Monday, April 27, 2015

For those of you who are interested, here is a new emagazine I am now writing for The wittier stories are OBVIOUSLY mine, although we are are all 'team writer' at the minute. Do drop by.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Things I Would rather Do Than Wear Crocs

1. Wear human uterus's as shoes
2. Wear bare feet
3. Wear the ACTUAL feet of bears as shoes
4. Eat Balut

5. Hand deliver a breech birth foal
6. Sit next to a Kennedy in a moving vehicle
7. Catch up over a few drinks with Tony Abbot
8.Write a 3000 word essay on the merits of Scientology
9.Go cave diving
10.Sit next to Kim Kartrashian at a National Geographic function
11.Set a world record for wearing bees
12.Feature in an Adam Sandler movie
13.Be read Shakespeare by Julia Gillard
14.Examine my own waste for worms

So that's a NO on the Crocs then.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Hi I'm Wendy And, Yes, I'm pleased To See You....

I suffer from an anxiety disorder. It’s known medically as Anxiety. Capital A.
This condition was first diagnosed some 10 years ago. These days, mercifully, it’s something I rarely think about. Anxiety, in many forms, is seen as a relatively common disorder. Some medical professionals suggest that the condition has a genetic component, and indeed one of my children suffers from Anxiety to an occasional debilitating level.
I now recognise that my own mother probably suffered the same.
I say probably because we never discussed it, or anything like it. I do, however, have a very clear memory throughout my childhood and adolescence of my mother ‘just taking half a Diazepam’ before bed, and sometimes in the afternoon.
I thought they were sleeping pills, and they are, to an extent.
It was only recently when, having suffered from a sudden bout of unexplained insomnia that I headed to an ‘ Apothecary’ to grab myself some Diazepam that I discovered something I found amazing.
Now in Thailand you can buy anything in a chemist over the counter, and I mean anything. Even the things marked ‘only by prescription’. Sometimes the word ‘prescription’ in English can be interpreted as those small rectangular colourful bits of paper known in other countries as ‘Money’.
So my very helpful chemist was all too pleased when I wandered in and told him that I wasn't sleeping, and that in fact I had been feeling a little anxious.
“Ah,” he said “the best thing is Xanax, but it’s only available by prescription”, and he then proceeded to pull out a strip from his trouser pocket. It turns out the prescription for 10, 2 mg tablets of Xanax in Thailand is 300 Baht. Which seemed a lot. On the other hand, 10 bright yellow Diazepam were mine for 5 baht each. I took the yellow pills and happily headed out the door.
That afternoon I looked up ‘Diazepam’ on the internet just to check that it didn't contain anything that involved the word ‘codeine’. As has been discussed many, many times in this blog and in others, Codeine and I are not mates. We think we are, but we’re not. Anyhoo, I discovered that Diazepam is a newer fancier word for Valium!!! Diazepam = Valium rebranded. Who knew? Well maybe you did, but I didn’t.
News that my mother had been quietly doping herself up over the years came as quite a shock. In hindsight, it was a most unexpected blessing, so I’ll take that one with an appreciative smile, wink and a nod. Thank You Chewbacca (the least thanked of all The Gods).
In spite of said mother being a nurse, the only thing I knew about medicine was that unless both my legs were broken and blood was pouring from a neck wound it was not an emergency. As a consequence of this I have been in Hospital precisely 8 times in 44 years. My birth, having my tonsils and adenoids out, a broken wrist, producing 3 babies, the aftermath of a rather sad miscarriage, and my recent trip to get a broken rib x-rayed. I have seen doctors for other things, including pap smears, about the same number of times (I know, I know) so that would perhaps be a total of 16 conversations with a doctor in 44 years. I don’t get sick; I don’t take medicine, apart from the occasional painkiller, because unless both my legs are broken and blood is pouring from a neck wound, I’m probably fine.
Anyway, back to my story. That evening, as I prepared for bed, I popped half a yellow tablet onto my tongue and.
