I’m not a romantic bloke by any stretch of the imagination.

And after the weekend I’ve just had, I don’t want romance or love or whatever you call that soppy shit, knocking on my door any time soon.

I say this because I’ve just experienced “ The big fat, pain in the arse family wedding”.

The marriage of a sibling can be a very trying time. There are a lot of expectations from relatives and close friends. Our house has been in a state of total panic for the last few weeks. Flowers, dresses, catering, makeup, hair, celebrants, and this are all for a family home garden wedding and a good ol’ BBQ shindig as the reception. “We don’t want anything fancy”…

My sister walks down the garden path to some power ballad from the mid-eighties, radiant in her orange glow. (The fake tan should have been trialled before the day.) I must admit, we were all salivating as she resembled a piece of succulent Tandoori chicken on a fluffy bed of white rice.

Her hair was unnaturally curled and so stiff, I swear if any one went near her with a naked flame … Boom! Her make up so thick she must have gone to the hardware instead of the beauty therapist. She went to so much effort, only to be met by her husband dressed in jeans and his "All Blacks" Rugby T-shirt, akubra hat and sunglasses.

The celebrant swayed as he tried to marry my father to my sister… is he Tasmanian? No… just pissed. Well, that’ll teach Dad for wearing a suit.

After a few slurs and the occasional F bomb, the announcement is made… ‘Man and Wife”.

Yeeharrrr!!! Lets get this hootenanny started!

Fire up the Barbie, let the grog pour free.  The band started up… 1 Banjo, 2 chords and 3 teeth.

After the third rum the women got louder and the men huddled closer together, bracing themselves for the night that’s about to unfold. They’ve all been there before. Let the games begin…

First the removal of the garter. I can’t watch. This is my sister after all. I don’t want to see some bloke crawling up her legs to a place that sisters shouldn’t even have.

The garter is thrown into the pack of inebriated men who roll with laughter as the laced lingerie lands on some guys’ ear and somehow defies gravity in staying there.

Now it’s the girls’ turn. The atmosphere changes. A slight tension fills the air. The men disperse. In the background I swear I can here the soundtrack to “Chariots of Fire”. “Da da da da dumm daa.”  Skirts are tucked into underwear, sweat removed from top lips in a slow backhand motion. Eyes dart eagerly, weighing up the competition.

There’s the throw…

The bouquet launches into the air. You hear the wind from the rush of bodies, like the whoosh of the gates being opened to start a horse race. This is an incredible sporting moment.

The women Jump, dive, push, pull hair. The Bouquet bounces off every fingertip. It looks like it’s heading for cousin Cheryl. She holds her arms high ready to catch, an exuberant look upon her face, only to be knocked from her perch in a spectacular tackle from the side. This is where the Australian women’s rugby team must get their training.

You dont believe me? Then check out this video....

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Go the Wallaroos!!

Meeting your girlfriend's parents for the first time can be quite a daunting prospect. Say or do the wrong thing and you could well end up having your ass kicked to the curb by her father.

Make a good impression and your girlfriend will most likely be prepared to take the relationship to the next level.

I think I’m in the market for a new car.

Sometimes the universe just slaps you in the face & says “ Hey Arsehole! I’m talking to you!”

At first, you don’t see the signs. A little bingle here, a little break down there…get rear ended here, Spend 3 grand on the piece of shit to go on holidays and it still overheats there,  … the list goes on.

But as a bloke who mainly uses his car for work and not pleasure, if it starts in the morning… that’s good enough for me.

If I look back over my life with cars I can honestly say… in the relationship, I am the abuser.

My first car at 17 was a beast. The family car, Bertha. Ford Falcon 500. She was a big iron clad tank.

I drove this car into the side of our family home.  (Figure that one out.)

Mum and Dad’s front bedroom was destroyed and Bertha, well, she had a smashed indicator and a little scratch up the side. She was invincible. In her, I was invincible! Once, coming back from the bike races, I was pulled over by police. They discovered my cargo of 10 people, including one person sitting on the dashboard. Mexican people smuggling? Not quite…  just a bunch of pissed mates. I thought I’d get the designated driving over & done with.  Bertha would cast her Jedi mind powers on to the police. “These are not the droids you’re looking for.”

I was told to keep my limbs inside the vehicle and go on my way.

I had many adventures in that car and my respect for Bertha was unlimited. Although I didn’t show it in upkeep and maintenance, I hope she realises just how much I loved her.  (I say this as she slowly rusts in

A disused paddock.)

By the age of 22 I finally saved enough money to buy my own car. Some sort of European thing. Fifteen hundred bucks for a car that stank of petrol and lasted 3 months before it finally caught fire. As Bon Jovi would say… “It went down in a blaze of glory”.

Renault: it’s French for “lemon”.

