Lessons in Diplomacy

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I don’t normally talk politics, but this is just too surreal for me not to commentate.

But first, sit down, and humour me for a second. We’re going to play a little word association game.

Think about the following sets of words.

Dennis Rodman. Ambassador for Foreign Affairs.

Wouldn’t you agree that these words go together about as well as Fun and Run?

Or Safari and Suit?

Then it should come as no surprise to anyone, that Dennis Rodman has done as little for human rights issues in North Korea, as a bucket of sand. Indeed it can be argued he has done even less.

So why is there such a media stink about Dennis Rodman refusing to bring up human rights abuses, or the plight of US missionary Kenneth Bae who is currently detained in North Korea, during his recent visit?

North Korea, which bans religious proselytising (amongst, well, everything), claims that Bae was a Christian evangelist who brought “inflammatory” material into the country. As much as I knock North Korea, I kinda wish we had a ban on that too.

Actually, I’m embellishing a little. Rodman did tweet Kim Jong-un, asking him to release Bae. See, he did all he could. #thoughtthatcounts

Don’t get me wrong. North Korea is an awful, awful place. And something should be done to liberate its brain-washed, hostage-held masses.

But is Dennis Rodman the answer?

In fact, to what question is Dennis Rodman ever the correct answer?

Except perhaps “who won a triple Razzie for his role in the atrocious 1997 “action thriller” Double Team?”

But at least during his most recent visit, he did undermine the regime.

By forcing the Supreme Leader to sit through his Marilyn Monroe-esque rendition of Happy Birthday.

It all seems too ridiculous to be real.

Or maybe this is all one big level, and North Korea are playing us as fools, and are actually using Dennis Rodman as a propaganda stunt.

If so, well played, Kim Jong-Un. Well played.

Actually, all this Kim Jong-Un talk reminds me of a joke.

Apparently Kim Jong-Un upgraded himself from “Leader of North Korea” to “Supreme Leader of North Korea” simply by adding some olives and extra cheese…

Well this has been fun, but all this politics has made me hungry…

Resolutions are for Chumps

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My 2014 New Year’s Resolution is to lose 40 kilos. One week in, and I only have 45 kilos to go.

Jokes aside, there is a reason so many people make New Year’s Resolutions.

It is also the reason so many people fail.

It is because more often than not, they are a wishlist, not a resolution.

If you set yourself the lofty, but generic goal of “getting fitter”, “eating better” or “drinking less”, you are destined for failure. What you are really saying is, you “wish you were fitter”, “you wish you ate better” and “you wish you drank less”.

Look, don’t get me wrong, if you do achieve your New Year’s Resolution, big double thumbs up for you.

But if you were truly serious about improving your life, what relevance did the 1st January have?

Uncle Gaz will tell you. None, nada, niente.

On the whole, resolutions are for the weak, the unmotivated, the procrastinators, the attention seekers, and the cry-for-helpers.

I say, if you’re going to make a resolution, make it something fun.

For instance:

• I resolve not to spend too much time wearing pants
• I resolve to write “for a good time, phone Gaz” on toilet cubicle walls.
• I resolve to live up to it, if the call comes in
• I resolve to make a compendium of my favourite takeout menus so I have choices at my fingertips whenever I get the munchies
• I resolve to slap anyone who says “lol” instead of actually laughing out loud

*Raises slapping hand in warning*

But the lifestyle wishlist things? You should be doing them anyway. Don’t wait until the 1st January. Take control of your life. Challenge yourself.

If you want to change your lot in life, every day counts.

If you’re stuck in a dead-end job, enrol in an online course to get a qualification in the industry you love.

If you want to write a novel, sit down and start typing.

If you want to trek the Inca Trail, organise for 10 percent of your salary to be direct debited into a separate travel fund account. Pretty soon you’ll have enough for a round-the-world ticket.

But stop wishing. Do it now.

We pass this way only once. Make the most of it.

Mae West once famously said, “You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough.”

So get out there folks, live your dreams. I know I am. Maybe we’ll bump into each other along the way. All things being good, I’ll be the one wearing no pants.

Little Golden Chalice

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After being snowed under over Christmas with the man flu, I popped in to a local doctor’s surgery to see if I could get a prescription for some industrial strength decongestants to help me fly down to Melbourne. I hate being blocked up when flying, in more ways than one.

