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Here’s a funny story that happened to a Hornswood mate of mine.

Due to a debilitating hang-over, Andy a mate of mine made the fatal mistake of turning up to his daughter’s Under-15 soccer final just moments before the early-morning kickoff. So all the other dads of course, volunteered him to do the dreaded linesman duty.

Andy had run-the-line for his daughter’s Hornswood Soccer games many times and it wouldn’t normally bother him. However he’d been out on the piss with the lads and his head hurt like a hammer-hit thumb. But what choice did he have? The bastards had stitched him up royally.

It all went surprisingly well, despite Andy being constantly on the vomit-precipice. So well in fact, that after a while he relaxed and started to enjoy the actually game. It was a thrilling 2-2 score-line with mere moments left and his daughter was having the game of her life as striker. They were playing a serious grudge match against a team that neither the parents nor the girls liked as they always took games too seriously and cheered obnoxiously (we don’t like that in Hornswood).

In the closing seconds of the match, one of the Hornswood backs made a desperation kick from well in their half. The ball flew all the way up to Andy’s daughter and she slammed home the winning goal!

Andy erupted into proud-father cheers.

The problem was, because she wasn’t actually expecting the ball at that moment, his daughter was a MILE offside. So much so, that players on both sides, had slowed their sprinting to prepare for the penalty.

With a hangover-exploding head, perched upon the vom-ipice and alcohol still coursing through his veins, Andy was in no condition to sprint. He was way down the line and actually missed his daughter’s offside completely. In fact, in his excitement he actually forgot it was even his role to call it. He had his flag tucked snuggly under his armpit while he applauded the winning goal.

The ref (who looked to be about thirteen) – “Was that goal good mister?”

Andy – “GOOD?? IT WAS FREAKEN GREAT!!” Andy punched the sky and the flag fell out of his armpit.

So, much to the surprise of his daughter’s team, their opposition and the opposition’s highly-animated supporters (and even the Hornswood parents), the ref paid the goal. Then he blew full-time. Hornswood had “won”.

Andy ran to the goal square, high-fived and hugged his daughter excitedly.

Then with a newfound spring Andy set off across the field to celebrate with the rest of the Hornswood parents. Walking past the gaggle of heart-broken opposition girls from whom he had unwittingly burgled the match, he heard comments thrown his way. Some irate, some teary.

“WHAT A CHEATER. THAT AWFUL GIRL WAS A MILE OFFSIDE.”

“I WONDER WHICH ONE IS HIS DAUGHTER.”

“HORNSWOOD ARE SUCH DIRTY CHEATERS.”

“SHE’S A COW.”

“HE’S A FAT OLD CHEAT.”

Thinking that was a bit rough and it wasn’t his fault his daughter had single-handedly beaten their old nemesis, he then walked past a large group of opposition dads, out of earshot of all the girls.

“YOU’VE GOTTA BE FUCKIN’ JOKIN’ MATE! YOU HAVE A FUCKIN’ BET ON OR SOMETHIN’?”

“DID YA HAVE YOUR FLAG UP YOUR ARSE PAL?”

“YOU DODGY? OR YOU JUST SHIT, MAN-BOOBS?”

“KNOW THE FUCKING CONCEPT OF OFFSIDE DUDE?”

Despite the hangover fog in his brain, Andy finally realised his error. And as a predominantly honourable man, he was mortified.

He decided he and his daughter should skip the team celebrations – of their hollow and undeserved victory, and just leave. Quickly.

As he was getting into his car, a slightly scary, little old lady appeared. He smiled and Andy hoped he wasn’t about to cop some more abuse or plumet headlong off the vom-ipice, right in front of her.

Little old lady (yelling in a thick Middle-Eastern accent) – “YOU ROB MY GRAN’DAUGHTER HER FOO’BALL!!” Andy just stood there. “YOU NO GOOD MAN. YOU LIE WIZ ZHE GOATS.”

One of the angry opposition dads (yelling from the sideline to the little old lady) – “JUST LEAVE HIM MAMA. HE’S JUST A DIRTY CHEAT.”

She waved her hands, witchingly, right in his face. Freaked out, all Andy could do was close his door and drive away.

In his rear vision mirror, he could still see her gesticulating, spitting on the ground and yelling.

