Has your life ever sounded like this?

- It’s not you… it’s me.

- I just need some time to find myself.

- I don’t think I can do this any more.

- I think we’re just growing in different directions, you know?

If the answer is yes, chances are that you’ve broken up with someone at some stage in your life. Breaking up is like fucking your parents or performing back surgery on yourself – never an easy thing to do. Whether it was meant to happen or not, it will always suck. Break-ups are the industrial vacuum cleaners of our lives, and the sad thing is that they don’t leave our carpets any cleaner than they were in the first place.

As breaking up is a two way street, I am going to… break up this piece into two… pieces.

You can find a picture of her boobs on the Internet. Not nice if you're a boyfriend that likes to keep his girlfriend's boobs to himself.

Part Une: People breaking up with you

Remember those lines you read earlier. Here’s what they really mean.

-It’s not you… it’s me. And I hate you.

- I just need some time to find myself. And someone else.

- I don’t think I can do this any more. By ‘this’ I mean you.

- I think we’re just growing in different directions, you know? Like I’m trying to grow as far away from you as possible.

This is a picture of a pornstar and her boyfriend. He looks happy for someone who has a girlfriend that fucks other dudes.

Ah, those break up clichés. At least we aren’t always as honest as we could be. It could be a lot worse. Witness these break up lines I witnessed when I was interning at Dr Utada’s Japanese Love Clinic.

-I ran over your dog, I think we should have wild monkey sex with other people.

- Know that guy who you always thought I was cheating on you with? The guy you always hated and didn’t trust? Yeah well, you were right. I’ve been doing all the things I said were too degrading to do with him, instead of you.

- I’m leaving you. I’ve legally married Mount Fuji. I plan to buy used schoolgirl underwear from vending machines and make myself a suit, then run around on the summit. And it’s not me… it’s you.

So, the point is – it could always be worse. Those 34 minutes I spent with Dr Utada were a real eye-opener for me. One of the broken-up couples did give me their Udon though, which was great. They broke up mid-meal.

There are a few ways that one can handle being broken up with. I found these two written on a grain of rice that I bought at a craft market.

- Pretend like the person who’s breaking up with you never existed. As soon as they say the words, act as if they’re invisible. Just imagine: What? Did anyone else hear that? Is this house built on an Indian burial ground or something? … That’s it! I’m calling Chief Sits-With-Piles to exorcise this place!

- Pretend you’re an Italian from an advert. As your break up fight escalates, start shouting things passionately and throwing vases in slow motion. At least one of you should be wearing red. *It must be noted that you should stock up on vases whenever you feel your relationship might be going through a rough patch.

You may wonder how they managed to fit so much on one grain of rice – it was long-grain basmati.

To summarise being broken up with: practise your break-up speech often and work on getting it as fast as possible. That way – as soon as your partner says, “Honey-gorgeous-darling-babes, we need to talk…” you can say, “I think we should see other people.” and they can say, “All I wanted to say was that we should go watch the International mini-kite festival at the beach this weekend, some of them are in such amusing shapes.”

From then on, it’s up to you. Kites or single life.

This is some Japanese art showing a Samurai doing the naughty with a man. You may make sword jokes.

Part Deux: Breaking up with other people

The first question is: do you really want to break up with this person? If the answer is no, then, well, you probably shouldn’t. If you are slightly unsure and sort of vaguely unhappy in your relationship, you could always do nothing because it is too much effort to break up and find someone else; get married to your partner; have children; grow to resent everything that happens in your pathetic, grey, boring life; become fat and die. It’s up to you. At least you didn’t have to go through the effort of breaking up, right?

Right.

Not all of us are made for everyone else. Think of it like this: we’re all puzzle pieces, but we’re not all parts of the same puzzle. So, not only do we have to hope we’re part of the same puzzle, we also have to hope that our puzzle pieces fit together. If your puzzle piece is someone’s nose and the person you are hoping to be with is part of the misty mountains in the distance, you’ve got no chance. To show how diverse the world is: here are some real life puzzles I saw when I interned at Junket’s Puzzle Emporium in 1992.

- Homer and Aristotle having a wrestling match.

- A young Hungarian boy with a packet of limes slung over his shoulder.

- A pack of Rottweilers dressed up as babies, with bones cut into the shape of rattles, afloat on a sea of dreams.

- A person dressed like a pencil, dancing the waltz with a chocolate bar, in the ballroom of Versailles.

