Archive for the ‘Nigel’ Category

So yesterday, as technically this is posted on the 30th, was my birthday. I turned 46.

I have absolutely no idea why this number, out of all of them, was so utterly soul-destroying but, nevertheless, I had a mid-life crisis of confidence of epic proportions, which I shan’t bother you with nor with the fall out.

Let’s just say I wish it was easy to solve by buying a Porsche.

The problem was though, on top of all this which was crushing anyway, my birthday was just crap. Had it been any other day, it would have been crap. As it was my birthday, it was mega crap.

All my family (bar one) are overseas; all of my friends bailed on me with our plans for the day; I got two birthday cards, one of which was from my mortgage broker.

When my plans for seeing people all fell through, I spent the day trying to find a laundrette that specialises in cleaning dunas.  I’m sure I didn’t dream that there was a special washing/ dryer machine in the laundrettes especially for the cleaning and fluffing of dunas.

The nice thing was going to my brother’s for birthday dinner and getting my most awesome birthday cake, as decorated by my three-year old buzzing-on-sugar niece. In case you want to repeat it, it’s a mandarin cake with orange icing as you can never have too much citrus. The sprinkles are lovingly thrown on in a seemingly random, yet abstract art like, manner. You can never have enough sprinkles, either.

She has skills.

It could have been worse. Could have been a Jehovah’s Witness. Not even birthday cake then….

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And Breathe.

Very quick post. Being on nights is weird. All of sudden, while you weren’t watching, it turned from Tuesday into Wednesday. All of a sudden I’ve gone from two days to leaving to leaving tomorrow.

While I am amazingly ahead of schedule in terms of preparation for the trip ( packing like a gay man involves at least a day to fold everything) I still have this nagging feeling of missing something. Tickets, money, passport.. check. But the idea that I am leaving tomorrow almost made me have a brain meltdown.

It all feels completely surreal at the moment.

I am, however, looking forward to airline food, of all things. First time I will have had two regular meals in a row in I do not know how  long….

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Personal Best

My personal trainer made a huge joke today. He suggested that I would become one of those people who became obsessed with exercise. Evidently the fact that I was jumping for joy at the apricot sized muscle I’ve developed in my arms {I’ve got guns!!!!) and admiring said apricot in the mirror (couldn’t see it!) meant that one day I would become obsessed with the machines and develop cantaloupe sized biceps like my personal trainer had.

He said this as I was lunging across the car park like a spastic Thunderbird. It was so absurd I had to stop to guffaw, in between heaving for breath. Guffawing while gasping is an art form. If there was a pill that would get rid of this fat I’d overdose on them

Having said that I am secretly chuffed. I broke my personal trainer’s record for his male clients today. Evidently doing  75 kg on the lateral pulldown machine is more than anyone he has trained. Go me. Cantaloupes R Us here we come.

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Tales Of My Beard…. Belt

As you know I am on a weight loss push. Normally I  my don’t cut my beard and hair until I’ve lost 10 kgs. (That has started again, by the way. This has a dual effect of motivating me and drives JW to distraction which motivates me further… as he whinges.  A lot.)

However today is not about beards. The title should have had a strike through effect but I couldn’t get it to work in the heading. No, today revisits the belt. I put on a pair of trousers for the first time since buying them in November. And when I bought them this belt was tight.

And no, I’m not holding my breath. I’m still fat as but clearly a bit less. This is at the belt notch from November.

I was pleasantly pleased



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Court Out

My friend, Reza, is a translator in Farsi and invited me to accompany him today to the local Court house where attended to translate for a client. We both erroneously assumed it would take about ten minutes of contact as opposed to the 2 hours it did take. I had planned to go for a walk while he did his job and returned to find him still in the court-house, still with his keys to the car. So I leaned against the bonnet of the car and watched the local wildlife.

I actually was deeply sorry I hadn’t gone into the court with Rez as I suspect it would have made a fantastic Talk of the Town. As it was, watching the people leave the court-house was entertaining enough. Firstly I think if I were to go to court I would wear a suit and possibly comb my hair. I don’t think I would be too surprised if I was found guilty after presenting to the court wearing a fluorescent pink track suit over an electric blue too-short-to-cover-my-entire-belly t-shirt.

