Monthly Archives: December 2013

Donning the Lycra

What's the problem?!

What’s the problem?!

With a week and a bit to go until Santa replenishes my socks and jocks supply, I thought I’d trim down a little before the annual Christmas feeding frenzy.  So last weekend, I slipped on some lycra bike shorts,  chanted “I’m a cyclist!” into the bathroom mirror three times, then waltzed out to the kitchen to impress Long Suffering Wife.

After we’d finished cleaning up the bowl of cereal she’d dropped, she cried, “You’re not going out dressed like that?!”

“I’m a cyclist!” I beamed.

“No,” she replied, “it wasn’t a question.  YOU are NOT going out dressed like THAT!”

“Why not?” I asked, thrusting my hips forward to show her how snugly my bike shorts fitted.

She recoiled in horror, “Well they leave nothing to the imagination!”  A quick glance in our bedroom mirror revealed that she had a point; and quite clearly, so did I.

Minutes later, sporting a knee length t-shirt, I wandered out to the shed, dug out ‘Pubtruck’ my trusty pushbike and hit the road, where I quickly discovered that I wasn’t a cyclist, but a target.

Taking the hint, I sought refuge on the footpath where the only things I had to pedal around were reversing cars, loose dogs and the sight of numerous folk wandering about in overstrained lycra tights.

Look, as someone who often shops in bare feet, I’m in no position to criticise what people wear in public; so I won’t.  But if you’re happy to wander round Gladstone in pants that highlight all your bulges, bumps and bits, well, that’s fine with me!  I only wish I had the confidence to join you.

Which I probably will, just as soon as Santa finishes filling my stocking this year, because I know the perfect place to stuff those rolled up socks.

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Pro Clothes Shopper

Do we have one of these shops in Gladstone?!

Do we have one of these shops in Gladstone?!

To the untrained eye it may appear that I purchase my clothing second-hand, or shop exclusively from the bargain bin at The Dishevelled Gentleman, but this is not the case.  I do buy brand new clothes, usually every three or so years; whether I need to or not.

One must keep up appearances.

But on the weekend, while putting on my favourite t-shirt, I was dismayed to see my hand tear through the fabric with the ease of Mike Tyson punching through fairy floss.

After reverently tossing the shirt into the rag box, I announced it was time to buy some new threads.  First stop was the beer fridge, because if there’s one thing I hate doing, it’s clothes shopping.

While I sipped, the Eldest Princess rattled off her time tested clothes shopping tips, which I’m going to share with you:

  1. Tie your hair up, and remove any clips.
  2. Wear a ‘flowy’ dress, or skirt, so you can lift it up to try pants on.
  3. Don’t wear makeup, because it ‘smooshes’ onto the clothes.
  4. Take off all your jewellery and anything else that might catch on clothing.
  5. Wear slip-on footwear, no laces or buckles.
  6. Carry a small purse, not a big bag, to prevent being searched each time you leave a store, which chews up valuable shopping time.

And Long Suffering Wife added, “Wear underwear.  Clean underwear!”

Armed with this information I eventually drove to the shops, took one look at the Christmas carpark nightmare, then detoured to the beach where my faded shorts, holey t-shirt, battered hat and mismatched thongs looked quite normal.

So until the Christmas shopping frenzy dies down, I plan to hang out in places where my ratty rags will blend in; the shed, fishing trips, hobo gatherings, and any pub bistro in Gladstone.

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You’ve Gotta Go To Ubobo!

Taylor was peeved to learn she'd missed the event by one week...

Taylor was peeved to learn she’d missed the Boyne Valley Country Campout by one week…

What happens when you play a country song backwards?  Your dog doesn’t die, your wife comes home and the tractor starts.

Oddly enough, last Friday when I left home, Long Suffering Wife didn’t look the least bit upset.  As I drove off into the sunset, she did a little jig of sorrow on the footpath then raced inside to put her feet up and enjoy some quality time with various battery operated devices; my TV remote, laptop and phone.  Meanwhile, I headed ‘Yonder’ where none of those things would work.

‘Yonder’ is fifty metres west of the bustling metropolis of Ubobo, and this year over five hundred cowboy hat wearing, boot stomping, guitar toting folk were herded into the grounds of the Boyne Valley Discovery Centre to enjoy the Country Music Campout.

As the cheerful volunteers toiled to keep the amenities blocks clean and roast several tonnes of locally produced vittles, the rest of us enjoyed a knee slapping, hand clapping, good time.  We sang late into the night, swapped yarns, and told whopping lies to strangers.

Now I didn’t have a turn on stage, but I did attract quite a lot of attention by drunkenly declaring that I wanted to represent the region as a Greens candidate.  In the shocked silence that followed, I quickly sobered up and announced that I was joking.  To my relief, the mob eventually lowered their pitchforks and shotguns; well, most of them.

Later, as I lay under an old ironbark gazing up at the stars, I called out to my neighbours, “Hey!  If a falling branch kills me during the night, could someone tell my wife that her car didn’t get damaged?”  That got a lot of laughs, even though I was being serious.

Mind you, it would make a great country song.

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