue reading

Dating guide for Dude(s)

I compiled one for Princess, it only seems fair I do the same for Dude.

Lust is in the air.

Lust is in the air.

He’s getting older, which explains why he suddenly becomes aware of hot girls, dreams about his first kiss and smiles every time he hears the word “boobs”. Technically it’s more than a smile; it’s the same look I get when someone mentions red wine and spaghetti bolognaise.

It’s common knowledge that teenage boys are a bit strange as they have all that testosterone raging through their bodies, giving them wide shoulders, hair in weird places and turns their voices into squeaky toys.  Unfortunately the hormone also prohibits them from making proper choices when it comes to members of the opposite sex. Continue reading

The oldest trick in the book.

They stood in the doorway, two cats caught in a rain storm.  Emotionally drenched and sad, looking dreadful and borderline pathetic.

“Something happened.”  They said together, almost rehearsed.

And I knew.  Like all men would. An instinctive notion, like having to pee or being hungry.  It’s not so much understanding why you know, it’s just accepting the fact that you do.  Another basic instinct that’s been protecting humans since the days when we still resembled apes and were covering our private parts with fur.

The “something happened” implied damage to the car. Continue reading

Rapunzel, Ariel, Cinderella and Co. They’re all living in my house.

Yes, they're actually all one person

Yes, they’re actually all one person

Sugar and Spice and All things nice.  That’s what little girls are made of.  But let’s not forget about oestrogen.  The hormone that scares the hell out of every living man.

We understand that daughters are the Achilles heel of every dad.  It’s the weak spot in the armour of parenting, where the smallest hug is a lethal knife that penetrates into your heart and make the greatest warriors fall.

The best way to describe raising this lethal mix of sugar, spice and oestrogen, would be being locked up in a cell with the personifications of intrigue, interest, exhaustion, hilarity, love, passion, empathy, frustration and a few other unpronounceable characters.  Our daughters keeps us dazed and confused for most of the time.  Manipulating us with the greatest love known to man and a father’s twisted sense of protecting them against the cruel world.

As any father would happily admit, MY little Princess is the most beautiful girl in the world.  She’s the sweetest little complicated piece of work you’ll find south of the equator.  Because she’s unpredictable.  And once that hormone starts surging through their bodies, fathers just stand back, for there is no sense in trying to find any logic in their behaviour.  It’s like trying to understand how planes stay up in the air or why Kanye West is famous.

It’s good to know that this is an ancient mystery.  As long as little females were born, fathers were trying to make sense of the confusion and exhilleration and love that took over their lives.  The first people to document their experiences were Hans Christian Anderson and the Grimm brothers.  Cleverly disguising their comments as fairy tales.

It’s dusk.  The sun is rising lazily in the East, throwing a warm glow over the darkness below.  I step into her room, watching Sleeping Beauty lying in a circle of blond curls, serene and peaceful.  And I have to wake her.  I’m scared.  I walk closer and touch her face.  I call her name softly.  Twice.  She turns her head and groans.  I see her blue eyes, sleepily locked on mine. And I realise that I’ve just woken Malificent.

I leave the room quickly.

I pour the coffee, anxiously looking down the corridor for her to exit the room.  Should I dare call her again?  I decide not too.  As I finish the coffee, the girl from Brave walks out of her room, with a bright pink blanket in tow.  Her hair is all over the place.  She walks past me and slumps in the sofa.  Takes the remote and with the happy disposition of the Wicked Witch of the West, scans for the Disney Channel.

She finally locks onto the 17th repeat of some Disney show.  Like Aerial sitting in her cave day-dreaming about having feet, whilst cuddling a fork in her little cave surrounded by all the thing-a-ma-jigs she’s collected.  Lost in her own little dream landscape.  And I find myself sipping coffee and staring at her.  Seeing her composure dissolves whilst sipping on her hot chocolate.  Until she finally cracks a smile and Cinderella starts chatting about the things she needs to do today.

But then we need to move.  She needs to get dressed and eat and brush her teeth.  All those things cruel parents expect of their kids.  Like Rapunzel locked in a tower, forced to tie down her wild curls in a ponytail of sorts.  And she shifts momentarily into a grumpy Snow White, receiving no recognition for all the hard work she has to do everyday of her life.