- Two racing drivers, Jesus, a gardener doing some topiary (in the shape of a fish with high heels on) and a tennis ball. All having sex.

If there is that kind of diversity around, we can all realise how difficult it is to find someone that is right for us. At least as painful as finding a piece of hay in a needlestack.

You may wonder why I haven’t mentioned ways to actually break up with someone. That is because only you can know how to do that. In case you are really stuck, here are two methods I found when I dredged up old Mr Woodbine’s koi pond last summer.

- Move to another country. Don’t send a forwarding address. Consider getting some plastic surgery so that no one will ever recognise you again. This is a great method if you hate your family too.

- Find a sheet and some old chains. Cut eye holes in the sheet and attach the chains to your wrists. Now you can pretend to be a ghost and scare the vagesus right off of your partner. They’ll think your house is haunted and they’ll never want to see you again. Just be sure to make ‘WoooOOOooooOOOOOo’ noises. It makes it that much more believable.

Now that we’ve come so far together, there are a few things I’ve realised. I think we need to talk…

Apparently this is some street art from Slovenia. An artistic, hateful bunch, those Slovenians.

I just can’t write this piece any more. It’s not you… it’s me. Etcetera. Ad Nauseam. Cry cry. Throw vases in slow motion.

Yours with ellipses…

Pee Ess Wee

P.S. Ellipses are these (…) – as soon as your partner starts using them around you – you’re fucked. Break up with them as soon as possible.

Edited for your displeasure.

Certainly, necessity would suggest that in order to get changed, one should at some stage have to be unclothed – this is a given and is quite acceptable. The issue of being unclothed only becomes an issue when, for example:

• Men sit bollocks-naked on the little benchy things (and thus leave scrot-box germs on them)
• Men take off their clothes to have a shower but then dawdle around; nispies swinging in the breeze,
• Men feel the need to put lotion on themselves, everywhere. Yes. Everywhere.
• Men find it necessary to shave, totally naked – in front of the mirror. Why would one need to be totally naked to do that; especially in the company of other men. Besides, just think what would happen if you dropped the razor…
• There are young good looking types bending down to tie their shoe laces and you walk past them with your nispy at eye height.

Step Two: Dress properly
I have seen people at the gym wearing Diesel shoes, Slip slops and most importantly a pair of Adidas Superstar 35th Anniversary shoes (the Berlin edition). Wear running shoes, that’s what god made them for.
When it comes to other clothing, one realises that body-builder types have mutated and abused their bodies to the point of them being unable to fit into normal clothes, but surely those silly oversized tee-shirts with the necks cut out of them are unnecessary? The same goes for those silly kind of pyjama/clown pants they wear.
In terms of women, is it necessary to wear as little as possible? Aren’t you afraid of popping out somewhere? I’ve heard stories of men “falling out” of those stupid running shorts, and while women’s anatomies certainly are more tantalising, surely this is a worry. One can still work out wearing a normal pair of shorts, instead of a pair the size of a glove.

Step Three: Do not touch yourself too much
Not only do muscle-mary types look at themselves in the mirror too much, I have personally witnessed one who was feeling his boob in the mirror. That can’t be good. The same goes for flexing in the mirror – can that not be done in the privacy of the home?

Step Four: If you sweat explosively, please do something about it
Some men manage to not just sweat so that it runs down their bodies, which is indeed a good indication that they are working hard, but some manage to get it to actually fly off their bodies on to the people surrounding them. If this occurs often, one should consider getting a plastic bubble in which to train.

Step Five: Don’t scream
We know you are strong. We know you can do big weights. We know your training partner is secretly in love with you and the tight cycling shorts you wear. It is not necessary to scream every time you lift; one understands the theory that screaming gives you a boost in order to lift heavier weights, but rather aim to scream inwardly, like the inward-screaming monks of Patagonia – they have been practising for hundreds of years. Similarly, do not throw your weights on to the ground after your set so that they make a big booming noise and everyone looks at you. Everyone knows you should take up another hobby, like reading – it’s not necessary to tell everyone.

That's a strong pepper. The other man has kind eyes.

Step Six: If you have strange tics, please try keep them to yourself
There are certain people one sees at the gym regularly and a small percentage of these people are twitchers (no, not bird-watchers, nutters). There is one lady who headbangs as she burns those calories on the stepping machine, and another who appears to shake her head while on the stationary bicycle, sunglasses on all the while.