That is the last thing I remember about that night, and most of the next day.
Turns out Valium and I are not such good friends either, but not in a Codeine/fun bag/ let’s all get tattoo’s kind of a way. More in a waking up physically holding your eyelids open with your fingers and using your hands to lift your head off a saliva soaked pillow sort of a way.
Diazepam, even half a Diazepam, kicked my arse.
No Xanax, and the Diazepam now flushed down the toilet, the only solution to any Anxiety I was having was to work through it. And today it hit. Big time.
I knew I was in trouble yesterday. There are 3 ways my Anxiety condition shows itself.
1) I start cleaning
2) I obsess about things (for example the length of my hair, or serial killers)
3) I get horny
The last one may come as a surprize, but physiologically it makes perfect sense. A number of years ago, when my anxiety levels were at their highest, I would spend hours and hours….and hours and hours…administering what is politely known as ‘self-gratification’ as a way to relieve my stress.
This may seem indulgent. Logic, however, tells me my endorphin levels are low. I need, literally need, the boost.
Yesterday, after a rather long and frankly kinky session with Hugh Jackman (as Wolverine), his wife (as his wife) and the guy who plays Nick Stokes on CSI, I decided things were defiantly amiss.
This morning I hand washed my bed sheets and pillowcases, the clothes I wore yesterday, the clothes I was wearing, the floors including the shower recess floor – especially in the corners, under the bed, the railings on the balcony and the floors again, just in case.
By 2pm I was on the verge of standing over my medical grade clean sink and cutting two inches off my ponytail when I grabbed myself by the psyche and walked out the door.
A good long walk will do you wonders, and thankfully the weather here is always kind.
I walked to a café I knew would be quiet, and as it was after the lunchtime rush, empty. It’s called Deya, and it’s owned and run by Jackie, a British private boarding school educated half Thai, half Anglo Indian who studied Art at one of The Better British Universities, and whose father was a famous photographer who played Tennis with the former Prime minister.   
Jackie once trained (?) as a Monk, and he told me, being ‘half foreign’, he earned so much money from donations that the other Monks grew to hate him (which doesn't sound very Buddhist).
He also told me about the staff from the palace (the King lives here) who come to his shop to have him read their tarot.
He is a right Character, Jackie, and his business may be a café, but it’s a dead posh one, and being a proper shopkeeper, Jackie is a complete snob.
All afternoon, over my Pasta Verde and soda water, he sat with me somehow knowing that I needed company. He gossiped as the day trippers from Bangkok in their overheated Mercedes pulled into the car park, small dogs under their arms, maids dutifully exiting from the back.
It’s a long weekend, and Jackie snorted at the ‘fashion show’ as it rolled into town.
Hua Hin is rich. It’s always been that way, and Jackie has lived here for long enough to remember the original families. Occasionally a matriarch would wander over and air kiss his cheek and he would conspiratorially whisper and giggle with her and she would blush and coo, and get into her Volvo and drive away.
As I left his company for home, he shook my hand and told me it was always nice to spend some time with a ‘lady of intelligence’, and I all but floated out of there, Anxiety magically evaporated, the voice of his stories drowning out the fears of mine.
And that was what I learned today, even though I have learned it many times but somehow always seem to forget.
That when people say the best things in life are free, they are not talking about ‘The Air’, and porn on Redtube, it could be something like a conversation and a walk in the sun.
Or it might be a few kind words, and the sharing of ideas, the warmth of a smile perhaps.
Or a moment of kindness.
The best medicine of all.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

What if I die at sea?

"If you are going to die, Wendy, it will either come as a complete surprise, in which case you won't know it's happened, or it will come as a blessed relief after some suffering, so stop worrying, "- Maureen Rossiter, inside Holly Brown's after Pilates, November 2013
God help me, how many times have I chanted those words to myself in the past two months ?
How are we all doing?
