Rugby guys have a penchant for nudity. Torn jerseys are a common sight after a game, but not because they were up against vicious, feral opponents. No, they were just trying to help one another along in the Brotherhood of Nekkidness. Put them in a ‘skins n shirts game’ and arguments will erupt in no time.

“I wanna be in the skins team!”
“No, you got to take your shirt off the last time! It’s my turn now!”
“Dammit, why can’t it be skins n skivvies?”

Not that I’m complaining. Rugby lads with short short shorts are a welcome sight, and rugby lads with short short shorts down are an even more welcome sight.

Which is why I’m awfully glad I followed our lads to Finney’s after Saturday’s game against the Hong Kong Football Club. I suppose the trauma of a completely humiliating defeat (63-0) and the heat must have got to the visitors, cuz after the pints had made their rounds, they decided to put a little performance together. Patrons of a café down the street lodged a complaint the very next day of an unholy tone-deaf din, which went something along like this:

WITH your shirt off!
WITH your trousers off!
WITH a wiggle! *Cue butt wiggle*
WITH a wedgie! *Cue wedgie*

This verse then repeated itself a few times, finally culminating with:

WITH your shirt off!
WITH your trousers off!
WITH a wedgie! *Cue wedgie*
WITH your kit off!

At which point, boxers and briefs of various mismatched colours joined their owners’ trousers pooling round their ankles. Of course shrieks of “My eyes! Gah my eyes! I’m blind!” and the sort immediately ensued. But for every hand clapped over the offended organs (eyes, I’m talking about EYES!), there was a gap left just large enough for peeking through. And in the dim smoky light of the pub and through empty beer glasses, every female (and some males) decided that the HKFC must be invited back for another game.

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Who knew that coffee could be sexy?

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It’s a well-known fact that rock stars are a sexually active lot. One might argue that this shagathonic tendency of theirs is simply nature’s way of increasing musical talent in the human gene pool. If this be the case, it’s no wonder that where a rock god such as one David Eric Grohl is concerned, thousands of groupies are lining up for copulation privileges.

But for every tumble that Grohl lands, there is always the possibility that something unplanned for might occur. Something that only makes an appearance nine months later. That something is a Grohlaby. Brought into this world through special circumstances (e.g. drunken orgies, faulty rubbers), a Grohlaby is a miniature rocker-to-be with Grohlic talent hidden somewhere deep beneath its folds of baby fat. Sadly though, this unique breed is in danger. Lacking a father in their lives, these love children may never discover the immense well of talent lurking inside just waiting to be released. Of course, this is through no fault of their biological father. Such a glorious god as Dave Grohl cannot be expected to be tied down to one mate, thus limiting the spawning of his seed.

And so, the G.R.O.S.S. was born.



We here at G.R.O.S.S. aim to protect and care for these gems which have been gifted to us. This is achieved by providing the best possible environment for a Grohlaby to grow up in, one with the proper care and guidance that befits such a child. As soon as the birth of one of these is detected, the Grohlaby is tracked down and tagged. A radio collar is also attached to the child so that its progress can be recorded. Later, at suitable intervals in the Grohlaby’s life, certain elements will be introduced to aid the molding of a rock god. These elements can include various factors like an idol/father figure, bandmates, an angsty childhood, and other such influences. In some cases, the Grohlaby is even retrieved and raised in captivity. Only when conditions improve to become more suitable is the Grohlaby released back to its natural surroundings.

Evidently, the costs of our efforts are quite substantial. As a non-profit organisation, we rely solely on donations from the public to help us fund our operations. So do your part and be a friend of the G.R.O.S.S. today.

Both cash and cheque donations accepted.

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A little black car died today. ‘Twas a sad sight to behold.

Lonely, lonely, it burned by its lonesome self. As metal twisted and plastic melted, the little black car thought of all the times it had waited alone in the dark without so much as a don’t-worry-I’ll-won’t-be-gone-long to cling to. But then, its owner always came back, which meant it was still loved, and all was right in the world again. Only now, he was never coming back. And the little black car cried bitter tears of abandonment, sobbing and choking on the stench of burning rubber.

It cried out to its owner, but he was long gone, loyalty and little-car-love discarded. It cried out to the other cars, but they were too busy whizzing past, lost in the chattering of the radio and the drone of the a/c. It cried out to the gawking onlookers, but they were too busy taking pictures and watching the greedy flames feast on bits of it. It cried out for someone, anyone to tell it not to be scared, that everything was gonna be okay. But no one came. And so the little black car cried some more, hurt and frightened.

At last someone did come. A glorious, flashing, siren-wailing fire engine. It barreled down the road and screeched to a stop, full of pride and heroes-to-be. It whipped out its hose and unleashed great jets of water onto the burning little black car. The flames sputtered angrily out, and the smoke turned into steam. And everyone craned anxiously forward, to hear what the little black car had to say.