“YOU LIE WIZ ZHE GOATS.”

Anyway, a few days later Andy and Samantha, were with my lovely wife and I in a fancy restaurant in Hornswood having a great night. An hour earlier he’d finished recounting the story of how he unwittingly gave his daughter’s team an exceedingly hollow, finals victory and an elderly lady had loudly accused him of goat… relations.

Feeling a… presence on his shoulder, Andy turned and there standing next to him, was the old lady! Andy froze. He felt as though his heart had stopped beating. He knew what was coming. In reflex, he threw back the final mouthful of Verve in the bottom of his glass. There was more in there than he anticipated, his eyes watered and he coughed.

Little old Middle-Eastern lady – “YOU REMEMBER ME MISTER. YOU ROB MY GRAN’DAUGHTER.”

Andy just nodded, scared. Really scared. Nobody in Hornswood makes a scene in a restaurant, it’s unseemly! He looked to me for support, I did my best to suppress laughter.

But much to his relief, this time she appeared calmer and seemingly had gotten over her bitter disappointment, somewhat.

Little old Middle-Eastern lady – “ISS OK.”

She smiled, turned and left.

Andy much relieved, commenced breathing once again. Sweating but smiling, he started to explain that she was THE little old lady so we’d understand why he was so obviously terrified.

Then Samantha noticed a piece of paper on his bread plate, folded many times, into a thick little rectangle.

Andy opened it up carefully (see below) –

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks for reading. I write blogs, oftentimes simply to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. At other times, to allow businesses and businesspeople to get their message across.

If you could Share via the buttons below, that would be amazing. Pleeeease do. I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art that is – Blogging.

Cheers. Jase. 

 

 

I sipped my Hemingway Daiquiri (who knew there was such a thing).

Carolyn the lawyer was undecided between getting the absolute shits with me, or laughing. Confident they should all be similarly offended, her four-man entourage of sycophantic junior lawyers become a little agitated.

Me (with a smile and joking tone) – “All I’m saying is, I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes meeting you all for the first time and all you’ve talked about is how rich you are, the fancy cars you drive and the amazing places you holiday! I’m not rich, due in the main to my meagre income, I drive a six-year-old Mazda CX9 (with fancy power windows and a reversing camera) which cannot compare to your Tesla,” I motioned to sycophant 1.

Me – “Our last holiday was Byron Bay, which pales in comparison to your Maldives battery-recharge,” motioning to sycophant 2.

Lawyer Carolyn (who decided she now had the absolute shits with me) – “Why don’t you walk away and find some Mazda friends then?”

Me (still with a smile) – “Good idea.”

So, I wondered over to my wife who was talking to the host of the elegant affair, Shane.

Me – “Some lawyers asked me to walk away.”

My lovely wife – “What?? We’ve only been here half an hour!”

Turns out tall, attractive lawyer Carolyn was the head of one of the biggest law firms in the known universe.

We were at a cocktail party in Shane’s magnificent house on the water with twenty others. Hanging with the rich and powerful. Sophisticated waiters buzzed amongst us with fancy cocktails, bubbly and truly amazing food. Shane’s a BIG-TIME lawyer, so the event was highly lawyer-permeated. Lots of very clever people everywhere, but I was feeling pretty cluey because it was so stinking hot on the verandah in the mid-Summer afternoon, that everybody had to put on sunscreen, and I was the only one not wearing a suit!

About two hours later it started to rain on and off, so nearly everybody moved inside. I was full of champagne, Hemingway Daiquiri’s and beer and thought it would be a good time to rejoin the lawyers to smooth things over, as I’d discovered Carolyn was actually Shane’s boss. I was going to bury the old hatchet.

Me – “Sorry about earlier everybody.” I put up my hands in a vulnerable symbol of apology. “I’d had an argument with the wife who didn’t want me bludging a ciggie off those lads out on the verandah. I know, I know, cigs are moronic, but I am guilty of bumming the odd one when I’m on the piss.”

The four sycophants and Carolyn were still standing in exactly the same positions as when I left them two hours previously. I quietly wondered with a chuckle if the warden allowed them toilet breaks.

Me – “You’re all still standing in exactly the same positions as when I left two hours ago… Does the warden allow you toilet breaks?” Damn.

Lawyer Carolyn – “What exactly do you do?? Apart from dressing inappropriately!?”