I suggest therapy.

Step Seven: If you are going to use a spotter, do not get the spotter to do all the work
To give a quick definition of spotting: A spotter is someone who helps you to do the last 2-3 reps in a set of lifts. A spotter allows you to push yourself just past your limit and thus gain in strength. Many younger males of the human persuasion often take spotting to new highs. I have witnessed three people (veins bulging as they worked) helping someone lift an impossibly heavy weight for bench-press. This is silly. And stupid. Who are you fooling? Only your mom.

Step Eight: Parking close to the gym is redundant, you are going there to work out
Many people appear to spend ages circling the gym, looking for good parking. Surely if one is going to the gym to work out – it would help to park further away? Just a thought. Use it. Or use it.

Step Nine: Please bear in mind with the longer bars that as you take weights off one end it will cause the much-maligned see-saw effect.
Back when I was sixteen and still strong (seriously) a friend and I had just got off the bench-press and up sidled some middle-aged women – keen to improve those pecs of theirs. After complaining loudly that someone hadn’t taken the weights off, they began to take them off from only the one side, causing the much-maligned see-saw effect. The much-maligned see-saw effect occurs when the weights are taken off one side of the bar – this causes it to become unbalanced and as it becomes unbalanced – all of the weights on the heavier side slide off on to the floor – causing a huge kerfuffle and generally causing everyone to look at you. Now, as these women weren’t well versed in the much-maligned see-saw effect their actions caused it to happen, unfortunately for them; the lady wearing the ankle brace was standing on the side where all the weights fell off.

She was quite angry.

*Insert farting noise here*

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Step Ten: Be wary of leg press machines
Having 350kg pushing your legs down so that your knees are under your chin and you are stuck like a little man-pretzel inside some gym equipment is not that fun, and quite embarrassing.

Yours flexingly,
(oooh it feels so hard and big)
Pole Wit

The point being: what I feel is not important. At least not to you. Even you with the exceedingly long nipples, well done, by the way, for making it out of the house – I’m proud of you. You could feed babies on the other side of the room. But, the Internet, and social media specifically are designed in such a way that your opinions, your pictures, your links, your everything are given centre stage. The paradox is that there are millions and millions of centre stages and the only member of the audience is a rather shiny mirror with a giant gold frame.

Some of you might have seen a documentary called Century of the Self, by Adam Curtis. This posits the theory that the idea of a self was not crystallised in human minds prior to the early twentieth century, where Sigmund Freud’s nephew, Edward Bernays, used psychological techniques to further consumerism and influence people. For a very brief overview at Wikipedia, click this collection of linky letters. For a little more of an in-depth look, dive straight into this blue pool of linkage (The BBC’s page for Century of the Self). And, what with the wonders of free information, why not let your mouse hover over and chomp up these letters, which will allow you to download the entire documentary, for free. Don’t complain if you burn up your Internet.

Please bear in mind that my takeout from the documentary is almost as simplified as the plot to Twilight. So don’t kill me, or troll me, or start a flame war, or whatever it is that the Internet kids are doing now.

What we are seeing now, manifesting in the Internet is the evolution of this idea of the self. If or when you watch the documentary, you will see how the public had to be given this idea of the self. And then, they had to be taught that only by buying things, they could define who they were in relation to other people. The Century of the Self tells us that prior to this, humans only ever consumed what they needed. Am I guilty for owning 30 pairs of shoes. Yes. I am.

The Internet has evolved to meet this idea of the self and push it further than we could imagine. People celebrate themselves for no other reason than they are themselves. This doesn’t make sense to me. While one should certainly be happy with one’s self (I am happy with myself sometimes two, three times a day), I still don’t understand people’s need to blab so much. To literally cut themselves open and let it all pour out. I don’t like having your smelly, emo guts all over me, thank you very much. Perhaps because the Internet is so much more anonymous and there are less consequences than there are in real life, people are happier to air their dirty laundry without fear of recourse or someone looking at them funny with that slight sneer as if there’s a strange smell afoot.

Think of facebook status updates. I have seen more post-break-up wars of words than I care to count. And no one realises just how silly and childish they are. The same goes with overly emo status updates. No one cares that you’re upset, that you’re over it, that you quit or that you give up. Mentioning your dear Pep-pep that just died means nothing. Does your emotion only become validated when it is seen in a public forum? If there was no Internet would you have to run around in the streets with a sign around your neck (complete with an unhappy face, just to let people know for sure that you’re upset)? Or (and this is something that irritates me more than people trying to justify to me why Twilight has any merit whatsoever) are people just doing the old emotional fishing? This can take the form of fishing for compliments or fishing for sympathy. Either way it’s pretty lame. As soon as people fish for compliments or sympathy around me, I tend to ignore their pleas quick-smart.

