One for the boys February 17, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
I am also fortunate to have a someone special both for weekends and every other day of the week. (Actually, why haven’t I got a single gay reader? Aren’t I catering enough for the gay blog-reader? I might have to accuse myself of discrimination and take myself to court and win a huge settlement – either in or out of court will do – from, erm, myself.) I think what unites homos and heteros, in the relationship stakes, is that your significant other demands presents, especially if your latest bout of leaving the house has involved the showing of passports and gravity-defiance in a large, iron bird. I do sometimes stretch out my hands – I too am guilty of this Geschenkslust (as it might easily not be called in German) – in hope when I know the Russian has been no further than Humboldt. My hopes are rarely rewarded, except perhaps by a letter, usually a bill, collected from the box downstairs, for which I then have to dance. (Do folk know this Russian tradition? It’s up there with no-empty-bottles-on-tables and sitting-in-silence-before-you-go-on-a-journey on the guaranteedtoputyouinabadmoodonceinawhile-o-meter.)
The attentive reader will have noticed that I have recently undertaken a journey to the other end of the world. The much-discussed and much-researched Bodyshop-Tierack present-distance-ratio study proves beyond doubt that it is tantamount to treason to return from such a long journey without a substantial, at least in size if not in any sort of value, moral or financial, present. Now as hols go, mine to NZ was a fairly busy one and certainly didn’t contain any shopping windows, and I don’t leisure-shop anyway. Not because I’m against shopping, per se. I’m just always too skint. Or, rather, don’t have money to that much splash around on unnecessaries and when there is spare cash, I’d much rather spend it on practicalities than a dishcloth with New Zealand written on it, say. (Although that dishcloth has come in very handy.) But my last day did see me dashing up and down Queen St. in Auckland, frantically looking for something appropriate according to the aforementioned Bodyshop-Tierack scale. “Hm. I could spend rather a lot of money, which would do very nicely for an electricity bill,” I thought, unromantically, “on that carving in a fairly ugly dark brown wood with bits of mother-of-pearl for eyes. That would be just the inconveniently wrong size to fit between any Billy-sized – yes, sorry – shelf-gaps and then have to sit on the floor somewhere, like the wrong-sized chess set (also in a quite ugly dark brown wood, actually) (but this isn’t part of what I thought in the shop) (keep up!) we have.” But I failed to have my lovely plastic dollars lured away from me and thought I’d risk it and go on a last-minute, whirlwind, airport-based, present-finding mission. “Buggery fuck, only more carvings, only twice as expensive. Buggery flipping fuck. That’d cover my medical insurance as well. Flip. No, I can’t just give him a tube of sweets, even if they are doused in unbelievably healthy NZ manuka honey. That’s too piddling.” I flipped and buggered on, internally, dismissing anything with a fern-leaf or flightless-bird motif. It was beginning to be a bit of a nail-biter. I might have to turn up at home with a couple of bottles of Weissbier and say I’d bought them at an underpublicised yet awfully interesting German colony on a remote part of the Middle Island called… Germany. I went into another shop, grazing my limbs on carved wood as I went. And there it was. A Body-Shop-gift-set-sized gift-set of black – natch – men’s grooming products. The black wasn’t just a gimmick, though, and there wasn’t a fern leaf or haka-performing rugby-player in sight. No, these items were black because they were made out of Rotorua mud. Indeed, the shaving “foam” item is called, simply, Mud, which is nothing if not honest. It and the other two items are all as thick and gloopy as you’d expect muddy wares to be and actually aren’t strictly black. They’re more, say, elephant. Or tanned elephant. And, thankfully, don’t stink of poo, as Rotorua does.
But boys, what a brilliant, accidental, last-minute-panic-present buy they were. Firstly, the Russian was suitably impressed by the packaging and the exotic-looking-ness of the purchased wares for me to have passed the present-test with flying colours. I’d forgotten about them since, only occasionally having a fond reminisce when I see the tanned-elephant soap sitting nicely (and, indeed, wash my hands with it). But the non-foam shaving foam is marvellous. Get ye all to New Zealand immediately to buy shaving mud. I’ve never had a better shave and feel like I’ve drunken a bulgakovian elixir that has made me young and gorgeous once more. (Not that I wasn’t that much it already, you understand.) But boys, honestly, we are being hoodwinked. I know all those Gillette boys have got perfect bodies and ideal bathrooms and are sometimes even David Beckham, but fling out those products immediately and go mud. It’s where the future’s at.
Have a good weekend, sirs.