If I Didn’t Do It

The people’s champion, Joe Karam, is said to be brokering a lucrative book deal with recently convicted murderer Clayton Weatherston– tentatively entitled “If I Didn’t Do It.”

The novella, which has caused the delay in another book Mr Karam is working on, is said to chronicle Mr Weatherston’s life from a losery nerd boy, who not only came top in his class but also peed himself on camping trips, to a whining murderer.

 Mr Karam said there would likely be a chapter devoted to Mr Weatherston’s “rapid fire multiplication skills”. Mr Weatherston confides that the only reason that he ever got good at his times tables was “because of the babes”.

The working title of the chapter was to be “I’ve got skiiiiiilllls of multiplying, they make me no better at testifying”. But Mr Karam said “nothing was set down on paper yet”.

Perhaps the most heart-wrenching moment of the book looks at Mr Weatherston’s traumatic experience of having a playground accident at the age of six. But like any protagonist, he fought his way back from the relative obscurity of Kaikorai Valley to come top in his class even though he only came second in English. “but that was enough to be top overall,” Mr Weatherston dramatically recalls. Mr Karam said this would be an appropriate time for a slow clap.

Mr Weatherston also remembers a time when his glasses were knocked off which he did not like particularly “because I couldn’t see,” he said.  Mr Weatherston’s optometrist says with the utmost relevance that Mr Weatherston could only see 6 metres in front of him.

These early years pointed to the fact that Mr Weatherston had a very complex phycological makeup which made him wet the bed and stab people. Albeit neither intentionally.

A source close to Mr Weatherston said the book, which has already been sold to TVNZ, was kind of like “Napolean Dynamite” but with less hilarity and more death. “I mean he looks kind of like Napolean, he talks kind of like him, he even comes from Kaikorai Valley,” the source, who may or may not have been hispanic, said.  

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TVNZ confirmed today that a film was in the making and it would echo the plot of hit MTV movie. “Napoleon Dynamite is a great film, it would be stupid not to capitalise on its success,” a spokesman for TVNZ said.

The book climaxes at the moment when, in real life, Mr Weatherston snapped and stabbed his partner 216 times. But instead the book offers a different hypothesis: what if he had acted, not like a total nutbar but like a person does when someone is being mean to them? “What we are saying imagine if he didn’t mutilate the name caller,” Mr Karam said. “But instead put the knife away,  like a normal human being, walked out the door and had some quiet time.” 

“Sure he still would be a losery crazy nerd boy but he wouldn’t be getting pack raped by the Mongrel Mob right about now,” Mr Karam duley added.

The epilogue, called “Guilty? What? Really? Nooo” is a retelling of the moment when the verdict was delivered. In the chapter Mr Weatherston betrays little emotion in the dock, “twitching his face somewhat” when the verdict comes down.

The guard who led him away discloses Mr Weatherston appeared to have peed his pants on the walk back the cells. “There was definitely a wet patch.”

A Golden Memory

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There is a smile in sport that can give you goose bumps. A smile of an old man looking out on his domain and knowing, once again, how it feels to know that the land is his. It is the smile of an athlete remembering what it is like to be a champion. A smile that is seen by a gallery of spectators who all want to know what that feeling would or could be like.

In that, the two entities, the player and the audience, share a common bond. For surely that is what a spectator wants to know- To be the best at anything? There has never been so foreign a feeling. Nothing else but sport is ever so ruthlessly ranked, audited and measured for its perfection. The athlete will inevitably forget, but when he remembers the audience smiles with him.

The audience smiles because it loves an underdog but has severely forgotten what a worthy one might look like.

This time, the game is golf, the game that is of the person, watched by the people. And they know what it might mean to a 59-year-old journeyman who smiles with an expression that screams “it’s better than sex”.

It was apt then that Tom Watson walked off the 18th green after leading the 3rd round of the British Master with his wife. It surely would have been one of the most perfect moments in his latter day career- a seemingly impossible achievement, one without precedent, capped off with the cherry of knowing he would get severely laid that night.