I think it’s the assumption that your emotions, your insides, are worthy of public consumption that frightens me. I define myself (on the Intertubes and to a large extent in real life) by what I create, by what content I put forward. It doesn’t matter that I was the youngest person to reach the South Pole wearing only underpants and green nipple tassels, or that I entered the Winter Olympics for the antique pipe-smoking and typewriter abuse events and won gold at both (and had to get a really bad tattoo to let you all know that I was there). What matters is the content that I produce.

I define my value by what I can create. What I can bring into being from nothingness. My selfish hopes and dreams have nothing to do with any of you. You can ask me and if I feel like it, I might share some things with you, but I hope I will never overshare my personal life. It’s really not that interesting. And neither is yours. Even if you’re quirky and zany. And you know what? Even being kooky is not enough. What I’m interested in is your responses to things, big things, not the way your best friend’s ex-girlfriend totally likes you but you’re not sure if you should do her or not because bla bla bla bla, I’m sorry I couldn’t read any more of your self-serving blog because I was stabbing an oyster fork into my eyes.

I don’t even like oysters and I wear glasses. You can imagine the amount of effort needed to just undertake such an action.

Dear readers. There is a difference between blogging and writing. I am not a blogger. The democratisation of the Internet has been its biggest boon and its biggest bugbear. The idea that information and content can be created and shared by anyone is still one of the most exciting things I’ve ever come across. Just thinking about twitter makes my brain wet, when I consider what a thrilling, dynamic conversation it can be. It can also be a whole lot of emotional whining, or mind-vomit, don’t get me wrong. This democratisation has allowed anyone to start a blog, a place where they can share their talent with the world (if they have any). Or they can share pictures. If that’s their thing. I’m generally about as visual as Stevie Wonder. But please kids, stick to your talents. The piss-stained sepia look does not make your photos more arty, even if you’re pouting as best you can, sticking your neck out so that your double chin doesn’t show and standing with the biggest group of friends you can find, to prove how cool you are. Ditto black and white. Black and white photos should be left to the professionals. Or dogs.

You can become righteously indignant. Tell me I’m no better than you. That I’m a bastard for slapping the sunburn that is your personality. I’m just as boring as you are. I just recognise that I am. And anything I share in a public sphere I try to make interesting. Especially if it’s actually about me.

Yours (in parentheses),
Paul White

The modern era is all about differentiating factors. These can take many forms. Some of them may be physical (i.e. A skew eye, one leg shorter than the other, wearing your underpants outside your pants or a skin condition) some of them may be mental (i.e. Being incredibly stupid) and others still may have to do with your personality (i.e. Being an asshole, not being an asshole and the very subject of this piece: being funny). The thing is, we are all unique – just like everyone else and therefore people feel the neehd to “stand out” and “make a statement”. A great physical differentiating factor that I have is that I can click my knuckles, just by making a fist. I see it as “investing in my future”. Another differentiating factor I have is the ability to use the so-called, “inverted commas.” See, I just did it there.

But enough of this, “poppycock” and “lollygagging”, let us now open Door Number One and see what is behind it – “How to be funny in the modern era.”

There are many ways to be funny. For example: slapstick comedy. Slapstick comedy usually works well on the mentally ill and the young. It basically involves falling over and hurting yourself. Kind of like when your grandmother fell over, broke her hip and then whimpered about it until her leg went gangrenous and died and they had to amputate her face – except she wasn’t doing it to be funny, she was doing it because she had a weak character and terrible balance – ever since that incident with the blank CD and the roquefort. Should you want to make people laugh in a style of slapstick, HEADLINE payoff suggests that you fall over at random times, preferably when people are watching. With no laughs to assuage your pain, slapstick comedy can be a painful experience to say the least and a debilitating experience to say the most. Remember that you could be falling over into a campfire, or some spikes or even a vat full of acid, so always look before you attempt this manoeuvre. Other ways to engage in a bit of the old slapstick include: throwing pies at yourself (to do this, simply bake a boomerang into a pie), hitting people with things (like an octopus for example – slapstick to the max) or driving your car at 120km/h into a wall.