At the end of 2013, I left Hong Kong destined for Hua Hin having set myself the task of finally finishing the book 'Tits on tour'. Today is January 12, and today marks the start of the writing process.
Some 7 weeks after I left.
I have not been idle.
I have also only just made it to Hua Hin.
The first 1049 kilometres were done under sail from Discovery Bay to Subic Bay in the Philippines.
In a 34 foot yacht, maned by only myself and a vastly superior sailor, David, our ship headed out on a bright blue day stocked to the brim with organic chicken casserole, chili spaghetti bolognese and english tea biscuits. There was to be another sailor with us, a legend of the sea I am told, but he was suddenly unavailable, having cashed his cheque...
There was mention of bacon butties everyday for breakfast and the idea that the one at helm would receive a cup of tea from the other on shift change.
The first bow breaking wave hit before we had passed Lamma Island, I was was ' a wake up call to batten down the hatches'.
The first days sailing was steady, from memory, although the autohelm, a kind of auto pilot for boats, snapped off it's widget within hours.
There would be no relief, no set and forget, just the two of us in shifts.
We headed south-east. The swell lifted.
By the second day, the boat was pushing ahead at 6 knots in good wind and heavy swell.
For a smallish yacht, that is good sailing, but it was exhausting.
Large swell meant a constant battle for control of the rudder, there were many times when the boat literally surfed down the side of a large unbreaking wave, there was a LOT of water breaking over the bow.
As a less experiences sailor, my concern was that the water would fill the sails as we leaned heavily to the side, although my companion assured me this was less of a problem.
I just didn't want to be the one who had us floating sideways 2 days out of Hong Kong.
The sun set, and with it came the stars.
People in Hong Kong rarely see more than a few stars.
The first night away from the territory there were hundreds.
I had quite forgotten.
The second night there were hundreds of thousands.
The sky was white with stars.
I have never seen anything like it.
There are so many stars in our Universe that I am surprised we have named them all.
The sea offered up the treat of bioluminescence, the glow of algae as it churns through the ocean.
It fills the water with a magical light display for mere seconds before it disappears.
It is proof of life.
We were being smashed by waves (safely tethered to the boat) and being covered in bioluminescence.
It was a kind of 'sea blooding'.
Flying fish were everywhere, my fear of sharks not withstanding I was keen to see some wildlife.
I have come to the conclusion that the deep sea is mostly made up of flying fish.
That actually fly.
And there were insects !!! Butterflies, a hundred miles out, frantically fighting the wind heading God only knows where.
I have seen this before when sailing. I know they migrate, but holy hell, imaging a butterfly, heading out to sea with no land in sight. Where the fuck is it going? They fly low enough to touch. One rogue wave and they would simply cease to be, but nothing stops them. Off they go, on some demented butterfly road trip.
A random wasp appeared, flew around and left.
And flies. There were about 6 flies who took a break on the deck near me. I didn't have the heart to swish them away, they looked as tired as I felt, probably blown off course, grateful for a moments respite.
I knew the feeling.
The first night we had had to keep watch for Chinese fishing vessels, the second night, we were all alone.
Black clouds loomed, although in the inky blackness of everything around us it seemed more ominus that usual.
I love a good thunderstorm me.
I'm just not so sure about a thunderstorm 400 kilometres out at sea at night and alone at the helm of a wooden yacht.
In my exhaustion I imagined the giant clouds as skulls, the type you see as the 'dark mark' from the Harry Potter movies, or even as the large alien ships from The War of The Worlds.
I thought I could hear human voices mumbling in the waves.
The song ' Hawaiian roller coaster ride' from Lilo and Stich became my anthem.
I sang it to myself on constant repeat as I surfed our little boat down 16 foot waves I could only hear and feel, but not actually see in the blackness.
We were doing 2 hours on, two hours off, although neither of us wore a watch, so there was a fair bit of guesstimation going on.
I once took David off shift half an hour early, which he chastised me for, so I gave him an extra hour the next shift, which he chastised me for...
