Inappropriate Locker Room Behaviour

Number 1: Drying your balls with the hairdryer.

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Nuclear War on Level 3

I have come to the conclusion that the males on the third floor at work are unhealthy. This conclusion is based on the number of bombs that are being dropped in the lavatory. Dudes, if your body is capable of creating these splats/smells… change your diet, get some exercise, drink more water, for fuck’s sake do something; you’re not well. Cheers.

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Each morning Londoner’s go to war

The London Underground during peak hour is an experience. It’s where you often see the dark side of a Londoner. A symbol of a ‘broken society’, battle conditions.

The doors on a London train don’t close, they SLAM. Depending on the mood of the driver and whether or not he is on schedule, he will either let all passengers on or elect to slam the doors while people are still boarding. That’s one of the better moments of the journey, as you get the chance to see a person’s head get whacked by a closing door and then stuck in it. Other things that get caught in the doors include bags, jackets, arms, legs and feet. If the driver is in a truly bad mood he will just say ‘Fuck you, you shouldn’t have boarded, I’m going to start driving’. Panic ensues, but you get a chance to see the compassion of Londoners as they usually flock to help the person escape possible death, attempting to set them free. Sometimes people blatantly battle the door, they see it closing and will lunge aboard, getting their entire body stuck in it. It’s considered a result though, as the driver will eventually be forced to open the doors again, begrudgingly allowing the passenger to make the cut. The driver will take this as a personal insult and as a defeat of sorts, consequently halting the train to berate the passengers. STAND CLEAR OF THE DOORS! WE AINT GOIN NOWHERE IF YOU OBSTRUCT EM. SELFISH FUCKIN GITS!

Often you will hear an announcement warning of severe delays due to a ‘passenger being under a train’. This means someone has either fallen onto the tracks and been killed, or has taken their own life. That basically means that someone has just died doing what you are doing. It makes you feel all warm and fuzzy as you continue your journey. Sometimes people will get all panicky and anxious during severe delays. WE’RE TRAPPED! WE’LL BE STUCK HERE FOREVER. I NEED WATER! AAAAAH AAAAAH AAAAAH!

While aboard a dangerously crowded train, all sorts of things happen… mind games, subliminal battles, the marking of territory, inappropriate eye contact, suffocation, the release of body odour, unhealthy levels of sweat, pondering how your life got to this level, stray hands etc. It’s never good when a phantom hand somehow makes its way to your balls and you can’t see its owner. Your eyes close, pained expression…Please be a girl, please be a girl, please be a girl. Other times a guy will be directly in front of you with his bag at his feet, then he’ll arrive at his stop and bend over to pick it up, smashing his arse right into your knob. Often he remains down there for a few seconds, jostling back and forth while collecting what he needs, meanwhile you’re thinking ‘Aaaaah, that’s what I needed’. The absolute worst? Without a doubt, when someone farts. A mixture of repulsion, rage, suffocation, violent thoughts and confusion will ensue. Confusion, because everyone is a suspect, including you.

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Guys at the Gym are wankers

In my Top 25, Act 2, number 11, I asked the following question:

“What is with the guy’s in gym change rooms who have no intention of putting their clothes back on… waltz around, put the leg up, have a shave, crouch down, have a chat… ah, put your effing gear back on, then crouch. Strict limit on the number of bollocks I wish to see in a day”.

That was a good one. Out of the locker room and into the weights area, there is one guy who kills me. He barely works out and spends most of his time checking himself out in the mirror. I’m not talking the occasional glance, I’m talking a proper stare, legs apart, head tilted, eyeing himself off… for minutes at a time. He then approaches the mirror, gets face to face with himself, has a staring contest and turns away.

Meanwhile, much like cleavage, I’m trying to ignore it, but ultimately can’t. But unlike cleavage, I’m thinking ‘you arsehole, you absolute arsehole. What sort of wanker does this. Seriously! WHO?!’