Me (with a smile) – “I’m a writer!”

Just at that moment my wife walked past and without stopping says to the gaggle of lawyers – “Actually, he’s NOT a writer”. I had to then admit, that I’m well on my way to becoming, a writer.

Me – “So what are you guys talking about?”

Sycophant 3 – “The actress Madeleine Stowe and her legal team actually.”

This was a great topic, on which I could talk without upsetting any of them. Madeleine Stowe has always been in my top ten most attractive women of all time.

Me – “Ah mate, Madeleine is in my top ten of all time.”

They all stood, silent. Lawyer Carolyn looked like I had just spilled a beer on her Gucci handbag.

Sycophant 4 stared at me with a perplexed look. It was pretty obvious why.

Me – “Not now obviously, but in her day. Madeleine, along with Kate Beckinsale, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Maria Conchita Alonso (especially in Extreme Prejudice), Olivia Wilde, Megan Fox (pre-facelift), Salma Hayek, Liv Tyler, J.Lo of course and Eva Longoria.” Luckily I had this discussion the day before with the lads, so I could rattle my top-10 off.

Lawyer Carolyn – “That’s sexist! You’ve demeaned all of those women.” She had real venom in her voice.

Me – “Huh? I’ve demeaned Madeleine Stowe and J.Lo?? Oooh, I wonder if they’ll be ok.”

Lawyer Carolyn – “Well what if I was to demean you by calling you a fortuneless, boorish, overweight, sexist, Neanderthal in front of all these highly successful lawyers? What then?” Sycophants 2 and 4 chuckled.

Me – “Overweight?”

That was it for me. Too much.

Me (loudly to everybody at the party) – “EVERYBODY, I’VE JUST BEEN CALLED FAT BY LAWYER CAROLYN, SO I’M NOW GOING ONTO THE VERANDAH TO BLUDGE A CIGGIE.”

My wife, who was over the other side of the party, starts yelling at me and gesticulating wildly. Now she’s not a party-yeller, I am, but she’s not, so this was out of character for her. I couldn’t make out her hollering over the music and chatter, but guaranteed it was along the lines of DON’T YOU DARE GO OUT THERE AND HAVE A CIGGIE.

I had to get away from all those who were all trying to publicly emasculate me.

I turned, ignoring everybody, including my wife who was still waving and shouting. I power-walked fast, purposefully. Manfully.

And BOOM – I slammed straight into the ten-foot glass verandah door that somebody had slid shut behind me.

I’m 112kg, so when I manfully walk into something, it bangs. LOUDLY. The massive doors shook and there was a communal oooooh sound from the crowd. I dropped to the ground, stunned like I’d been hit by a mallet, leaving a perfect impression of my face, sunscreen-printed on the glass door.

Lawyer Carolyn stepped over me and quietly slid the door open with a smile.

My wife came casually sauntering over, she’s unfortunately used to incidents like these. She left me prostrate on the floor and said to Lawyer Carolyn, I was yelling at him not to walk into the glass.

In my dazed state, all I could think to say to my wife in my defence was – “Carolyn started it”.

Shortly thereafter, as we were leaving, Shane stopped to wipe off the perfect sunscreen-impression of my face that had been left on the glass.

Me – “It’s like the Shroud of Turin.” I had recovered my dignity.

Shane – “If Jesus was fat.”

Thanks for reading. I write blogs, oftentimes simply to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. At other times, to allow businesses and businesspeople to get their message across.

If you could Share via the buttons below, that would be amazing. Pleeeease do. I need to one day be a famous contributor to the noble art that is – Blogging.

Cheers. Jase. 

Living in Lindfield, I worry too many people in Hornswood (being the mystical little suburbs snuggled between the bookends of Hornsby and Chatswood) work too hard and don’t have enough… fun.

So just sit back and read this story about my childhood.

All fights at my Northern beaches primary school took place at the “Village Green”. This cliché-named grassy area was surrounded by bush, only a few hundred metres from school and was far from prying teacher and parent eyes.

I was eleven, walking there in a daze with my best mate Pikey and essentially the rest of the school, who all knew to form a big circle.

Biff Gutman (not his real name) was enormous! With shoulders like the Six-Million-Dollar-Man Sasquatch, he took his position as ruthless school bully, very seriously and used to smash guys any chance he got.