Both of us were bone weary, I was convinced that the nails on my right hand would come off, the feeling in them long having gone from the constant pressure of holding the tiller in such large and gusty seas.
We were being aided by charts and an app on iPad that gave us both a route and GPS support, we were checking in on a satellite phone, we were doing all right, although being inside the cabin was sick making due to the constant bombardment of the waves.
Sea sickness wasn't really an issue, although I did delicately puke over the side on day one, having prepared a lovely supper just moments before.
It's important to be a lady in these circumstances.
There was no time for tea, or bacon butties.
David reminded me to eat, he didn't want me to get weak, I was simply too tired.
The morning of the third day broke and I told myself I needed to do as he said, my mood was becoming foul.
Standing in the galley with a tin of baked beans in my hand I let go of the boat as a wave hit.
Inside the cabin it is not wide, but it was wide enough to me to be thrown 3 feet across the room. As it was happening I remember thinking " don't let this hit my hip", as I was already carrying a bruise there  from an earlier encounter with the chart table.
I turned my body, and felt and heard the sound of a rib break somewhere in my lower back.
The sound I made had alerted my companion.
Something was clearly wrong.
My first thought was that I had broken my back, then I thought I had shattered a kidney.
Then I just sat down and quietly went into shock.
Having recently completed my First Aid certificate, I knew I needed to keep myself warm. The trouble was I could hardly move.
The boat was still being tossed about, David could not leave the helm, I could not climb the stairs out of the cabin.
I sat very still, managed to reach a tablecloth that had been stowed, and I think I went to sleep for a bit.
I quite honestly can't remember now, funny how the mind does that.
In hindsight, I was only out of action for 24 hours. At the time, it really was an eternity.
Poor David was now left at the helm, sailing us through the weather, we were more than halfway there. The discussion as to whether or not to turn back came up, The Philippines was closer.
I demanded Air rescue, he told me it didn't work that way and that it would take them a day anyway, we weren't sinking and to hold on.
I found a 5 litre bottle of water and a packet of cream tea biscuits, and some panadol I had in my bag.
They ran out that night.
"If you are going to die, Wendy, it will either come as a complete surprise, in which case you won't know it's happened, or it will come as a blessed relief after some suffering, so stop worrying,"
I thought a lot that night.
About a number of things.
Some of them not very nice.
I had urinated where I lay, I was simply in too much pain to get up and go to the head, and I was delirious with fear and exhaustion.
I had managed to check for blood, there was none, and for that I was grateful, but I was not convinced that there was no internal bleeding.
When you are suffering, and I am prepared to say I was truly suffering, the human condition is reduced to a fairly simple place.
It brings life into some clarity.
What do we really need?
Light is important, I had no idea how much.
Alone in the dark, frightened and in pain, all I wanted was light.
To be able to see something.
I thought about political prisoners, and how alone they must feel.
I thought about them not knowing if anyone cared.
I regretted that I had not kept up my Amnesty International membership.
I regretted that I had not done more to help others who need to see light where there is only darkness.
I realised I did not know my childrens phone numbers, because I had come to rely on technology to do my thinking for me.
I wondered if I could just will myself to stop breathing.
I know that sounds very dramatic, and I do not give into fear often, but we had found the edge of that envelope.
Dawn came.
David came inside having not left the helm for countless hours.
He had rigged the boat so that it couldn't move, the wind had dropped, the sea was calmer, he needed to sleep.
I needed to get on with it.
I broke into the first aid kit, with the aid of the light of day, and found more panadol.
I stood up, ate, waited.
Strength came.
Within 24 hours of feeling certain I was in serious danger, I was able, by sitting in a certain way, and making a kind of splint with a water bottle, to get back on the helm.
Eventually we discovered the Tramadol ( a rather powerful painkiller) that had been packed away, and life took a turn very much for the better.
We had lost some momentum.
Through sheer exhaustion David had taken us North for a while, then South for a bit....we were headed East, but by day 4 we were again making good time, 7 knots, the sea was calm, the weather was warm, and apart from very weird encounter with a security vessel late at night, all was well.