A few minutes later little Red Riding Hood exits the bathroom, all skippy and jolly, ready with her basket of school books and a lunch box, eagerly waiting to get to school and share another amazing day.  Our own blonde Dorothy, eagerly waiting to meet the Wizard of Oz.  And off she goes.

Then the anticipation starts.  For we never know what the Wizard will tell her.  If it’s good news, Dorothy clicks her red heels and comes home with hugs and kisses and so much laughter that the whole house shakes.  But when the wizard tells her to go to hell, she basically does and returns with enough fire and brimstone to make dragons squirm.  Like a very pissed off Fiona.

My princess (with the help of Oestrogen) has the determination of Rapunzel, the sweetness of Snow White, the adventurous spirit of Pocahontas, the stubbornness of Merida, the curiosity of Ariel, the work-ethic of Cinderella, the beauty of Aurora, the sensitivity of Jasmine, the wisdom of Mulan, the love of Belle and the kindness of Tiana.  And I’m powerless.

What else can a father do with an ambush of hugs?  Or when she clings to me like she’s never letting me go?  Or when she cuddles in my lap and treats me like her very own Prince Charming?  What can I do?  I’m weak.  I’m stuck, motionless under her spell.  And I want to stay there forever.  Her hero.

But that’s why raising a girl is not a fairy tale, for you’ll fight to keep the dragons and witches at bay, until her real Prince Charming comes and steals her away.  And I’ll have to let her go.  I’ll have to open the door and release my Princess… Just like Hans and the Grimm brothers warned us, all those centuries ago.

But for know, she’s mine.  All mine.

What woman learn in school

Enjoy. It’s Newcastle night (4) copy.

Ah dad...

In most schools there are instances where boys and girls are separated based on their gender.  Confused?  I’m referring to physical education.  In these vacuums of torture, little boys are forced to run around a sports field a hundred times until their tongues drag behind them.  Your knees are red and scoffed because no human is suppose to crawl for 3 km.  Then came the medicine balls, invented by Hitler as a soccer ball used in the concentration camps. Playing with these things implies throwing around 25 pound weights.  As I barely had the upper body strength to carry my own head at the age of 10, catching these balls from hell was basically impossible.

And whilst I was feeling very sorry for myself during these physical excursions, I always wondered what the girls were doing.  We never saw them on the field, and yes I was looking at girls when I was 10.

It has taken many hours of pondering and as a married man of

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Secret revealed: Why Pixar used the mind of a girl for their new movie.

The jumping desklight company, Pixar, is currently busy making another animated movie that occurs inside the mind of a little girl.  It’s called Inside Out and is planned for a 2015 release.  The characters in the movie would be different emotions in the mind of the little girl.  With the voice talent of Amy Poehler as Joy and Lewis Black as Anger it is a unique concept that I would be very keen on seeing.  I am not sure which emotions will be voiced by Neil Patrick Harris and John Lithgow, but it can only get interesting.  You can read what little info I have here and here.

But the whole premise of the movie made me think, to use the words of Brain in his daily conversations with Pinky: “Are you pondering what I’m pondering?”

Yes, I do like to take a time-out once a week and meditate on issues that affects the world we live survive in. Continue reading

What woman learn in school


Come on, let’s all shout together: We love

In most schools there are instances where boys and girls are separated based on their gender.  Confused?  I’m referring to physical education.  In these vacuums of torture, little boys are forced to run around a sports field a hundred times until their tongues drag behind them.  Your knees are red and scoffed because no human is suppose to crawl for 3 km.  Then came the medicine balls, invented by Hitler as a soccer ball used in the concentration camps. Playing with these things implies throwing around 25 pound weights.  As I barely had the upper body strength to carry my own head at the age of 10, catching these balls from hell was basically impossible.

And whilst I was feeling very sorry for myself during these physical excursions, I always wondered what the girls were doing.  We never saw them on the field, and yes I was looking at girls when I was 10.