And I was fighting him.

And I was terrified.

Earlier that day, Gutman had me in a headlock. My ears burned, neck was stretched painfully and my back screamed. He randomly grabbed any kid in the school he wished (except for Pikey) and this was just my turn.

Pikey was… an animal in a fight! Far from a bully, he was lean and wiry and was the toughest kid in the neighbourhood. I’d seen him ferociously fight three blokes our age once, when they tried to steal our chocolate Paddle Pops, and trade punches with two kids simultaneously from the year above!

Nobody messed with Pikey. While most school fights were mainly wrestling, Pikey was a hitter.

Anyway, Biff was parading me and stopped in front of Melanie Cutest (fake name) the hottest girl in the school and her entourage of good sorts. I had no choice but to lip off, knowing it’d mean Biff would probably keep me headlocked.

Me – “HEY GUTMAN,” making sure I had Melanie’s attention. “YOU STINK LIKE A WET HESSIAN BAG STUFFED WITH FEET JENKINS.”

Paully Jenkins smelled so badly we used to call him “Feet”.

“Feet” Jenkins (standing nearby) – “WHAT?”

Then there was silence.

Nobody ever made fun of Biff Gutman. Nobody. Slowly the girls started to chuckle and before long everybody was laughing at him.

Surprisingly, he let me go. I stood. His massive head was KFC-box red and was en route to exploding.

Biff – “VILLAGE GREEN, AFTER SCHOOL. AAAAARRRGGGHHH.”

I think my heart actually stopped. Everybody cheered. Oh f#ck.

I knew true terror.

I’d seen Biff punch guys in the face until they collapsed and then kick them. He was a brute. Twice my weight, loved hurting and I’d never seen him so enraged! I was going to die that afternoon. A disappointing turn of events.

Feet Jenkins (later on) –“Jaaaase. You’ve got a chance against Biff.”

Me – “Really, Feet?” I looked at him hopefully.

Feet Jenkins – “As much chance as my feet smelling like Pine-O-Clean.”

He laughed and walked off.

I had no choice but to show up. Biff stood in the circle rolling his Sasquatch shoulders and throwing practice Jase-smashing punches. I was skinny (then, now… not so much), I had no chance.

As we approached the already established circle, Pikey was giving me tips about hit first, hit fast but I just couldn’t follow. My mind was a rolling fog of impending death.

Feet Jenkins  – “THE LEMON-LIME PINE-O-CLEAN JASE. THE GOOD STUFF!”

He laughed again.

Pikey – “Jase… you gonna get killed. Gutman’s, Bionic-Man strong.”

Great. My fighting expert gave me no chance.

I couldn’t really hear him or anything else over the din and my fear, anyway. I was near tears and it was all I could do to stop my legs running like Steve Austin.

Pikey – “Want me to take him?”

I heard that!!

Me – “Huh?”

Pikey – “Biff’s been hurtin’ kids for years.”

Me – “Huh?”

On the Northern beaches, you didn’t let anybody else fight for you. It’d make you a coward. A weakling. A chicken. You certainly wouldn’t be able to claim in any way, to be like the Six Million Dollar Man! No Jamie Sommers for you.

But… f#ck that. This was BIFF GUTMAN! My pride would heal a lot faster than a broken face.

Me – “Well (unsure of the etiquette)… would… would that be ok?”

Pikey – “No worries. Hold me bag and me footy cards. There’s pretty much the whole school here so after, we can do some tradin’.” Swapping of Rugby League cards was banned in school ever since Biff had bashed poor Johnny Tinsdale who would not swap his Max Krillich and Graham Eadie cards, for a Terry Randall .

My mood improved markedly.

Biff (holding up his hands in a pre-emptive victory salute) – “GET IN HERE NOW JASE. I’M GONNA SMASH YA F#CKIN’ FACE.” He laughed at his rhyme.

Me (feeling quite chipper) – “Biff! Here’s Pikey… in my stead.” Now that I wasn’t fighting I was using fancy words.

Biff’s face drained of colour. The throng cheered excitedly. They were expecting to see me get beaten senseless, now they were going to see the fight of the century.

Biff immediately resisted and called strongly for the court of public opinion to sway the overwhelming advantage back his way.