Multiple choice time: what sort of wanker does this?

a) a wanker
b) a wanker
c) a nutter who thinks the mirrored wall is actually another room and wonders why there is some surly, stocky shit continually eying him off. He sees the arsehole looking, so he turns back, approaches him and gets face to face thinking, what the f*** you looking at, bitch! He doesn’t flinch so he turns away. He walks to his weights, looks back and sees he’s still greasing him off. He thinks ‘what is this f***face’s problem’, approaches the mirror for another stand off. Again, no-one flinches so he walks back to his weights, glances back and he’s STILL looking etc etc etc. This continues until the gym closes and staff come out to say ‘cmon guys, let’s take it outside’. Looking at the mirror he says ‘But this f***wit keeps staring at me!’ Who you calling f***wit arsehole. Arsehole?! who the f*** do you think you are. F*** you. no, f*** YOU! NO, F*** YOU!!!” This continues until 5 personal trainers carry him out in a blind fold and muzzle, yelling and screaming at himself.

The answer? Yep, all of the above (plus arsehole and self obsessed troll).

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New Segment

I’m launching a new segment called Reasons why you’ll never find a wife on Clapham High St.

Reason 1: Tonight I walked past a girl peeing next to a car. It wasn’t even that late either. Seriously. She must have been confused and thought she was a dog. Actually…

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Blog Wavering

As you may have noticed, the blog is slowing down. Stuttering. The system is breaking down as I battle post Thailand health issues. The hideous aftermath of Thailand rolls on. I have become deranged, disconnected and dangerous. When I look in the mirror, I see a broken man. And I don’t mean metaphorically, I mean because I punched the mirror in a Why Me fist of rage.

Last week I sat through a meeting that lasted 1 hour and 15 minutes, and somehow managed to not take in a single word anyone said. This tactic will work just fine if you are not expected to contribute, but if someone should happen to throw a curveball in the form of ‘So Adrian, what do you think?’, well, you’re pretty much fucked. You have to rely on the bits of information that somehow seeped into your subconscious, process them, structure them into an answer and communicate them in a way that makes it appear as though you know what you’re talking about… all in a matter of seconds. Suffice to say I failed on all fronts. Not only did I fumble my words and go bright red, the answer I gave was not related to the question asked. ‘That’s a really interesting comment Adrian, BUT CAN WE PLEASE STICK TO THE TOPIC, WE HAVE A LOT TO GET THROUGH’. Oh ok, sorry. In my defence the meeting was one of those meetings you have already had 20 meetings about, and will probably have 20 more of by the end of the month. AH FOR F*’**S SAKE, HOW MANY F*****G TIMES TO WE HAVE TO DISCUSS THIS F*****G TOPIC. IT’S DISCUSSED. IT’S OVER. MOVE ON. LIFE IS NOT A F*****G PIE CHART. WHAT ARE WE EVEN DOING WITH OUR LIVES?! When imagining me saying this, it’s best done picturing me standing in front of a room full of curious people, arms flailing, speaking in a dramatic, theatrical, Shakespearean accent, then storming out. WHAT ARE WE DOING WITH OUR LIVES?! Get it?

So as I reflect, it all becomes clear… the monkeys of Thailand merely bit me, the batons simply battered me, the gamma-hydroxybutyrate just raped me… it was these goddamn fucking meetings that broke me.

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The shame

Up early last Sunday, I saw a large rowdy bunch drinking outside a club on the High Street, many of whom wore yellow tights and wigs and such. It’s still not safe I thought, the Clapham Neanderthals from a Saturday night are still out, better cross the street. There was too much traffic to cross, so I just pushed forward. As I moved closer alarm bells started ringing. I began to see not just yellow tights, but green tights as well. I noticed they were not just speaking when they spoke, but yelling. I noticed that everyone who looked at them as they walked past, did so in disgust, embarrassment and pity. I began to notice small tattoos plastered all over their faces and bodies. Then I noticed a peculiar amount of skin being shown for such a chilly morning, the jacket of choice being a large blue cape. Oh no I thought, they might be… please don’t let them be… I think they are… AUSTRALIAN. FUCK! Why do we have to be such wankers? Why can’t we just be normal when celebrating our national day. Why do we have to start drinking at 8am, queuing outside Infernos, and wearing fuckwit clothes?

