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Lizard ponders moderation Yeah, gidday.

When it comes to drinking, I pretty much self moderate. I drink when the missus has the money. With regards to drugs, I take what the doctor prescribes. He’s a good and loyal friend is me mate ‘Doc’. This brings me to Shaz’s brother, Christian and his recent soulmate Shivourne. They’re a couple of reborn health nuts and really piss me off! “We’re just off to mountain bike across the Manukau Harbour then surf along the exhibition pipeline. We assume you’ll still be in your lovenest when we get home from yogalatte”, they robustly smirk as they individually warm up their quads and thyroids on me outside thinking couch.

“Actually, and it’s none of your bees wax, but I was going to make prolonged, sweet, passionate begging with her indoors before hitching up to the razza for a round of full-contact snooker.” I had them there, the boney little quinoa huggers. Kind of like churchgoers need to be right or addicts crave approval. I remember Shivourne when her name was Bertha Gregor, legs

never together. Bertha would scull a box of her favourite plonk then rip through an ozee as she applied her war paint for a night out behind the rugby clubrooms and many’s the time I had to pick up Christian’s well worked abs and buns from Waitakere Central ’cause he’d been arrested for riding his step-through naked along the footpath. Still, I guess a hog can change its warts. So, I fired up my own core, threw on a few sausages and a marbled

scotch fillet. A wee tip, heat up the George Foreman and then, using scientifically-proven smooth rotations, apply salt to get into your fat burning zone in a matter of minutes. Delicious. Christian and Shivourne turned up all giggles and strut like they’d

been to Scientology camp announcing they were preggy. We laughed, hugged, sang joyously, chilled out. Christian even had a brew or three and Shivourne ate red meat like an Argentinian prop. Go the ABs. Moderation in all things, huh. No one can tell you how many sugars

you like in your coffee. Quite coincidentally, however, I have cut back on the amount of butter I put on me deep-fried Maori bread and occasionally jog to the letterbox. Hey, it’s almost warm

enough for the beach. Where did I put my Speedos?

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