Biff – “You, you can’t do that. It’s not… not allowed.”

Pikey – “It’s allowed. You’re not a chicken are you Biffy.”

I won’t go into the violent details. However, they fought, Pike won, Pike won easily. Biff was humbled by about a eight tremendous punches to the face. A popular victory, with everybody present.

Bullying-Biff was lying on his stomach, hands protecting the back of his head, face in the grass, crying with Pike sitting on his back.

Me (leaning over him) – “HAD ENOUGH BIFF?”

Biff (muffled by the grass) – “Yea.”

Me – “EVER GOIN’ TO BULLY AGAIN BIFF?”

Biff – “Na.”

The crowd erupted, cheered, whistled and hugged. All their lives had changed forever.

Me – “Great work Pikey.” We high-fived and I handed back his bag, Bionic Man thermos and footy cards. “NOW WE RULE THE SCHOOL.”

Anybody ELSE messing with me and Pikey?

Pikey – “Nah Jase. Now nobody rules the school.”

Me – “Oh… ok.”

And that, was how I took down the school bully in 1979!

Still to this day I can’t believe we stood up to Biff Gutman… and I won!

 

Thanks for reading. I write blogs. Oftentimes simply to enable me to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. At other times, to allow businesses and businesspeople to get their message across.

If you could Share via the buttons below, follow me on Facebook, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase. 

Would you be impressed if I told you I’m successful enough to have recruited a celebrity guest blogger?

Well sorry, all I have is a mate of mine, who goes by the poker call-sign Hammer. He’s certainly no “celebrity”. The term “guest” implies he’s… welcome to come over. And he’s absolutely not a “blogger” by any means.

Living in Lindfield, I worry too many people in Hornswood (being the mystical little suburbs snuggled between the bookends of Hornsby and Chatswood) work too hard and don’t have enough… fun.

So, Hammer is an American now living in Hornswood and he told me what I thought was a very funny story, so I asked him to write it. Here is the result:

 

AN AMERICAN BOY, DISCOVERING AUSTRALIA (guest blog by Hammer)

A number of years ago our family ventured a long move overseas to Australia. As part of our newfound excitement we took to experiencing as much of the local landscape as possible. Travel, food, social culture and much more. During the first year, the youngest of our children embraced many local sports and activities.

He’d always been very quizzical, wanting to learn new things and full of questions. We have always considered him a bit of a Renaissance kid, happy to try just about any activity or new experience. However, when I say he has always been full of questions, this child averages hundreds a day. Every day. Still to this day.

Being from America, there was certainly a learning curve for the young lad and his various undertakings. Learning about rips and ocean safety during Nippers and surfing lessons. The fact that baseball falls a far distant second to cricket in Australia.

Not a baseball bat in sight.

Despite the tribulations, he persisted in his education and most importantly had fun playing with his new friends.

One evening, my wife and I were enjoying a glass of wine after dinner, still at the table. The meal was over, and kids had headed off to homework and other activities. Into the kitchen walks our youngest with his typical youthful exuberance and stands across from the two of us announcing that he had a question to ask.

Thinking nothing out of the ordinary, I respond to the miniature version of my wife and myself, “What can we do for you?”

To the absolute surprise of both me and my wife, the youngster says, “I have been checking out what sort of stuff you can do in Sydney. I do have a question. What is a hooker?”

We have always been open in our household about subjects regarding the human body, relationships and educating oneself about anatomy and other possibly socially sensitive topics. In reality, these typically just fall into the category of ‘we are all just human’. Teaching our children about what their bodies will experience, and that sex is natural (but should be done lovingly and responsibly), has been part of our approach to child rearing.

After a painfully long silence in which our child took turns alternating glances between the two of us, I finally conceded to his mother that she is likely best to address this shocking question. “Why don’t you handle this one, babe?”

As my wife took control of the situation, I was amazed by her ability to explain the ‘world’s oldest profession’ to the child, in terms that would make sense to a young mind, while at the same time shielding the child from some of the harsher realities of prostitution. She navigated the conversation with an expertise that only a woman speaking to her own offspring, could handle. I was amazed at how well my life partner was able to manage the situation into which we were suddenly thrust.

I decided at this point to offer my encouragement, “Do go on, dear.”

