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Yeah gidday, Lizard here. Don’t you just love winter? Tuesday morning I was rushing from the

beer making shed with my hands covered in brewer’s yeast and arms full of V8 parts, for the stock car I’m building, when one of my jandals got stuck in the mud sending me arse over boob into the blackberry bushes. My vegemite and bacon sammy shot out of my mouth and I tore a great bloody hole in my AC/DC on tour 1985 T-shirt.

Shaz laughed and yelled something about me being such a Westie

through the caravan louvres. I couldn’t think of a witty retort because my mullet was caught in the brambles.

Of course I did a bit of mild cussing, some blaspheming and may

have implied that her rear was not quite in proportion, when it dawned on me. Since being asked to leave school I have worn the same jeans, except when I’m swimming, when I wear cutoffs.

So it was that I found myself standing in a huge factory outlet store

with an uncomfortably attractive woman asking what size belly I have. Turns out that, if you fold the top of the jeans around your neck, then that’s the strides for me. I was feeling as awkward as Mel Gibson at a bamitzvah. She then suggested I disrobe behind the curtain and she would bring me some trou to try on.

The first pair made me look as though I had a couple of plums stuffed

into my hanky. The second, from the back, gave the impression I was the world’s most experienced builder, with a convenient slot for my pencil. Then came some wet looking things with a grease finish.

The intimidatingly attractive woman advised that I should never wash

them but simply put them in the freezer each night. Gross. Frozen embarrassments from a job half done.

I squeezed into boot-cut, slim, flared, wide, straight, bleached, high-

waisted, hipsters until I felt faint. Some claimed to make me both more intelligent and improve my personality. Smart casual. Others promised I’d be taller, slimmer, have broader shoulders while occupying a smaller seat on the bus. To further complicate matters, it turns out that I have an American waist but a European inside leg measurement and hogtie me down while calling me John Wayne, a difficult saddle length.

By now the store looked like liquifaction had moved north. Two young

sales assistants were close to tears and the bloke with the engineered hair and a lisp had somehow managed to sew his cuff to the curtain. I stood there in one jandal with a pair of lime silk boxers over the top of some breathable stretched purple trackpants that could be reversed into a sleeping bag at all-night raves.

They encouraged me to try on one last garment that they assured

me George Clooney wears, when it happened. I thought I’d just let out a little bit of discreet wind, as I’d gone through a couple of bottles of feijoa wine the previous night. You guessed it, I did a wee splart in a pair of brushed suedette knee high lowriders. Of course store policy is that if you stain the drawers then they’re yours. So please check out Trademe. knickerbockers/soiled. There’s no reserve. Me, well I’m heading back into the shed in me same old jeans.

Later Lizard.

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