....Goes Looking For Lurve

'Don't Hassel me.'
- an angry e-mail reply in response to the
'Merry Christmas from "the Hoff" ' David Hasselhoff
card I sent and also how most girls greet me as.....

Fatman Goes Looking For Love
(Brought to you by 20/20 Hindsight)

What's the hairy man carrying in his sack mummy?

At around the same time that most kids at school
were losing their virginity and touching each other in
their "rude bits" young Fatman spent most of his time
collecting comic books. It has been a whopping decade
since those times of yore (When people wore happy
pants and Hypercolor t-shirts
whilst listening to Milli Vanilli- remember them?) and
about the only thing that has changed is I seem to
have less money to buy comics. The usually suave,
James Bond-like person that I'm sure you'd all agree I
am, disappears when I'm around pretty girls. Let us
take a look at last night:

(zero-6 beer personality) It's fairly rare that I'm
interested in women at this stage of the evening. The
part of the male brain that seeks to repopulate the
world like an NBA basketballer, the French monarchy
(circa 1700s) or Screamin' Jay
Hawkins (may he rest in peace) lies pretty dormant
far, far in the depths of my loins. It would take
someone like the lesbian girl from Neighbours for me
to even lurch into action. But my brain seizes up.
It's the flustered, stammering, sweat dribbling,
English-becomes-my-second-language, I-Tarzan-You-Jane,
forgets punchline of jokes kind of phase.

(a hypothetical situation)
Lesbian girl from Neighbours: Hi!
Me: (bites tongue almost in half)Hrragrgr!!!
Lesbian girl from Neighbours: Are you alright?
Me: (blood dribbling down shirt) Argharghle.

and so on and so forth...

When the beers increase so does the lust. It's around
the eight to ten beer mark when I decide it'd be the
time for love...which is unfortunate because I
generally transform into the most unlovable creature
on the planet. Gone is the awkward mumbling. It is
replaced by pure, stainless steel arrogance. An
arrogance that demands women to return to the cave and
iron shirts . And it is at this juncture that the
human reincarnation of Pepe LePew decides to make his
moves on Theresa and Hannah- sisters who I strongly
suspect will never return to a certain bar located in
Flinders Lane.

Pepe Le Pew (a.k.a. me): Howwareyagirlls?
Theresa: I'm fine we're....
Me: (Interrupts) Thass great. Thass great. Shots! I'm
buying shots and we're all drinkin'!

Lesh geddawt of dese wet clothes and into (BURP) a dry Martini!

You'd think that I would think that since the girls
moved several times in the evening and paid an entire
rugby team to hinder my approach that I'd get the
hint. Alas, such is the power of drink.

Mmmmmm. Icy Dead People,
Fatman

A (Pointless) Letter to Deryk Masters

( This was something I wrote cos I was bored. It never got sent because at the time www.cinqmagazine.com was not operational. Maybe it's up and running now- who knows?)

Dear Deryk Masters,

What a delight to read the first of hopefully many
publications of your new Cinq magazine. I remember
fondly fishing out a copy of this mag from the depths
of the garbage bin amidst empty beer bottles, chip
packets, chicken scraps and cigarette butts thinking
to myself that this looked infinitely more promising
than the last bit of rubbish I found in the trash (
Dan Brown's 'The Da Vinci Code'- a vaguely interesting
read written...badly...by a hack who will make more money than
yours truly in this, and well into the next,
lifetime).

Your articles SEEMED well researched- hard to tell in
this day and age of the Internet and "electronic mail"
where for most people 'research' consists of going to
google.com and scratching ones nuts for half an hour
while one downloads all pertinent information. I
particularly enjoyed the antics of the half-wits of
Gloucestershire, England who annually follow a 7lb
roll of cheese (a Double Gloucester) down a cliff face
like hapless lemmings. And Urban golf seemed a hoot.
Why not take a swing at golf balls in industrial areas
and city streets?

However I was a tad disappointed at the lack of sumo
wrestling. As a gentleman who enjoys the humble
pleasures of wagering on two chronically obese
'rikishi' going pound for pound at each other (much
like cow tipping,but when the cows tip back) I was
left wanting more. Too often we see rake thin athletes
who eat only two or three meals a day (gasp). I want
to see photos and articles of dudes who are so fat
that everytime they go for a swim in the ocean they
emerge with several harpoons stuck in their flab.

Yours blah, blah, blah,
S.Heazlewood, a.k.a. Fatman

p.s. I realise the suicidal nature of lemmings is a
fallacy but, what the hell....