After waiting in a room, creatively named the “Waiting Room” (they must have been up all night thinking up that one), I was finally ushered in to see the resident GP. She turned out to be in her mid-thirties, and was particularly attractive.

She went through the usual background history stuff, and I explained my situation.

She said she’d need to do some routine checks prior to writing any prescription. She was pretty thorough, checking my ears, tonsils, glands. Apart from some minor irritation, everything appeared fine.

But just to be sure, she requested that I do a “mid-flow” urine test, and she handed me a paper bag with a small, plastic container inside, about the size of a shot glass.

“Wait, wait wait. Mid-flow? Into this? Are you fucking serious?! That’s like trying to fill a thimble with a fire hose!” I thought, but politely refrained from saying.

She then points me down the hall to a toilet cubicle to complete my challenge.

The first thing I noticed upon entering, was that there wasn’t a single flat surface in there.

Gaz’s tip for doctor’s surgeries – if you are going to send patients somewhere to provide a urine sample – at least put a fucking shelf in there!

The only vaguely flat surface was on top of the stainless steel toilet paper dispenser. It was a precarious perch to say the least, as it had a pitch of about 15 degrees. It became apparent that this was the place of choice, as evidenced by the numerous “urine rings”, a passing legacy of samplers past. They should get some tiny coasters made up.

Anyway, I managed to release, clench, release, dip, and quickly filled my little cup to the brim (without getting too much on my hands, floor, or ceiling). I popped the lid on, dropped it in the paper baggy, made my way back to the doctor’s office and sheepishly handed it to her.

I think Billy Connolly summed it up best. “There is nothing worse, than handing a jar of piss, to an attractive woman. And it’s still warm…”.

She took the bag, simulated weighing it in her hand, raised her eyebrows and gave a fake smile and nod like she was impressed. I watched as she gloved up and removed the lid from my amber-filled vial. She then extracted precisely two drops, placing them in some sort of microscope contraption, and threw the rest away in a medical waste receptacle.

Only two drops?! They should fucking tell you they only require a “sample”!

Oh wait, they did.

Anyway, she peered down the periscope of the microscope, and after a few seconds, popped her head up and said “All good downstairs, Mr Edwards”.

“Well, I’ve never had any complaints, Doc.”

In fact, I said no such thing, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of another way to end this story…

The Gazard of Oz for Xmas

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So the siblings and I all boarded flights from Vancouver to Brisbane, via LA. Me in 1a. The others in, well, I honestly can’t say. But I do know I entered every time zone well ahead of them.

In total, we checked 15 bags between us.

Of course, when we arrive in Brisbane, Karma sneaks up and gives me a nipple cripple. My four bags, and only my four bags (including my golf clubs), are the only ones missing.

So I’ve gone from sub-zero temps, to the tropics, and I have nothing to wear (the mankini was in bag 2). Must remember to keep this in my carry-on in future, if only to make customs inspections that much more entertaining.

Anyway it is at this time, that my brother and his partner inform me that for Christmas they bought me these nifty devices that attach to your luggage, which you can then track on your iPhone.

Fuck you, irony! *shakes fist*

So it’s only the first day, and I have massive tilt already. This trip is not boding well, I can feel it in me waters.

Add to that, I had to be in Melbourne two days after I arrive, with golf on the menu, amongst other things.

But fortunately, the gods shone, with all of my baggage turning up the next day. No excuse was given, aside from a conveyor belt breaking down in Vancouver. How it was only my four bags, out of the fifteen we checked simultaneously that were caught up in the great Vancouver conveyor meltdown is a question for the annals. I’m too over it to come up with a good conspiracy theory. Maybe my bags tested positive for Smurfiness, I don’t know. Throw your thoughts in the comments section if you have a juicy idea.

So with all of my luggage safely returned, along with my golf clubs, when I did head down to Melbourne, I couldn’t use the “hire club” excuse when I got my delectable ass handed to me on a platter. I couldn’t hit a fairway. I couldn’t buy a putt. I couldn’t sneak an unseen foot wedge out of the rough on the 14th. I think I even scrambled the GPS in my golf cart, the amount of territory I covered. So all I can say is, fuck you golf, you fucking fuck.