After her explanation, the boy was apparently full of many, many more questions than before he started his quest for an answer. He pondered the new information quietly to himself, but was not satisfied that he was wiser from the moments preceding his entrance. He wanted answers and was not getting the correct ones.

He turned to me, his father, his mentor in life for guidance and stated to me questioningly, “I don’t understand?”

Being the source of all knowledge to a young boy, his father can always provide. A man of many years’ experience surely has the information needed and can put it in a relatable way that will keep his trust for a lifetime. An oracle to a knowledge seeker.

I looked the boy in the eye an explained, “In the scrum, the player in the centre who rakes the ball back with his foot.”

He looked at his father knowingly, “Thanks, Dad!”

As he left the room, off to learn more about his new favourite sport, I felt a burning emanating from the other side of the table. The staring glare of both confusion and disappointment from my wife was remarkable. To clarify her suspicions, she needed to ask, “Did you understand his question from the beginning?”

As a proud father, I let her know that my connection with the boy was strong, “Absolutely.”

She responded, “And you just allowed me to explain this topic knowing what he was really asking?”

Proudly, I replied, “Without question.”

 

Thanks for reading. I write blogs. Oftentimes simply to enable me to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. At other times, to allow businesses and businesspeople to get their message across.

If you could Share via the buttons below, follow me on Facebook, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase. 

Living in Lindfield, I worry too many people in Hornswood (being the mystical little suburbs snuggled between the bookends of Hornsby and Chatswood) work too hard and don’t have enough… fun.

So, here’s what happened to me. Last Friday we needed a lawyer to look at a simple contract, and by the time we were going home, my lovely wife was irate at me!

Right from the start I knew the lawyer was not my sort of bloke. He kept us waiting twenty minutes, despite not having anybody with him.

When he eventually could be bothered seeing us, he was an absolute dick! Three piece suit, massive red wooden desk, kept talking over the top of my wife (so he at least was brave) and seemed to frown at my chewing gum. To rub salt into the wound, he refused to give us even a ball-park fee quote. He thought he was a fancy Pitt St lawyer, not a suburban Hornswood one.

A real dick. A dick-lawyer.

But in his defence, he did have a glass bowl of Werther’s Originals on his desk. The Charles Bronson of lollies.

Anyway, dick-lawyer’s PA made me a mug of tea and it came without a saucer, so I had a chewing-gum issue. I helped myself to one of his post-it notes and plonked the pink gum down onto it, on his desk.

Dick-lawyer stared down at it. Looked up at me. I looked at him. Then he looked down at the chewy. Then he looked back to me. I looked back to him. Then he looked to my wife. Then back down to the chewy. I looked at my tea, was distracted by the thought that it looked way too strong, but no worries.

My wife wondered what was awry, because dick-lawyer had stopped talking enough for her to actually get a few words in. She followed his line of sight.

My wife – “Oh my God.”

Having been together for many blissful decades, she’s rarely surprised by things I do. But this one seemed to take her aback. She rummaged around in her handbag, found a tissue and snatched up the chewy.

Dick-lawyer (ignoring me and talking to my wife) – “Would you like me to get somebody to take that away?” He picked up the post-it pad and put it in his drawer.

Me (to them both) – “I was going to continue chewing after my tea. I wasn’t going to leave it there. I’m not an animal.”

After sitting there for half an hour hearing him prattle on and not listen to my Chartered Accountant wife at all, we had to leave the document with him. He would peruse it when he had less pressing matters and then His Magnificence would give us some idea as to what he would charge.

Over lunch I texted his PA and said tell dick-lawyer (not using that exact moniker) not to bother, we wouldn’t be giving the job to him.

She texted back – Mr Large Toss (not dick-lawyer’s real name) is quite surprised, as he gave you thirty minutes of his time, and he’s a very busy man.

I replied – I could tell he’s busy by the way he kept us waiting twenty minutes and has no time to give us a ball-park fee expectation.

After lunch, I went back to dick-lawyer’s office to get the document. Due to an earlier chewing gum… incident, my wife refused to go in and waited out the front.

To show there’s no hard feelings, I stuck my head into dick-lawyer’s office to give him the traditional “thumbs-up of thanks”. He was on a conference call at his desk, saw, but didn’t acknowledge me in any way. Dick-lawyer looked like he’d been tucking into the Werthers Originals, with the bowl moved in front of him in his fancy red chair.