From there I received a hand me down Toyota corolla. You could drive that baby to the ends of the earth. She may have been small but she had guts and determination. Sure, my mates took the absolute piss out of me. But look who’s laughing as their magged up utes and beefed up Monaro’s were disappearing without trace. My girl could sit anywhere unlocked, doors open, bonnet up, keys inside, money in the console… you get the picture.

That relationship ended as a corolla sandwich.

So now I’ve returned to the bigger cars. I wanted a vehicle that would say, “Look at me… I am a man. I drive a commodore.”

It’s been great for the past few years; I’ve even grown a beard. But as in all relationships, sometimes you just have to move on. The arse has dropped and become a little saggy, the cracks around the headlights are beginning to show, she’s become temperamental as if everyday is her “cycle” and her transmission could prolapse at any time.

So to all the cars I’ve loved before…

I think it’s time to update to a younger model.

In light of recent allegations about several well-known figures (Mel Gibson, Chris Brown, Matthew Newton etc), The Big Boys Club has an urgent message for women everywhere… don’t touch this type of guy with a ten foot pole!!

Do not date them, do not marry them, do not pass Go and collect a black eye.

Yes, fame is attractive, and the powerful guy with charisma and money to burn has a lot to offer. And we get the “bad boy” appeal. But this is not about being powerful, or about being artistic, fiery, wild, dark and dangerous. It’s called being self-obsessed, unhinged and unloving. Ladies, you just don’t need this!!!

Of course, sometimes with behaviour like this, there are factors involved (drug and alcohol abuse, mental health issues, anger management issues, dysfunctional family background, etc), which require treatment and some level of understanding and care.

But let’s just state for the record - it is not a woman’s prerogative to put up with this kind of stuff, or to take responsibility for “provoking” it. It is the guy’s responsibility to acknowledge that it’s wrong, address it and solve it.

The Big Boys Club believes that women are to be enjoyed, cherished and respected. Women have all sorts of gorgeous special qualities which we, as men, admire and adore. We’re not stupid - we know that without women, we’d be smelly losers grunting at each other through a haze of pizza, smoke and beer fumes! We like being close to you, we like looking at you, and we love touching you. It makes us happy.

Any normal bloke finds it hard to understand how a guy could ever want to diminish a woman, make her feel fearful, or make her feel less than she is. Even more so why any guy would need to scream, yell, swear, hit and throw things. That’s what blokes’ paintball and poker nights are for.

Granted, the average bloke isn’t perfect and we’ll always do things you wish we didn’t, such as eat sandwiches without using a plate, repeatedly forget to take out the rubbish, and burp in public. But you’d do well to pick the guy who remembers his mother’s birthday, still speaks to at least one of his ex-girlfriends, and doesn’t display addictive behaviour. He’ll be the one that cherishes you, enjoys your company, and looks after you – and you won’t have to worry about a slap in the face afterwards.

A Fan For Life

Yep, I’ll say it…loud and proud baby! I’ll even shout it from the roof

tops or the highest mountain. I AM A KISS FAN!!!!!!!

I don’t know how it started or when it started. All I know is that my pre-pubescent life was an obsession of rock guitars, thigh high platform boots and, dare I say it…make up.

My pocket money was spent only on KISS merchandise. My bedroom wallpapered with posters of black and white faces with long tongues & frizzy hair. Mobiles hung from the ceiling, gold coins to prove I was a member of the KISS ARMY proudly displayed in glass cabinets, jewellery, clothing and yes… even dolls.

I was the kid that on Saturdays would paint my face like Ace Frehley and ride my skateboard down the main street. Nobody cared. They all just thought I was a total retard.

I loved their look and I loved their songs. I loved them… it was man love.

It wasn’t until I was in my mid twenties that I finally got to see my heroes live. (Mum wouldn’t let me go to their first Australian concert back in 1980, as much as I begged and pleaded and threatened to run away from home.)

I pulled my KISS tapes out of storage. The only memorabilia I had left. (T’was an ill-fated date leaving for university and an upcoming hospital fete.)

Listening again to my musical rock gods awoke a sense of eternal youth. With hard hitting lyrics like… “You’re good looking and you’re looking like you should be good.” (C’mon and love me.) Genius!!!!!!

It was to be a huge day. Not only was I going to the concert of a lifetime, but also there was a whole day convention to attend.

A museum of KISS erected in the Hilton hotel.

I dress in my finest… you never know whom you could meet. I take my place in the queue out front; scope out the talent, looking every bit a cool unit, then… Aaachoooooo!!! One big sneeze that left a huge slimy green mucous ball in the palm of my hand.  I had nowhere to go. No handkerchief, no tissue, no form of paper or plant life to be seen… I’ll just have to wipe it on the back of my backpack … there’s nowhere else to turn.