Problem solving capacity is clearly lost on these people.  A denim mini skirted ‘lady’ was confronted by some plastic stuck underneath her car and causing an ungodly noise as she drove out of the car park.  Her solution was to get out of the car and scream at it. For five minutes.  Amazingly it didn’t spontaneously remove itself.

One man came out and was clearly happy with his case.  He came out and did an impressive moonwalk. Unfortunately he was about 600 pounds larger than Michael Jackson but full marks for effort. Very happy, he was.

Which was more than could be said for the next man who came out of the court-house. He came out the door, turned around at the court-house and screamed ” You f***ing c***s can go f*** yourself. You don’t get to f*** with me.”  The doors of the court house didn’t appear to care. Presumably he had been told he needed to attend  anger management classes. The man was built like a truck, as solid as I, except all muscles. Covered in tattoos. Shaved head. He then got into his car and very angrily pulled out of the car park at a rate of knots. Right into Reza’s car.

He pulls back and gets out and unleashes further expletives at the car and at me, his witness and the reason he can’t run off. I go to get info off him and ask him, sweet as pie, for his details and he  threatens to “***ing hand me my head if I don’t back off.”

And this is  who I am now. I was bored. His threats bored me. Seriously, afterwards, I was amazed at my reaction. Years of being screamed at and threatened in my day job had made me completely impassive to this idiot’s threats. Having said that, had I had a gun I’d have shot him and no jury in the world would have convicted me. Lacking a gun I went into de-escalation mode.

Unfortunately in terms of timing, prior to the accident I had initiated a chat with my policey friend Lisa, using messenger on my iPhone.  As I am trying to de-escalate this putz, my phone is going off every ten seconds with Lisa asking where did I go and was I alright. Hard to calm people down when your pocket keeps loudly buzzing at you.

Fortunately I’m good at my job. Got the putz’s name and mobile. Didn’t have insurance naturally.  Got the car details. Had him eating out of the palm of my hand by the time I was done with him.

But total putz. Total, total putz.

Ironically it was the complete opposite of there never being a policeman round when you need them. Policeman in my pocket, being bloody loud. And persistent. When I told Lisa how close she came to getting me killed, she laughed like a drain. Honestly. Oh the cynical South Australian Police Force.

What’s more, Lisa will laugh more when she reads this. You so owe me a drink.

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Well this took a turn I hadn’t expected.

I was wracking my brains trying to think of who I was crushing on in the teens and couldn’t think of a one. I suspect that I was so full of self loathing at the time for having homosexual thoughts that I didn’t allow myself the luxury of actually lusting after anyone. I certainly remember the teens being years full of ‘I really am straight and goodness dont those boobies look lovely’ self deception.  I remember having chats with my friends about how bosoms were the most amazing thing ever and I would stand there (you never sat in High School) and wonder what all the fuss was about. I spent my formative years loathing myself.  There was not time for crushes. Crushes were signs of weakness.

In an effort at self-denial I would buy playboys and other stick books and try to find the nude women arousing. I just kept thinking they looked cold. On the plus side I have a stunning knowledge of 80’s racing cars and fly fishing. (It would appear most playboy readers had only the three interests.)  It was one of the few times in my life I showed endurance, sadly. I managed to keep the whole denial/ you are the most useless evil person schtick going all the way through university. Uni should have been a fabulous time of sex, drugs and rock and roll. Instead I spent the entire time in prayer meetings with well-meaning Christians who, among other things, told me being gay was the biggest sin in the  world. Stupidly I went along with them. It was a comfortable hell. Without realising they were doing it, they reinforced the self loathing beliefs I had  about myself. Seriously, that’s the one moment in my life I wish I had a time machine to go back and correct.  Uni was a mess.

Steps towards acceptance came only after years of self-disgust and loathing. Realising I was dying and needed saving, one of my uni Christian friends looked at me knowingly and told me simply “God doesn’t make mistakes.”

She was right. I stopped hating myself for whom I was. I mean, seriously, why would anyone choose to be in a minority group?