Acknowledging I probably had no right to grab one, I did an over-exaggerated, comical tip-toe into his office, so as not to disturb him. I can be considerate.

I mouthed “cheers” as I leaned over his desk and dipped my hand into the bowl and pulled out a golden-wrapped Werthers. Beautiful.

He gesticulated his hands with a “WHAT THE HELL” movement, but due to the conference call, he couldn’t say anything.

Now you must understand, it is extremely difficult for a man of my nature to grab just one, Werthers Original. It was like I could hear them calling to me, come back sweet prince, take another of us. Dick-lawyer was having none of that. He covered the top of the bowl with his hands.

Realising I’d been blocked, I pretended I was actually coming in to grab the post-its that had been placed again, on the desk. Like a moth to a flame, dick-lawyer moved one hand to protect the post-its, leaving the bowl foolishly half defenseless. I swooped in and like taking candy from a proverbial baby, plucked up another Werthers Original.

Dick-lawyer, had been taught a hard lesson.

A while later, outside:

Wife – “You sucking a lollie?”

Dammit.

Me – “Huh?”

Wife – “Is that a Werthers?”

Me – “Huh?” Cleverly trying to throw her off.

Wife – “Is… that… a… Werthers?”

Me (with a look of contrition) – “Yeah… dick-lawyer said I could.”

Wife – “You honestly took one? After us deciding not to use him? After putting gum on his desk?”

Me – “Yep.”

We walked a few metres.

Me – “Just one.”

 

Thanks for reading. I write blogs. Oftentimes simply to enable me to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer. At other times, to allow businesses and businesspeople to get their message across.

If you could Share via the buttons below, follow me on Facebook, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase.

 

I know for my readers that are mums, this topic may seem unimportant or even unsavory. However for men, men’s room etiquette is essential for social wellbeing and this blog should be passed on to your sons (and some husbands too). And in turn onto their sons, and onto their sons…

 

THINGS I WISH SOMEBODY HAD TOLD ME AT TWENTY: PART V

 

UNDERSTANDING MEN’S ROOM ETIQUETTE

If you haven’t read my previous blog about this series, you definitely should do so before reading this one. It will make a lot more sense:

(https://writehandman.com.au/2018/05/17/things-i-wish-somebody-had-told-me-at-twenty-jase-gram-hornswoodexpress-com-au/)

But basically, single mum Sandy asked me to teach her socially awkward, twenty-year-old son Rick, some “how to be a man” stuff. Some of the essential life lessons, that her son would eventually learn as a bloke over the years anyway, but are much easier if I just tell him.

I agreed to use the majestic, noble art of blogging to cover things that he may struggle to find written elsewhere.

I’ve never actually met Rick, but if we did have a chat:

 

 

Thanks for reading. I’ve put my heart and soul down in words, for you. Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream of being able to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer.

If you could Share via the buttons below, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase. 

 

At an absolutely elite, professional level (only), I find soccer… an abomination!

Nothing (except possibly watching my son play Colts Rugby) gives me more enjoyment on a weekly basis, than watching my daughter play club soccer. It’s a brilliant game at a social level and is wonderful for fitness, team spirit and personal accomplishment.

THINGS I WISH SOMEBODY HAD TOLD ME AT TWENTY: PART IV

DON’T FOLLOW ELITE SOCCER

If you haven’t read my previous blog about “dealing poker when you’re 20”, you should do so before reading this one. It’ll make a lot more sense (https://writehandman.com.au/2018/05/17/things-i-wish-somebody-had-told-me-at-twenty-jase-gram-hornswoodexpress-com-au/)

Basically, single mum Sandy asked me to help bring her twenty-year-old son Rick up to speed, on some “how to be a man” lessons. I agreed to use the noble art of blogging to cover things that he may struggle to find written elsewhere.

I have never met Rick, but if we did have a chat:

Thanks for reading. I’ve put my heart and soul down in words, for you. Like a noble, armour-clad knight astride a powerful war-steed, in dogged pursuit of my elusive dream of being able to claim at parties much to my wife’s chagrin, that I am in fact… a writer.

If you could Share via the buttons below, that would be wonderful. Cheers. Jase.