The gas platforms out at sea send enormous plumes of smoke into the sky, so you know, and the only oil platform we saw was the biggest, ugliest, fucking thing imaginable.
If you go anywhere near them, they will run you down.
Do not muck around with oil platforms.
Fishing boats travel in packs, people who fish on boats far out at sea are made of sturdy stuff.
Everytime you eat anything that comes from the sea, remember that some serious manual labour went into getting that to your plate.
As we came closer to people, plastic bags appeared in the sea around us.
As did Boobies, the birds, not mine.
They come right up close and check you out, flying around and around the boat, then when they have had enough entertainment, fly away.
In the ocean, flying is the thing.
David saw dolphins, I was too busy dying to get above deck to see them.
There are things marked on Ocean charts as ' Magnetic Anomalies', and you are advised to avoid them.
Quite what the hell is inside them, I have no idea.
Thresholds to other Worlds?
Did anyone else see Pacific Rim?
The final days sailing, David made us bacon butties, we drank tea.
The sea was flat, we motor sailed into warm shallow waters.
The sunrise was as beautiful as you would imagine.
The boat smelt like a portaloo, the cabin looked like a field hospital, we sat together at the helm and watched the flying fish escape the bigger fish.
There is always a bigger fish.
Within a day I was being x-rayed, yes, just the one broken rib and some severe contusioning that, in all honestly, I am sometimes still aware of.
Perhaps I am a pussy, but that really, really hurt.
But pain goes away.
What I learned, what I saw, what I now know for sure can never be taken away from me.
The Earth is huge.
Well, OK, not compared to space, but compared to me and you.
And it was there before us, and will be there long after we are gone.
We need to live lives that are good, and to not hurt each other.
We need to stop people who hurt other people.
We need to scare ourselves on occasion, just to be certain that we are still here.
Being afraid is OK, because the worst that can happen to you is you will die and if you are going to die,  it will either come as a complete surprise, in which case you won't know it's happened, or it will come as a blessed relief after some suffering.
So stop worrying, and get out there and enjoy your life.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Thank God for facebook. And crazy. Thank God for that too.....

Chinese Whispers.
Now there's a misnomer if ever I heard one.
Anyone who has lived anywhere near the Chinese Culture- as I have for a majority of my life now- will know that the Chinese do not make a habit of whispering ANYTHING and ANYTIME.
And that's all well and good.
Given that my Cantonese extends only as far as that of the level of a 4 year old ( except, of course, that I know more swear words than the average Cantonese toddler....although maybe not) and that my Putonghua contains only the words " How are you?", "Thank you" and "What is this ? This is a pencil ", I usually miss out on the majority of what is being shouted about on the train and in the street anyway.
I have heard via my Chinese friends that a lot of what is discussed in public in Asia is a slightly more graphic version of everyday life anywhere.
High density living makes privacy less of a thing, and I was once reliably informed by one of my canto friends that the man sitting near us on the MTR had found an ointment that cured most, if not all, of the mysterious raised rash on his arsehole and his hemorrhoids were therefore greatly more comfortable.
She then suggested we move along the carriage, but my feeling was, given how much better things were for our travelling companion, we may as well stay.
Of course, in Western Cultures, Chinese Whispers refers to that game whereby you tell a story, or a phrase, or a word, into the ear of one person at the beginning of a line or a circle, and you wait to see what emerges out the other side, several people later.
It's like Mystery Multi Layer Digestion for words.
Sometimes someone will deliberately add something spicy or naughty to enhance the phrase, thus 'penguin' becomes 'penis' and the phrase 'My penguin is black and white and puffs up in the cold' takes on a whole new meaning.
This month I shall leave Hong Kong, and travel to a quieter, calmer place, where I intend to write out all the things that crowd my brain until it empties and I am left with silence.
These words I shall share with people, and with any luck, invoke enough ire to incense some legal action, that will then ensure free publicity, and thus create a best seller.