It has taken many hours of pondering and as a married man of 16 17 years I now have an understanding of what they were up to.  It will blow your mind.  The hinges of your paradigm will bend and break, freeing all your assumptions of woman and replacing them with a screwed reality of what I like to call the “Female Illuminati.”

This is a society of adult females teaching specific life skills to little girls across the globe, resulting in a very generic, but totally confusing, skill set.  Here’s a few of their lessons exposed.

1. How to clean themselves in boiling water.  Yes, the kind of temperature that you can pour into a cup, add a tea bag and some sugar and still leave on the bedside table for another 10 minutes to cool down.  The kind of temperature that turns your skin red instantly, as that is what happens to a second degree burn.  Temperatures that make woman say things like AAAAHHH and OOOOHHH, whilst lying back, relaxing with bubbles and salts and shit.  And our reaction? Most probably, upon feeling the water with your toe: “Fuck!  You can boil a lobster in here, man.  Is the cold water tap not working?”

2. How to slap a man across the face, with such force and accuracy that it will dislocate their jaw and leave you convinced that she dipped her hand in the hottest jalapeno sauce in Mexico.  There might always be a good reason for such a bitch-slap, but any man who had the misfortune of this happening would agree:  It stings like shit.  I mean what is wrong for calling out the biggest bitch in high school as having the personality of a pig?  The resulting bitch-slap and consistent pain, that’s what.  You will end up having to enforce ever single matter of fluid control you have in your body not to burst out in tears and cry from the pain.  And all woman can do it.  They will slap you silly.

3. How to tie a towel around their heads after washing their hair and not just walk around the house, but actually continue with normal activities like getting dressed, burping the baby and dishing out the to-do-list for the husband.  And during all this time that towel sits like it was stitch to her head.  How is that even possible? I thought only rural African woman knew how to stack 14 metres worth of crap on their heads, but alas it’s not the case.  All men appreciate this skill as most of us have tried to do it ourselves.  Throwing the towel over our wet hair, grabbing it in front, twisting it and then the throwback, only ending up with a heap of towel on the floor, that lies behind us laughing hysterically at our poor effort.  The bastard!

4. How to invoke the silent treatment for days on end.   Nuff said.  A life streaming video feed with the mute button activated.

5. How to remember every single detail of every fight they ever had with you.  And not only being able to recall the exact date and time of the quarrel, but also having the ability to paraphrase you.  It’s due to the Dictaphone imprinted in their weird little heads.  There is NO sense in arguing once they press that replay button.  You might not remember actually saying it, but know this: You did.  You used those. Exact. Words.  The only problem with this reality is that woman normally quote you out of context; like some weird cult defending why they sacrifice dogs, by using three words printed in the Bible.  Bottom line of this skill set is that you are screwed, and not in the good way, and if you argue, they will revert to lesson #4.

There is one thing they never got around to in those periods in school.  Maybe time ran out but instead of rearranging the curriculum, these coaches of the Illuminati sent these poor woman out with one basic fundamental flaw.  And that flaw is how to order food from any menu in less than 30 minutes.

But we got to love them for who else will?  And we understand that they are not perfect, but rather complicated, emotional creatures, and that’s why they need men.  😉

Man vs Woman vs Being sick

In the dark hours of last night I suddenly woke up with the realisation that my lovely wife was not in bed beside me.  The emptiness must have called out to my conscious mind… I sat up, listened and heard some grovelling from the bathroom.  I called and she replied faintly.  It wasn’t an ogre.  (Note to Oscar Pistorius , this is how normal people do it, we call out, then wait for a reply.  No guns required).

My wife was sick, and not the feminine flu kind of sickness, she had a full force puke-a-thon-thing going.  Liquids were leaving her body from all known orifices and then some.  There was no choice in the matter, she was competing in some twisted version of a relay; racing between the bathroom and our bed.  All. Night. Long.