To segue into the next method, let me just say that slapstick comedy is basically a stick you use to slap someone in the face with – thereby gaining some laughs.

Yes, it’s time to pun my people. A pun is a play on words. Many people find puns to be funny (or is that punny?), I do myself – because I like words. Other than asshole, I have been called “Wordy William” before. Puns generally rely on a word having a double meaning. Permit me to demonstrate.

A young boy comes up to you with some paper wings stuck to his schoolbag. You tell him that, that just isn’t going to fly. He cries. You laugh. A pun.

A young boy comes up to you with some paper wings stuck to his schoolbag. You tell him that you have herpes. He gets confused. You cry. Not a pun.

Right, I hope that you’ve got that all cleared up. (To be punny at this point, consider making a joke linking “cleared up” to acne or linking “right” to write.)

Another way to be funny is the knock-knock joke. I am quite sure that the majority of you are au fait with such humour so instead, I will show you some knock-knock jokes that don’t work at all (one could argue also that jokes that aren’t funny are funny, but there are only so many people with such an intricate understanding of the spiky quagmire that is post modernism that will be able to appreciate such (anti?) humour.)

l  Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Your mother.

My mother who?

Your mother’s dead. She died of Tuberculosis of the foot.

l  Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Table.

Table who?

Table cloth that matches your serviettes.

l  Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Stephen.

Stephen who?

Gerald.

Now, let me carry on to a surefire yet simple method to be funny that I have come up with myself, after sucking up many minutes of humour into my lifehole, digesting it, assimilating it and forming my own opinions about it, after making minutes of all the humour I assimilated and emailing it to my email address I use for work related issues. This method will henceforth be known as my audaciously divine rule of 3. The method works thusly: list 3 things, make the first two very normal and make the final one something off the wall (no, not a painting, punballs). It is this contrast that makes the third thing mentioned so funny. It is this same principle that made you laugh so much when your little sister had an accident in church. On the priest.

So, without being any more prolix than I have to be (even though mentioning prolix, may itself be prolix – good Christhell I am off my tits on post modernism), let me get on to some examples of my audaciously divine rule of 3. NB: The third word often has a sexual connotation but it does not have to have one.

• Boiled eggs, lawnmowers and masturbating.
• Keyboards, microchips and Jesus’ beard.
• Running, stamp-collecting and frottage.
• Bench press, carpets and brain surgery.
• Blank CD’s, a fan with 3 variable speed settings and Michael Jackson.

Perhaps what makes this method so funny is that there is an inherent narrative between the three things mentioned. Imagine the story that revolves around boiled eggs, lawnmowers and masturbating. Definitely a story I would like to read. This method can be used in response to questions as well. Take a look under this antique armoire here and see what I’m talking about:

Q: So, what did you eat for breakfast today?

A: Eggs, bacon and a G-Strap I got from my dog’s bed.

Q: So what’s wrong with you, why weren’t you at work yesterday?

A: I had: emphysema, asthma and a large hotdog.

Right, well my squidsausages – if that’s not enough for you to be funny, you could always just send people our way – sometimes just knowing what’s funny can count as a sense of humour – and as far as we’re concerned – we’re pretty funny. If you’re still battling with the idea of differentiating factors in the modern era, I am sure I can rustle up a piece explaining that for you.

Enjoy the meat, potatoes and salad tossing,

Paul

We all know that Jacques Kallis is basically mentally handicapped (sorry I meant retarded, no reason to not be politically correct). It is a well-documented fact that he went to Wynberg Boys High School. It is also believed he chose cricket because he realised that when he was batting there was both a scoreboard to count his runs for him, and a batting partner to read the scoreboard for him.

After making the Western Province cricket team he formed immediate bonds with Herschelle Gibbs. They bonded over there collective book-reading tally of zero, and Graeme Smith, who decided it would be very fun to have a pet that could talk and earn a salary.

Intelligence: Not a requirement for a professional cricketer

Taking all of these things into account it occurred to me that Jacques was quite fortunate to have been so talented at cricket.  Otherwise what the hell could he do?

Hmm…

I think his perfect career if he hadn’t have been a cricketer would be to become a guide dog.

“What?!?” I can here you scream, “how dare you say that?!? Guide dogs have to be smart don’t they?”. Yes they do, but, apart from intelligence, he has all the qualities required to become a world class guide dog. He quite obviously has good eye sight, as evidenced by his cricketing career.