Americans cop their flak, but they would never celebrate 4th of July like this. The English get flak too, but even they would be above this (well, maybe). Australians leaving home should be forced to sign a pact that promises to never celebrate anything by getting pissed on the street at 8am while wearing a dangling cork hat in yellow and green tights yelling show us your tits slut. If they break the pact when abroad, the local police (or anyone) should have authority to hose them down with a very powerful fire-hose, muzzle them, tie them up and lock them in solitary confinement until they learn that no-one else thinks this is cool, funny, endearing etc. They just think, so they really are a bunch of inbred convicts.

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One thing I don’t understand, never have and probably never will, is smoking. The concept of blowing shit in someone else’s face, and not really caring? As I see it, smokers are no different to a person who has an illness where they need to break wind every 15 minutes, producing devastating results. Their illness is curable (and smelly, and unhealthy) but they choose to just live with it anyway. You’re sitting outside in a nice beer garden, and then Miguel decides he needs to let one go… for 5 minutes. The non wind-breakers squirm and try to politely face the other way in manner that Miguel doesn’t feel self conscious about his illness. Finally it stops, everyone breathes again, then 10 minutes later he let’s another go. You ask why the fuck he doesn’t just get the illness treated, as there is treatment out there. ‘It’s too hard’ he says, ‘and breaking wind makes me feel good, and I actually don’t mind the smell!’. Alright, as long as you’re happy Miguel. I also like it when you find a nice spot in the park to eat your lunch, and some arsehole sits right next to you and sparks up and starts coughing his intestines up. Thanks for that. I could go on, but I’ll cap it there.

This is probably part of a deeper issue for me. As a child my Dad would always spark up around me.. in the car, in the living room, even though he knew I hated it and had asthma. Bastard. So I thought it only fair that his cigarettes constantly go missing, somehow get wet, or have the tobacco replaced with something that wasn’t tobacco. It really pissed him off and probably sheds some light on why he battles stress beyond the levels of a healthy man.

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The Sauna


This one time, in the sauna, a woman took her top off and got her breasts out. Seriously. She just lay down with it all on show. I thought, wtf?! This aint Scandinavia love, who do you think you are anyway? I wondered if she was giving me a private show or if that’s just what she did all the time. It got me thinking how woman can just do as they wish. I occasionally let certain woman do as they wish with me, or rather, to me, but if I were to be relaxing in the sauna in the company of a lady, and decided it was time to give Mr Johnson and his backroom staff some airplay, I think it would be just a tad different. Don’t you? The point is made.


I feel sorry for the hot woman who have to use the sauna at the gym I attend, as some guys rape them with their eyes. I try to make an effort to not look too much at a hot bikini clad girl in the sauna, as it might be a tad inappropriate. I might glance to check her out when I know she’s not looking, otherwise it’s eyes straight ahead. Unless I think she’s checking me out, then I’ll check her out. We’ll check each other out, then we’ll both get awkward and fidgety and I’ll wonder if I should spark a conversation, until the heat gets unbearable and the moment passes. Then I think ‘Curse my inability to act at the crucial moment, curse it!!’ I can’t figure out if it’s inappropriateto chat a girl up when we are both half naked, dripping sweat with pulsating bodies after a workout, or if it’s more appropriate than ever.

Some guys see a hot girl enter the sauna, and literally just stare, gaze, gawk, gape, watch, eye rape etc etc. It’s similar to the look Steph gives me most days at work.. I want you. I want you now! Anyway, You can tell the girl is thinking ‘Ok, it’s been 5 minutes now, this guy has crossed the boundaries of appropriate social behaviour, I must leave’. I guess the guy has no shame, so he need not worry about shame. He also knows his chances of ever finding a wife have long gone, as have his chances of ever having free sex again. So this is the pinnacle for him. And fair enough.

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