Inside the Hilton, I’m so in awe of all the KISS history. The costumes, the scrap paper with lyrics scribbled on it, the youngish girls who are looking for a bit of KISS action & they’ll find anyway to get it. If only my tongue were as long as Gene Simmons. I’d flick it from across the room like a frog catching a fly & bring those short skirted groupies undone…BANG! With all those fantasies racing through my mind I smack right into the Perspex surrounding Gene’s jewel encrusted codpiece. Smooth.

Now that I’ve impressed the punters, lets move onto the big boys.

Question and answer time with Paul Stanley and the Demon faced man himself.

I’m so excited when the microphone comes my way that I think I may have shot a small load into my pants. What question do I ask? I haven’t even thought. What do I want to talk about with these guys? I must sound intelligent, I have to sound like a good bloke, I have to be interesting so they’ll say “hey, I like this guy… ask him if he wants to come back and hang out with us.”

The mic approaches my lips. My sweaty palm reaches for the base clasping the techie’s hand. “Uhhh…. Gene… “(These are my heroes, make an impression.)… “ How many chicks have you slept with?”…

Oh man! It just slipped out! My brain went into primal. What I should have said was “Ooooga Booga.”  Would have had just the same impact.

And so it is… I didn’t get to hang out with KISS.

The concert that night ROCKED!!!! It was everything I hoped it would be. KISS delivered the spectacular that is their show and by the end I didn’t care that I was a mucous stained, bruised egg headed loser that went home alone.

My life cycle as a KISS fan was complete.

What got me reminiscing about my childhood heroes? Oh that’s right…

Check out this…

KISS SHREDS… Lots of laughs, put warmth into my heart & loins.

Torn Between Two Loves

Tuesday night is always my night to kick back. I make sure nothing interrupts. The phone’s off the hook, the computer’s off and the Mrs Is out visiting friends…perfect.

I Crack a beer, find my arse dint in the couch and put my feet up. The remote is poised in hand ready to flick through all the channels that I deem worthy to watch. Usually, it’s a no brainer. But tonight I was torn.

Miss Universe. I don’t usually go in for these kinds of things. It’s a bit girlie for me, or so I thought…

I think it was the purple bikini’s that caught my eye, then what was filling them. Sure, all the girls looked the same, Miss Albania, Miss Russia… Miss Nigeria.

All I saw was big hair, boobs, hips and legs. I mean , of course there were some variations… bigger boobs, smaller waists, longer legs. Some boobs bounced quite nicely with that perky strut they do, others didn’t budge a millimetre… but as all us blokes know… there are only two kinds of boobs… real and UNREAL!!!!!!!!

My thumb got itchy again when the dancing Elvis’s came out, that’s like watching a musical and I’m not going down that yellow brick road, buddy.

Back to the usual Tuesday night viewing, Top Gear. Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz. I have to admit I have a soft spot for Miss Diaz… and it’s growing firmer by the minute!

To see the way she handled a car on the track, pushing that gear stick around, screeching around the corners at high speed, and that filthy mouth of hers.( I love a girl who knows how to swear.) and I’m sorry… Tom who?

Ad break. I’ll just check to see what the ladies from around the world are doing.

Ahhhhh… just caught the end of the competition with one of the clones standing statuesqley at the front of stage in her crowned glory.  Who won? Which nationality is she? I can’t tell… “All look same to me”.

Finally the announcement. Miss Mexico… a South American sinorita. Hi yi yi. Gorgeous!!!

All I can say is… I’d love to put some meat in her Taco.

Introducing Vinnie Kaye

Big Boys Club Crew Member and Good Bloke

So.....

You may have spotted my big head  about this site a fair bit, actually you’re probably thinking,  “Hang on a slow motion titty wobbling second. Where have I seen this fellas face before”

Well thanks for inquiring ~!

Previously in other episodes, I graced a certain nation wide chip competition, with a mighty flavour that came 4^th. Yep, I can see the penny dropping now “it’s our old pal Vinnie Kaye, I vaguely remember him “! “Gee whizz, his chips were smashing! Pity he didn’t win”.

Anyway, the gentlemen here at Big Boys Club thought I’d be a great asset to the company, by merely walking around the office, as the B grade celebrity icon, imparting irrelevant pieces of information and questions for all to ponder, during your lunch times, brunch times, and sexy times.

Such as; what is Satan’s last name?

Why is the Lone Ranger called 'Lone' if he always has his Indian friend Tonto with him?

Why do milkshakes bring boys to yards? Why doesn’t Mc Donald’s sell hotdogs? And

Do prison buses have emergency exits?

I hope these questions inspire a state of Zen in all of us.

Speak soon.

vK

Holy Crap!!

I just woke up today... I have been asleep for almost a week. It took me that long to recover from the night.

Okay, so today as I am sitting here in my jocks eating some old pizza from out of the fridge, (shit what is that green stuff?) I am contemplating on the night.

So...

(Hang on maybe I need a beer)