So in all of that time I never allowed myself the luxury of lusting after anyone. (which may go to explain my whack a doodle tendencies now.) Fortunately (or rather sadly, really, as I had grown way beyond such fantasies by then) I indulged in one last hurrah before being yanked from the closet.  This man (and for the Adelaide people this will be hilarious)

George Donikian. Newsreader on the new multi cultural television station SBS. Now for Adelaide readers, who have known him as the newsreader for channel 10, now considerably older and much, much more stuffy, this will seem an odd, positively hysterical, choice. However at  the time , in his younger days, he was a total stud. Truly aDelaideans.He was amazing. And the way he pronounced all of the foreign cities as he read the news. Every syllable accented and extended, every T was guttural. It was like poetry being read to you at news times by a swarthy market seller.
You knew you were in the presence of a talented tongue.

I figured it was time to move on from fantasy stuff.  I moved onto realio trulio people from here. No, the irony isn’t lost on me either.



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More embarrassing memories, more public humiliations.  Anyone would think I was masochistic. (Hush, you.)

I had gotten into real live humans at this point ( I am so proud) and was prey to 1970s Australian television. 1970s  Australian Television was a plethora of cop shows basically and you could take your pic of the combination of policeman gracing your screens. Thin cops, fat cops, corrupt cops, insecure cops, male, female, detective, uniform. It was the exact same story each week, only the trappings were changed. At the time, even I was bored  and was waiting for the next best thing. Had I known that the next best thing  was going to be reality television Id have kept my mouth shut.

Three shows grabbed my attention; the first is a legend among Australian Television. Homicide. Went for umpteen years with a rapidly changing cast. It was, it was considered, Australian Drama at it’s best. Truly it was awful but there was one thing that kept me glued to the screen each week. This man:

sigh… Gary Day. Played Senior Detective Phil Redford on Homicide for  five years. He was  in the first episode of Homicide shown in colour which also may have helped. He was magnificent. I was completely in love. I mean, look at that fringe. Is that just not superb. I would spend all the hour of the show hoping for a glimpse of his fringe. His partner would always be taking his kit off to do some type of excercise on the show ( he was  a karate expert or some such) and this was completely wasted on me. Anything that took away screen time from Senior Detective Phil Redford would annoy me intensely. As such I have no idea of the plot of any episode of Homicide (they solved murders I am guessing from the title). I was too busy watching Senior detective Phil Redford.  I suspect I would have married Senior detective Phil Redford except for fact that the show was cancelled. Senior Detective Phil Redford and his magnificent fringe were consigned to television history. Sadly for Gary, his magnificent fringe deserted him as the years progressed much as did mine (who am I kidding, my hair has always been complete crap and my fringe was never magnificent) He is balder than I am now, God love him, and I am plenty bald.

The second love was American and, sadly for Senior Detective Phil Redford, I was two timing him for this man:

This man needs no explanation. I mean, look at him. Kent McCord. Adam 12. He is superb. Also with magnificent hair (which he has managed to keep unless he has a realllllllllly impressive toupee) and looked even more outstanding in the earlier shows when his hair was shorter. He is also, I suspect, responsible for my love of people with sticky out ears. Again I have no idea what he did in the show other than look awesome  but presumably they solved crimes.  I remember one episode set in a comic shop where a comic got stolen which I thought was the worst crime ever. (Oh yes, my geekdom goes way back.) Again the show got cancelled which saved me from the heartbreaking task of having to choose between him and Senior Detective Phil Redford.

Then my taste got really weird.

I had a serious two-year love for this man:


I have no idea why.

Peter Adams.  Detective JJ Johnson in Cop Shop. Cop  Shop was the thematic successor to Homicide and it was even more appalling. A soap, it was considered more ‘sexy’  and had storylines about the sordid affairs between the police as much as it did about crime fighting. Now this man, God rest his soul for he has since passed, was my major lust object for a good two years. Looking back I have no idea why. The only thing I remember is he came back with a really short haircut one week (unheard of in the 70s) and  he looked amazing, I thought. (I couldn’t find a picture of that particular look. I doubt I could have convinced you anyway. Clearly my hormones were not well.) His role continued however I soon lost interest. He did a shirtless scene once and, God bless him, I have never seen a more pasty, hairless chest in my life. It was like having cold water thrown over me. I moved on to television new.

Alrighty, your turn. TV Police crushes. Go.

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