Dodgy golf aside, I had the chance to meet up with a few friends while in Melbourne, held a few business meetings, and caught up with Shane Warne who was in town for the Boxing Day Test and the launch of the Big Bash Twenty20 cricket.

It was a great couple of days to help unwind before jetting back to the Gold Coast to start the Christmas Countdown, and to respectfully celebrate Festivus. I’ll be airing my grievances in a later post, else this becomes War and Peace, but suffice to say, I inevitably caught the flu.

Flu shmoo, I hear you say? Mock me not! This was full-on man flu, which had me out of action for four days, including Christmas. There’s nothing better than having a raging fever, in sub-tropical heat. I must have sweated out some fierce demons, let me tell you. No-one wanted to visit me in my room for more than it takes to say “hope you’re feeling better, champ” and then step outside to play pool pony polo and sip mojitos.

Merry Karmaristmas, Gaz.

So my long awaited family get together more or less passed me by, but I was able enjoy some time with family, had the chance to binge watch a few long-awaited TV series, and received heaps of Smurf presents so it wasn’t a total wash.

I’m now back in Melbourne for some personal business, and New Year’s shenanigans.

I will need to rely on several of you to fill in the obligatory blanks over the next few days (and likely pony up some bail money). Will keep the rest of you posted, good people.

Til then, have a Smurfy end to Twenty Thirteen. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Seriously, don’t. That’s some sick shit. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Whistler Apology

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I’m sorry we fought, Whistler.

Since my last post, the snow started falling, the food started improving, and the bears have started shitting again.

So I’m happily exhausted from skiing, my belt is extended a notch, and order is restored to the forest.

Nice save Whistler, I should never have doubted you. You came good, old friend. You’ll always be Smurfy in my eyes, aye.

I have since scooted over to Montreal for some secret squirrel shit. Can’t discuss here, as I don’t want to jinx. But stay tuned.

Anyhow, as you know, I’m about to visit family in Australia for Christmas for first time in a few years. I’ll be leaving a Canadian Winter, where the temperature has been sitting at around -20°C (-4°F) and heading to an Australian Summer where the daytime temperature will average around 35°C (>95°F). That’s over a 50°C fucking turnaround! Out of the freezer and straight into the oven.

Now this is where my jetsetting lifestyle gets tough. Don’t cry for me, it’s still freakin’ awesome, but when packing a suitcase in London for a trip to Whistler, followed by a trip Down Under, it can become a little challenging to get the mix right.

Thermals – check.

Gloves – check.

Ski jacket – check.

Mankini – check.

The only common denominator is underwear. Well, and the mankini, obviously.

So I’m about to board a flight from Vancouver to LA to Brisbane with my brother and sister and their partners. When I say, “with” that’s not technically true. I’ll be in First Class, they’ll be in Coach. I’m going to feel wracked with guilt… right up until the time I wipe away my troubles with a hot refresher towel, followed by Salmon Rilette and a nice Laurent-Perrier.

I’m really looking forward to catching up with my folks for the first time in a very long time, although I know I’m going to be grilled about the lack of grandkids. I don’t know what will kill me first, climate change or the Spanish Inquisition. Is it wrong to pray for a tsunami?

Anyway, the standard Christmas routine is a quiet drink on Christmas Eve. Followed by a slightly louder drink. And then a bunch of rowdy ones. Shit, we are Australian.

On Christmas morning, we stagger downstairs, crank the air conditioning down to 20°C and exchange gifts and quiet pleasantries. Christmas lunch is usually a diverse culinary affair – a mix of hot and cold and traditional and local fare. Turkey and cranberries at one end of the table. Prawns, oysters and lobster at the other. My folks are in the restaurant business, so the spread is always top drawer.

The rest of the day will be spent sipping, snacking and swimming, consecutively or concurrently. And raping the family at open face Chinese poker.

In fact I must say, there are few things more satisfying, than the first mouthful of beer on a stonking hot Queensland day. James Squire, I look forward to you being inside me.

Somewhere between now and then though, I have to fit in the world’s worst chore. Christmas shopping on the Gold Coast. As Ford Fairlane so eloquently said, “It’s like masturbating with a cheese grater – slightly amusing, but mostly painful”.

Wish me luck, I’m going to need bucket loads.