Quand ce n'est pas Ya Noël, mais ce n'est pas non plus le Nouvel An
The perennial peril of the year’s perineum AKA things to do while you’re waiting for Hogmanay to start
The piece of skin between a person’s front and back undercarriage goes by many names – the gooch, taint, notcha, etc – and for the uninitiated it is as worthless and confusing as it is interesting. This rarely seen piece of corporal real estate is scientifically known as the perineum and is only of practical use to the sexually adventurous; rumour has it that the right amount of pressure on the perineum will open it up as a pathway to the male G-spot, but sadly we don’t know anything about that.
Like its fleshy equivalent, the four or so days between Christmas/Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve/Day are really only of any use to those who attack them with enthusiasm and creativity. Now this should be all of us because we’re young and hot and now’s the time, plus most of our places of work wind down or completely shut for this period. This is fortuitous considering that we’re of the predilection to make the most out of any situation and especially those that potentially give you a hall pass from the real world and its crushing responsibilities, and so, here’s an non-exhaustive little list of things to do in the wrinkly space between your Xmas and NYE.
Go on a bender. If you’re reading this then you like Stoke, and if you like Stoke chances are you’re already gooch-deep in a bender. How are you even reading this? What we’re suggesting, however, is really going for it, like stretching it out for a few days and in the process killing off any memories you had of 2018, a year that by all accounts will go down as one of the shittiest yet. If you do bend it make sure you either go straight through to New Year’s Eve, or quit with enough days to properly recover. Also ensure that you don’t have any responsibilities other than making your friends laugh by covering yourself in mayonnaise and lemon juice before rolling around crumbing yourself in dirt while, confusingly, screaming CALAMARI, CALAMARI! Benders are the enemy of responsibility, and vice versa.
Eat. Just spend the whole five days eating ham sandwiches and other Christmas leftovers as you try and claw some kind of positive out of having the whole family at your place for Christmas (during which time Aunt Sally and Uncle Pete commandeered your bed and filled it with Scotch Finger crumbs and the lingering tang of Peter’s fossilised geriatric farts that have somehow imbued into your Transformers doona cover). Eat, eat the leftovers, literally stuff them into your face without bothering to so much as warm them up, wiping the congealed and gelatinous turkey grease from your disgusting mouth with the towel Auntie Dawn gave you, just eat and eat all week, because you say you hate Christmas, but deep down you’re just disappointed with yourself.
Shred. You’ve got tickets for the hottest venue this NYE, where all the beautiful people will be, and you feel bloated because you had a six pack for Christmas, and we ain’t talking about abs. So shred, do all that shredding, get into the gymnasium or your local cross-fit establishment and shred away those unwanted carbohydrates and keep the proteins. Shred the skin from your body so all you can see is muscle and vein, literally peel yourself like a jacked banana and let your beautiful muscle fibres glow. Heck, why stop there? Now that you’re not burdened by cumbersome skin you can remove muscles that don’t matter to you, leaving you as little more than a pile of engorged, sculpted and rock hard pectorals, abdominals, lats, delts, tris, but not leg muscles, because always skip leg day.
SPECIAL NOTE: if you’re in Australia and undertaking the traditional gooch road trip to Lost Paradise (where your Stoke pals will be), you might want to consider tying “Get Well Soon” balloons to road kill.
Road trips are fun for the first five minutes before your arse starts to hurt and you’re certain that you’re morphing into gelatinous walrus form because you just turbo’d up your Supersized McFeast meal with an extra double cheeseburger and a goddamn McFlurry. Old mate Geoff’s got the wheel and he likes to go 10 under because he doesn’t trust speedometers, while goddamn Darren is playing around with the radio because he can’t find a radio station worth listening to, before settling on Triple J’s screamo hour. Meanwhile in the back seat Daz’s younger brother has written a note with his phone number on it and is flashing it at every car containing more than one “hot chick”, and you just want to shrink and be swallowed whole by the upholstery, but of course you can’t because now you’re at KFC and your mouth filled with popcorn chicken means that you’re literally a human blimp. Well never fear, because tying a helium balloon to a long-dead animal will make your spirits soar.