When I woke up I could feel the Sandman’s residue didn’t dissolve properly and I was left with scratchy, blotchy, red eyes.  My wife didn’t look any better.  She wasn’t just pale, she looked like a European after a very, very, very long winter.  Her dull grey eyes were sunken deep in her skull and I feared the start of a Zombie Apocolypse.  (No, I didn’t say anything, jeez relax.)   She was really weak after all the fun she had the night before.   Words were not necessary as it was obvious, she felt like shit.  What caught me of guard was when she tried to drag herself out of bed and assume her normal daily routine of getting ready for work.  It went something like this:

Shower, lie on bed, get shirt, lie on bed, wake the kids, lie on bed, put on shirt, get pants, lie on bed, comb hair, lie on bed.  It just became painful to watch so I suggested something radical:

“Love, maybe you should stay home today.  You look pretty weak, and it might not be the best option to face thirty grade 1’s.”

There was a moment.  Wait for it… Wait for it… She agreed!  It doesn’t happen often and it felt really good.

The only condition, I need to call in sick on her behalf.  I didn’t mind and the headmaster, being a normal human being, sympathised and wished her well. It should come as no surprise that men can also be compassionate and understanding.  My wife smiled a weak one, and flopped down on the bed.  I made her some tea and then things really became interesting.

I still had to get the kids to school and with all the commotion we were running seriously late.  What followed was a lot of shouting, chasing, threatening but eventually the kids were in the car, flustered but more importantly, alive.

I ran up the stairs, saw my fragile looking wife in bed and moved in for the kiss, then remembered the germs she was carrying,  and turned my cheek.  Cruel?  Maybe, but there was no way I was going to hand over control of my bowel and stomach to the urges of poo and vomit.  Before I left she said:

“I feel bad.”

“I know, my love.  Take some medicine, and stay in bed.  You need the rest, I think the worst is behind you.  You will probably feel better soon.”

“No, not like that”, she moaned, “I feel bad because I am staying home.  What about those poor little kids.  They’ll miss me…”


What is it with woman and their misplaced guilt about taking a sick day?  Men don’t have it.   When a man gets a sick day, its a wondrous moment filled with joy and celebration.  And men don’t even need a terrible disease to take a day.  As a matter of fact, God forbid it being a real serious ailment.  A plain old stomach ache would suffice.  Once the call is made, enhanced with some Oscar-worthy acting, and the boss wishes you well, there is NO better feeling on this earth than seeing your family leave the driveway, whilst you are standing in the front door with pajamas.

And then the most amazing thing happens, as soon as that car is out of sight, the healing power of having me-time floods your system.

You run back to the lounge, grab your slightly cold coffee from the counter and jump on the coach, satin-batman shorts and all.  You pick up the remote with a twinkle in the eye, for it now belongs to you, a piece of equipment that opens the gates of cable for your own personal viewing pleasure.  Any channel, any program, any sport, any advert, any movie.  Just for you.  The ultimate surfing experience.  I get emotional just thinking about it.

When you get bored from doing nothing, after about three hours, you do it for another two.  Then only do you persuade your mind to get your body into a shower.  Afterwards you walk to the fridge and curse yourself for not replenishing the beer.  You head back to the coach and play Angry birds compulsively for an hour until you fall asleep.  Right there.  On the coach.  Like a slob.  Dreamy…

Then you hear a faint noise, a car maybe?  You jump up with a drool, three feet long dangling from your bottom lip, dump the empty packets and greet the family with a full-on disheveled look at the door.  This will result in milking a wee bit more sympathy for the-poor-thing-did-you-sleep-all-day-conversation.  And you just hug, look over her shoulder and wink at the kids.

So I ask this question with all sincerity, what part of my sick day does NOT sound like fun?  Which part of it is so repulsive that it packs on the guilt in woman.  Here are the facts of a sick day:

1. You are alone.

2. You have NO responsibility.

3. You are getting paid.

4. You can do whatever you want to and

5. If you want to, you can do absolutely NOTHING.  The. Whole. Day.

The irony was that my wife was really sick, so why do woman even consider guilt as an emotion on such a day?  I shook my head and told the wife I’ll see her later.  On the way to school the only answer I could come up with for my puzzled mind was that men work harder and thus have a lot more stress to cope with.  We need days off.  For ourselves.  To recover.

I might be wrong with my rational, and another reason might be that woman are more driven, trying to prove themselves in a chauvinistic corporate environment where they always end up being compared to their male counterparts, thus having a bigger drive to succeed, or rather to not disappoint…

Nah, it is because men work harder.