Or I shall fake some controversy, which will be entirely in keeping with the made up stories I intend to tell.
Of course people will see themselves.
And if they do, it's probably because I am writing about them.
Publishing is all about being heard.
So back to what you've heard.
In the Chinese Whisper game.
Today I heard about four men who, as well as sustaining a certain lack of credibility due to their collective upholding of the Colombian economy, had taken to repeating 'truths' to each other in a kind of demented Class A fueled echo chamber.
Sadly - or perhaps happily depending on how entirely you grasp the whole Oscar Wilde 'only one thing worse than being talked about' thing - their 'truths' are to do with me.
And they are not true.
And they are not kind.
So - being mature and thick skinned-  I have thought about this nastiness all afternoon.
At first, I was going to call one of them.
Then I was going to ignore it.
Then I was going to write one of them a note.
Then I was going to forget about it.
But instead I have decided to do what I will always do in these situations, I shall tell the truth.
No, I never slept with that one, yes, I slept with the other one and his partner, it wasn't very good. It was a long time ago, I have since very much cleaned up my act, thanks, the cream worked nicely.
The third one should know I did all I could to protect him, he backed the wrong horse.
He can't help it.
He's not that bright.
The other one is very bright, but he is also rather damaged.
I like the one in the top hat, and the one with the hands where there should be feet has the most talent.
The one shaped like a small case 'q' should never pick red berries at night.
If I had a US Dollar for every time I was asked if that other one was gay, I'd have a dollar.
You see how that works?
A rumour is just that.
Not worth a cent unless it's written on paper and thus turned into a best selling novel.
So I guess, if you want more from me, you'll just have to wait.
And if you want to have a go at me and make it worthwhile, best put it in writing.
Otherwise it's just......puff..... a Chinese Whisper.....

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Laugh and The World Laughs With You, Cry and We Are Still Laughing

The ability to laugh at yourself is a life saver.
People who lack that gene, for whom all stumbles are a disaster, all bumps in the road a catastrophe, all hiccups a brick wall in the path of what we now call ‘success,’ are more prone to depression, isolation, and unhealthy self-loathing.
Suicide, the act of killing oneself, can be directly related to these three factors.
So, essentially, people kill themselves because they make mistakes.
Now I am going to be completely candid here.
Paedophiles, violent criminals and rapists…? Let me hand you that length of rope.
The rest of us?
Just calm the fuck down.
Got drunk and slept with that guy from across the hall/ made out with your same sex best mate/ woke up under someone whose name currently escapes you? Well, we can always add one more number to THAT list. Have a shower, buy a course of amoxicillin from the chemist, give yourself a high five for being so heterofexible (it’s SO in right now).
Pressed delete at work when you should have pressed save/ told your boss he was a total fucktard when he was being a total fucktard/ spent the afternoon on Facebook in the hope that that report WOULD write itself? Meh, unemployment is a great way to learn more about the parks in your area, and all the cool stuff they do at the local Art Gallery, plus there is that book you’ve been meaning to write.
Paid the rent late for the 900th time and now your landlord is evicting you/ failed to lodge a tax return for the past 3 years/ purchased 4 pairs of Jimmy Choo’s because if you spent over $ 15,000 they gave you 25 % off (and 25 % off 4 pairs of  Jimmy Choo’s is like free shoes!!!) ? Aren’t you glad you learned more about your local park? Plus, prison is a free bed; you can’t take it with you. Money is just money. It’s not air.
We spend too much time worrying about the artificial anti-failure measures that are put in place to keep us ‘in line’ and behaving ‘properly’.
We must learn, or re-learn, to laugh at ourselves.
We must be joyful that we live to make these so called ‘mistakes’. We must own them, embrace them, and appreciate all that they teach us. And we must laugh at our own folly.
Because in the end, as Steve Jobs, and every other person facing death, discovered, it doesn’t really matter.
And the truth is, my friends, we are all dying. Each and every one of us.
