Well bugger me, I’m in the doghouse again and at this very cold moment I’m travelling about as well as the Carlton Crew in the AFL, and it’s bloody freezing out here in the backyard, even if the Sprog did sling me a sleeping bag out the window an hour or so ago while the old girl wasn’t looking.
The little loudmouth could have passed me a pillow too I reckon, but when in a whisper I suggested it she shouted out ‘Mum! Did you hear a noise from outside?’ and deciding that discretion was the better part of valour I shut my meat-pie hole and resigned myself to grinning and bearing it.
I thought that whacking Kylie’s ‘Tears on My Pillow’ on YouTube and then pointing the Bose speaker at the window was overkill, but when she picked up the microphone and started rapping Galatians 6:7 over the top of the singing budgies Aussie classic I got the message alright, and through chattering teeth I’ve for the last hour been cursing the day the little cow was ever born.
Bloody hell though sportsfans, all I did to deserve this frozen doghouse stint was to agree with the Bead Twirler’s proclamation that the Kiwi bird on the dating show on the opiate of the masses machine was a brazen slapper. Could I help if my added ‘just like all sheep-shagging sheilas, but geez I’d like to shag her’ was whispered a little bit too loud?
After all the Twirler never hears me when I’m asking her for money for a punt, so how was I to know my darling wasn’t deaf?
But now I’m not only the world’s greatest arsehole, but have to freeze my rear-end off in the misery of the self-realisation that I’m a wet behind the ears sucker to boot. Fancy falling for the old ‘Oh Archie you sex machine, I’ve left seventy in cash in the Corolla console if you want to grab it and canter down to Kevvie’s and have a quick punt’.
Dead set, after all these years you’d think that I’d know better wouldn’t you? And I did too, just as I heard the door slam and the sound of that evil Kiwi cackle rang out across the Bung, and the neighbours started laughing along with the Twirler too.
You’d think that I was Quade Cooper laying a sly one into Sir Richie McCaw the way the Twirler was punishing me for an innocent observation about a bird on the box who’s bonked every bastard that was ever born, but the second I heard ‘I See Red’ belting out of the Beady’s boombox I knew that resistance and complaint was futile.
So here I am huddled in the backyard in the dark with the Sub-Arctic Bunger winds blowing and all I can do is hope that the heavens don’t open for I’ll be totally f*cked if they do and when Dawn breaks they’ll find me frozen like Walt Disney waiting for the Mad Professors to find a cure for death.
My only hope is to whack up a post that might win my cute Kiwi
slapper sweetheart’s heart, so in desperation I’m going to have a crack at serenading her with seven of the best songs ever from the Land of the Long White Cloud, and if you reckon there’s no such thing well I’m keeping my own counsel on the issue and my opinions to myself.
Off I go then, and here’s hoping that sometime tonight I might here the sound of the Lockwood unlocking and find myself slumbering warm under the doona in the double Sealy Posturepedic.
I wouldn’t slap down my last silver dollar on it though.
Number Seven – Pokarekare Ana
I’d like to pokeare kani ana that bird on the dating show, and I’d give Hayley Westenra one too, don’t you worry about that.
No, no, I’m just taking the piss luv! Can’t you cop a joke?
Number Six – How Bizarre
My marital theme song and the story of my life.
Number Five – A Day at the Races With Nicky Watson
Now it’s a well-know fact that Kiwi woman are the greatest slappers on earth. It’s been proven by no less an authority than the 2007 Durex Sexual Wellbeing Global survey – which questioned 26,000 people in 26 countries about their shagging proclivities – and found that Kiwi sheila’s are the only birds on the face of the planet to have had more sexual partners than their fella’s.
Yep, that’s a fact – Kiwi women on average each bonk 20.4 blokes in their lifetime, which you have to admit is an impressive achievement, and a good reason to zero in on a filly who says fush n’ chips next time you’re on the prowl and boogying on the dancefloor down at Louis Moran’s former favourite watering hole the Brunswick Hotel.
To put it in perspective the global average shag count for a sheila is 7.3, so it’s clear that Kiwi’s are triple the fun. But of course like all averages, there are some up above and some below, and the bird at the top of class has been both there and everywhere in between. I speak of course of Nicky No Knickers Watson, the classy Kiwi who was once married to Warriors owner Eric Watson before she started bonking the motormouth former Manly fullback Matthew Ridge, among – by her own admission – hundreds of others frisky fella’s.
Young knickerless Nicky’s not very well know over this side of the ditch, so the missus asked me to screen a snippet of one of her famous live spoken word performances to give you a little insight into why Kiwi women pull all the blokes.
Number Four – Cheryl Moana Marie
You can’t go to a hangi in Kiwiland without some bugger pulling out a ukelele and belting out Cheryl Moana Marie, the unofficial national song of New Zealand. As a bloke brought up on Waltzing Matilda and Working Class Man I haven’t got the faintest idea what the All Black fans are on about, but then again I don’t eat whitebait either.
Number Three – The Gumboot Song
Now the missus reckons that thongs are called jandals, so you wouldn’t back any piece of footwear that she tipped you, even if it was entered in a maiden restricted to 7-year-old mares at Taumata whakatangi hangakoauau o tamatea turi pukakapiki maunga horo nuku pokai whenua kitanatahu, the racecourse with the longest name in the world.
So when she starts claiming that Gumboots stolen from the local freezing works – that’s what countries that can play cricket call a meatworks: all New Zealanders are conscripted into 12 months National Service in one docking lamb’s tails when they turn 15 – have got it all over Aussie Ugg Boots you just have to smile and nod and, remembering that she grew up with Tua, take it all with a grain of salt.
The mashed-vowelled Missus politely requested that I play this one for you, as she slowly started to smother me with a Paua shell.
Number Two – The National Anthem
How the hell could you lose a footy game after this? The greatest rendition of any national anthem anywhere, ever. (With apologies to Julie Anthony and John Williamson).
Numero Uno – It’s Business Time
In the Butterfly household it’s taken as a given by the nippers that when Brett and Jerome start to warm up the vocal chords it’s time to dash off to bed, put in the earplugs, and pull the pillow over your head. For the tin lid’s know that the Butterfly’s Brisbane Boudoir is about to start rocking.
Because when they hear the gentle strains of the Flight of the Conchords ringing out over the ranch, and see the old girl’s meat pies start to glaze over as she’s looking at old Archie, well they understand that It’s Business Time. And like folk the whole world over, they know not to try to get between a Kiwi bird averaging 20.4 and a bonk with a bronzed Aussie balladeer from Geebung.
Gotta run sportsfans, I can hear the lock being rattled, and the Bead-Twirler’s cage is about to follow!
Coming luv! (I hope)