"Hey, blind dude! Over HERE!"

The way he responds to instructions from Graeme Smith shows that his hearing is obviously good enough, AND that he obeys instructions to the point where common sense (haha I used the phrase common sense in an article about Jacques Kallis – see that?) isn’t an issue.

The problem with with him being a guide dog is that he would take an awful long time to learn things. Not just because he is stupid – which he is – but look at how long it has taken him to adapt to one day cricket. Also, most of the time dogs are easier to understand.

Dogs can run faster. He is fat.

Favourite Food: Chicken Pasta

He is friends with Mark Boucher, which means if he was your guide dog you would have to put up with Bouch visiting every now and again, a terrible thought. But if Mark Boucher’s batting is an indication of how long he can stay in one place, he won’t be around long.

Jacques either wants to kiss him or eat him

He is dating her:

So once he becomes a guide dog she will probably leave him, as guide dogs don’t make as much as cricketers, and Jacques isn’t exactly Brad Pitt, or me. I’m not saying she is shallow or fickle, I’m saying she is practical and intelligent.

Some more fun facts about Jacques Kallis from his website:

Which superpower would you choose: Invisibility or Strength?

Invisibility – It’s funny cos he’s so fat

Who are you closest to in the team?

Probably Boucher as we spend a lot of time together off the field and live near to each other - Told you

Biggest challenge?

To continue growing as a player and a person – *Insert redundant fat joke here

The jokers in the team?

Gibbs and Nel are the pranksters – Small things amuse small minds, fools seldom differ, retards of a feather flock together. Take your pick.

Sports commentators are infallible. They are at the top of the journalistic profession and are the envy of their peers and… ah never mind, we all know the vast majority of them are total crap and only got their jobs because they are ex-pros, or people who have taken a dose of Verb-Lax and have never been treated with a Mouth-Tipation.

But sometimes, the “experts” who destroy our eardrums come through with something that makes listening to their drivel all worth while. This is a list of my favorite 20.

20. “He dribbles a lot and the opposition doesn’t like it. In fact you can see it all over their faces.” – Basketball analyst.

19. “With his lovely soft hands he just tossed it off. – Cricketer Neil Fairbrother hit a single during a Durham v Lancashire match, inspiring Bobby Simpson to observe.

Tossing one off

18. “Tony has a quick look between his legs and likes what he sees.” – ‘Winning Post’s’ Stewart Machin commentating on jockey Tony McCoy’s formidable lead.

17. “If history repeats itself, I should think we can expect the same thing again.” – Softball announcer.

16. “Winfield goes back to the wall. He hits his head on the wall and it rolls off! It’s rolling all the way back to second base! This is a terrible thing for the Padres.” – A classic. Jerry Coleman, Padres broadcast announcer, trying to tell radio listeners about a play.

15. “What does it feel like being rammed up the backside by Barrichello?” – James Allen interviewing Ralf Schumacher at a Grand Prix.

14. “Sure there have been injuries,and even some deaths in boxing, but none of them really that serious.” – Boxing Analyst.

13. “Ah, isn’t that nice.. The wife of the Cambridge President is kissing the Cox of the Oxford crew.” – Harry Carpenter at the Oxford-Cambridge boat race 1977.

12. “Ballesteros felt much better after a 69 yesterday.” – Steve Ryder covering the US Masters

11. “Ralph, I would like to be able to tell the folks what happened on that play, but the Florida cheerleaders were shaking their fuzzy things right in front of us.” – Famous University of Kentucky commentator, Cawood Ledford on the interference of pom poms.

Hmmm, cheerleaders, fluffy things...

10. “Stephen Hendry jumps on Steve Davis’s misses every chance he gets.” – Mike Hallett discussing missed snooker shots on Sky Sports. (For those of you not down with the British lingo, dudes refer to their gals as their ‘missus’, jokes are always so much less funny when you have to explain them)

9. “Julian Dicks is everywhere. It’s like they’ve got eleven Dicks on the field.” – Metro Radio football match commentary.

8. “They usually have four or five dreams a night about coming from different positions.” – Willie Carson was telling Claire Balding how jockeys prepare for a big race when he said.

7. “This is really a lovely horse. I once rode her mother.” – Ted Walsh – Horse Racing Commentator.

6. “Colin had a hard on in practice earlier, and I bet he wishes he had a hard on now.” – Eurosports’ Jack Burnicle on superbike racer Colin Edwardes’s choice of tire.