For so long golf has defied the underdog phenomenon. Every time Tiger Woods played golf the audience wanted him to win. I wanted him to win. The player. The perfectionist. This, surely, is what sport is about- someone that epitomizes the glory of achievement, of athleticism, gamesmanship and sportsmanship. A player. He played- we wanted him to win, to break records. Whenever he did, the world cheered.

“You da man Tiger.”

There are no haters of Tiger. So it was an interesting sideshow when he inadvertently (though we did not know it) became the underdog last year at the US Open. He becaome a player who scrambled his way into a playoff against another journeyman in his own right, Rocco Mediate. Of course we wanted the oldy to win. Did we? Maybe it was only later when we discovered that Tiger had been playing with knee so severely torn that he required surgery and six months recovery, that we knew subconsciously that the reason whey we actually wanted Tiger to win is because he was, in fact, the underdog.

But now we have a real one. A real win story. A story that golf is made for. Perhaps the reason that the words golf and gold are so easily interchangeable upon the keyboard. There is no other sport so individual. Where athleticism and physicality matters less than precision, thought-process and longevity. Where a 59-year-old can lead one of the most sought after championships in the sport and bring back a memory that made him smile almost 30 years ago. That is golf. That is gold.

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Dobber- a national hero

If there is anything in this life that is a certainty, it is that boys need positive male role models. People to guide us through those particularly difficult choices we face in everyday life. Recently returning from England, this is especially apparent. Thank God then, that that particular country is bloody brimming with them. And thank God there is sufficient quality television programming to make sure as much of the population can reap the benefit of that sage advice as possible. In this case the advice is: “When drinking someone else’s urine, and/or vomit (induced by drinking urine) be sure to a)make sure the urine you are drinking is your bloody own you greedy prick or b)cough it all up as it might cause the flu.

I choose b)

But I have been feeling a little under the weather as of recent, however, I put it down to a) Jet lag or b) the entire Cathay Pacific staff disconcertingly wearing face masks as they served me bacon and eggs. Oh I just sneezed.

I must say there is something unusually compelling about watching a bunch of wankers get hammered drunk and then drinking, spewing, groping, spew ing and kebababing (it’s a verb, look it up) themselves into total annihilation. My English cousin says he watches Booze Britain with his mates before a night out to get amped. I am not sure if his mates also wear matching polo shirts and share bodily fluids but either way, it makes for some great memories. It is perhaps a little ironic then, that a program dedicated to exposing the darker side of England’s culture of getting lashed, actually reveals that nation’s heroes. 

“Dobber” the 120kg whale from Yorkshire comes to mind. Dobber can drink his weight in vodka. In fact, throughout Dobber’s episode the narrator reminds the viewer: “Dobber has now drunk 20 pints of lager, 12 shots of zambuca  and 15 redbull vodkas” cut to Dobber: “Yeaahaaahhhhh”.

Narrator: Dobber has had the equivalent of 80 standard units of alcohol, enough to sedate a medium-sized Water Buffalo.

Dobber: “Yeeeeaahhhh”.

Dobber might not say much but his actions speak volumes. Give Dobber a curry and he will eat it, even if it happens to be (cue music)… the HOTTEST CURRY IN BRITAIN.

Dobber: “I can do it, I can bloody do it.” Cut to Dobber sweating, flushed, red, obviously uncomfortable.

Friends “Dobber, Dobber, Dobber”

Cut to Dobber: HUUURRRRLL.

Freinds: “Dobber, Dobber, Dobber.”

Dobber: “Yeeeeaaahhhh”. 

I thought this would also be an opportune time to introduce my new favourite website. It’s apparently old but makes me smile. It also reaffirms the fact that horribly offensive nights out can actually be a really beautiful thing. And that beauty can be simply laid down in the annals of history by the humble text message.

So Britain has its boozed up Robin Hoods, stealing from their own brain cells and giving generously to the watching public.

And it has it’s philosophers.

And it’s comedians. This guy might even get his Maid Marion. (She is probably passed out on the floor of the paddy wagon.)

I bloody love England. The only tragedy is, I couldn’t find Dobber on Youtube.