But the little black car was silent. It had stopped crying a long while ago.

And everyone crept ashamedly away. The onlookers with their cameras tucked away. The fire engine that was too late with its might-have-been-heroes. Even the passing cars couldn’t bear to see, so they whizzed on by faster than before.

And all that was left was what once was a little black car.

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Learning Chinese can be a bitch. The damn language's so complicated, you could be calling someone a whore instead of ordering fried chicken like you'd meant to. Honestly. I sweated less blood learning French. And I'm Chinese.

And the thing about us Chinese is that we never fail to feel smugly superior whenever the slightest opportunity arises. As long as we're 0.2% better or more talented than some sod, we're entitled to look condescendingly down upon the same poor jack. Such is the kiasu-must-win mentality of the Chinese.

Now how does this relate to my Chinese linguistic ability (or lack thereof)? A coupla days ago, the hitz.fm's Morning Crew tried to learn a few Chinese phrases. Apparently, one of them ¨C JJ ¨C had a dinner coming up with his new in-laws, and he wanted to impress them with his Cantospeak. Not surprisingly, they were both ¡°utterly and absolutely horrible", as Simon Cuntwell would say. And of course, I immediately felt better about myself. Never mind the times I'd ordered food in a Chinese restaurant only to be bitch-slapped by the waitress, never mind the scolding I'd once received from a cabbie for my inability to speak my mother tongue, never mind the pleas from my Chinese-speaking friends to "fer chrissakes, just stick to English, you're killing me here". Here were two guys demonstrating ON-AIR that they should be hunted down by a Chinese mob and strung up for mutilating the language. Points for being non-Chinese attempting a new language be damned.

Here are a few phrases the Morning Crew taught us listeners:

On asking for medical assistance
Rudy: Kui yee sang!
What he meant: Call a doctor!
What he said: Expensive raw fish!

On ordering lunch

Rudy: Ngo hai kai fan.
What he meant: I want chicken rice.
What he said: I am chicken rice.

On identifying something

JJ: Mat yeh lei ka?
What he meant: What is this?
What he said: Did your socks come late?

On starting dinner

JJ: Sek sek sek!
What he meant: Eat eat eat!
What he said: Kiss kiss kiss!

How could you not love them?

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I’m trying to decide between an iPod Mini and a Zen Micro. It’s so annoying reading about iPods being sold out everywhere when I don’t have one. Even Jeremy from Zits has got one! Plus when I spot someone on the street with the telltale white earphones, it makes me just itch to wrap the cords around his/her neck and string him/her up on the nearest lamppost.

But the question is whether I ought to get the iPod or a Zen. A Zen Micro
• has got an extra gig for just a hundred bucks more
• also has a user-replaceable battery (sore point for the iPod)
• has longer battery life
• comes in cooler colours (i.e. black)
• has hard drive space you can divide
• is also sold out in various stores here, so it probably works
• slips easier into the pocket than the iPod does
• does not spawn hate websites

An iPod Mini on the other hand
• is sexy
• has white earphones
• is sexy

So it all boils down to one question - looks or personality? God I’m a shallow, shallow zebra.

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There are many who would shudder at the mere thought of the task which lay before me. One that would cause even the stoutest of hearts to quail and flee. But neither the tears nor pleas of my faithful hound could sway me from my mission. I was to begin the Purification of the Dark Realm beneath the Bed.

As I approached the feared boundary where dark met light, I perceived something odd. Paw-prints. Tiny, dusty paw-prints criss-crossing the parquet floor. Something had clearly been cavorting beneath the Bed where I laid myself down to sleep and received visions from the gods.

Suspicious, I bent down and peered into the murky gloom of the Dark Realm. Twas with a sudden shock that I caught sight of floating pairs of red eyes glowing from within the shadows. I gasped in surprise, and immediately regretted it. Alerted by the sound, the crimson eyes turned as one towards me and narrowed to slits, as if their owners were furious at my interference.

“Hold! Identify thyself, intruder!” A squeaky voice emerged from the darkness.

Truly, it is written in the ancient texts that “Curiosity killethed the cat”, but being no feline, I heeded not these words of wisdom. Fascinated, I stretched a hoof into the shadows, hoping to draw one of the crimson-eyed creatures out into the light. At the same instant, I felt dozens of sharp little teeth snap onto the offending foreleg and start to drag me bodily towards them instead.

I panicked and struggled in alarm, but to no avail. Soon, I was hauled completely into the Dark Realm and almost immediately started to…fall? Yes, I was tumbling impossibly through space which couldn’t have existed. It was a nauseating experience. I had no light to gain my bearings by, I could feel not the wind of the speed of my descent, and all the while, my foreleg was in agonizing pain from the steel-like grip of the sharp jaws embedded firmly into my flesh.

To be continued…

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