5. “Spencer’s running across field calling out, ‘come inside me, come inside me.’” – Sky TV’s rugby man, the ubiquitous Murray Mexted.

"Come inside me! Come inside me!"

4. “Some weeks Nick likes to use Fanny, other weeks he prefers to do it by himself.” – Ken Brown commentating on golfer Nick Faldo and his caddie Fanny Sunneson lining-up shots at the Scottish Open.

3. “One of the reasons Arnie is playing so well is that, before each tee-shot, his wife takes out his balls and kisses them – Oh my God, what have I just said?” – US Open Commentator on the success of Arnold Palmer. (This one lost points on the list because the commentator realised he made a mistake, party pooper)

2. “I don’t like this new law, because your first instinct when you see a man on the ground is to go down on him” – One more infamous quote from Mexted

1. “This is Gregoriava from Bulgaria. I saw her snatch this morning during her warm up and it was amazing.” – 2004 Summer Olympics

Weightlifting, gross. No offense, unless you really want to take some

The more sports-conscious of you will have noticed that there are no quotes from the great Murray Walker, that is not an oversight on my part, if I had included his at least 17 of the 20 probably would have been his. There are websites dedicated to just quotes of his, so I decided to give some of the other commentators a chance to air their gems.

Murray Walker - The legend himself

This brings us to our topic for today, the Bachelor Olympics.

I can’t imagine anyone that actually enjoys watching all that bullshit like fat chicks throwing metal slugs, or malformed dudes doing “DanceSport” (having said that, Sumo is pretty cool, as is Javelin. Billiards would be badass if it were a little more realistic and all the dudes were hammer-drunk.)

Here follows my proposed Bachelor Olympics revision:

1. Olympic powernapping. Ability to achieve most consecutive powernaps over longest successive time period, avoiding the need for urination and food consumption. Not quite a spectator sport, but it’s tough when the competitors get down to it!
2. If filling up the garbage can in the kitchen as much as possible before taking out the trash was an Olympic sport, I’d be so dominant that people would accuse me of being underage.
3. Many-for-one microwave meal eating. Since you always know that it would be wrong not to buy 3 at that price, you always do. And only read that the Best Before for all three reads “Yesterday” when you get home. Inevitably this results in the lesser known Weeknight binge-eat.
4. On that note: Binge-drinking. While we could pretend that we thought we’d have more people round, we all know we’re closet alcoholics and that there is no reason any normal person should be consuming 20 beers in one night. But then, why not?
5. Pub pissing. Corollary to number (5) – after 12 beers, you’ve broken the seal. Now you’ve either got to fight it, or embrace it. If you embrace it, how long can you pee for? Can you hold your breath equally long to ensure your survival in that rancid place? (Women’s version involves nose powdering with a certain white substance whilst making convincingly lady-like toilet noises.)
6. Lumberjacking. There is nothing more manly than cutting down a big ‘ol tree and knowing that you’re contributing to Global Warming for fun and for profit.
7. Any grass version of an astroturf sport. Grass is always better. I’ve never smoked any good astroturf.
8. Dish-packing. I once lived with some dudes, it got so bad the only way we could eat anything was if we mangled the dish out of the precarious dish pile in the sink and took it outside to wash under the hosepipe. We prided ourselves on our creativity in developing more and more creative ways to eat without cutlery.
9. Food stacking. You know you’re going to have a big night in. You’ve got the TV lined up. The remote is itching for your attention and the beer is cold. The final challenge: proper prior preparation – the tastiest, most instant, heart-attack inducing crap you can find, stacked perfectly within arm reach. Double points if you get the girl to prepare and serve.
10. Olympic Channel surfing. The requires skill and an acute sense. Just as others in the room are settling into a program you need to be able snatch the controller away, zap onto a new channel, and then lull them into a false sense of security before the next time-rape.

Any event, this post is warbling to a halt, and I’ve got rugby to watch. Any sport with hookers in it is a good one. Would prefer if they were of the right gender really, but heck sometimes you’ve gotta accept the world as we live in it.

Anyway, my point is “I’m a lazy slob.” Please cater to my preference in lack of jockism. (Lastly, if this post doesn’t make much sense, forgive me, I don’t really know where I am right now, I’m hopped up on beer and Tylenol and I don’t really care.)

What real man bachelor sports can you recommend? Catch you later masturbators, and give me your musings.