But before I go, I intend to live with a happy heart, knowing that both my triumphs and my tragedies have given such pleasure to those around me. I am a born entertainer in that way. As Mr Bennet says in Jane Austin’s classic Pride and Prejudice, For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?
Bring on the custard pies; this is going to be a doozie !!!!

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Age Is Just a 1-800 Number

They say that the internet is primarily used for porn.
I’m not going to lie; I make a habit of deleting my search history every morning just in case I get hit by a bus.
Deleting your search history is the modern equivalent of heeding your mother’s advice regarding wearing clean underwear.
Given that I am a single woman almost beyond middle age, I am less concerned about the ambo’s reaction to my smalls than I am to my children’s horror at discovering my fixation with Japanese tentatporn.
It’s just SO bizarre how can anyone NOT be fascinated?
Today when I was looking at pictures of Hugh Jackman running all over Sydney beaches with his shirt off thus discovering a lot of rather well photo shopped pictures of him with his highly inflamed organ precariously close to the Adamantium sheathed 6 inch claws that thrust from his knuckles every time his blood rises….I came across a WHOLE other side to the phrase ‘something for everyone’.
Down on about page 8 of the search (hey, my weekend had started and it’s raining outside) there was a rather disturbing picture of a clearly elderly gentleman all but naked, with a look on his face that was either ‘come get me’ or ‘help me, I may be having a stroke’.
When my mouse ran over his ample grey chest I discovered it belonged to someone’s Flickr account.
I thought we all knew about not wishing to appear naked online unless we were being paid for it, but still…..I clicked on the picture and lo, found myself in the world of ‘ Italian Daddy’s’.
Now before you think for one minute that I am sitting here in judgement, let me just point out that I understand perfectly well the dynamics of sexual psychology.
My rainbow flagged family, not to mention my own predilections, could leave little doubt as to the Large ‘O’ Open-mindedness I value.
Whatever floats your boat, as long as it’s between consenting adults of the same species, but flicking through this account - ( wow, those guys NAILED naming that thing, so much more than Tumblr )- it was clear to me that most of the pictures taken were of unsuspecting members of the public.
Of the 229 photos at least half were just of old men walking down the street or in the stands at Soccer matches, or fishing off piers.
Most of them were clearly shot from the back and, I would think, without the subject’s awareness or permission.
Of course, some of the photos were clearly set up to look smexy.
Nothing says ‘You’ve been naughty’ like a grinning topless 70 year old laying on a peach pleather sofa with his belt buckle undone.
I’m going to be honest; the ones with the walking sticks freaked me out a little, as did the sequence of stills – obviously taken from the tele- of Peter Sellers removing his socks.
That the account is held by, and is a service to, men and women ( and here I think I mean just men) who find beer bellied, balding, double chinned old Italian men the hottest thing since removable false teeth is, I suppose, heart-warming.
It doesn’t do it for me, but it clearly does for ‘greydigger’, ‘daddyzboi’ and ‘Grislyman’, all of whom made a number of pictures of old men in jeans their personal favourites.
And that’s a fine thing, although I do think that taking random photographs of Giovanni Public as he wanders through the piazza for a Lemoncello and a dissection of the game in his twilight years a bit of an invasion of privacy.
Not to mention probably illegal.
Italian men are packed with testosterone, it’s true, but not all of them imagine themselves still ‘on the pull’ to a bunch of twinks looking for comfort in the warm embrace of tissue paper arms.
And if they WERE interested, they would have listed themselves on
Sadly, no website exists for slightly beyond middle aged women with the same qualities as the ones listed above.
And no matter how hard I try, I doubt anyone will find the way I take off my socks as a reason to break open a new box of durex.
So for now I shall go back to my pictures of Hugh looking buff in the surf, and try to imagine his lucky, and no doubt lovely, wife shrieking things like “ take that towel off the bed” at him after he steps out of the shower.
Wet, weapon’s erect, and sheathed.