There is no clinical evidence that the dancefloor is bad for your surfing technique, but pursuit of it and associated fermented refreshments are known to impinge on your getting-up-before-the-wind skills. Photo: Laurel


    It’s not just a trite, old cover blurb – it’s the truth.
    According to Matt Walker

    Gather round, grommies, and listen closely to what is possibly the choicest piece of information you’ll come across this week. A life plan, if you will. One that’ll make sure you maximize the present while preventing years of long-term anguish. A guarantee that decades from now, as you lie in some overmedicated, geriatric jailhouse, long ago swapping that decorative flannel for a bodysuit of pink-and-yellow bed sores — wallowing in a puddle of your own filth, multiple IVs tangled and jangling, drowning out the raucous of relatives squabbling over the inconsequential bit of estate you likely won’t have anyway — you will foggily reflect on your collection of memories and say “Shit! Couldn’t have done that much better!” All because, you ate some bad sushi one evening back in 2011 and earned an extra 20 minutes to finish this otherwise shite article.

    So drop the goddamn TP, grab a pen, and write the following mantra down on your palm for easy reference. (Better yet, take it to the closest tattoo artist and ink it permanently on that laughable button poking out beneath your belt buckle, so you’ll never, ever forget it when you need it most.):

    “Stop trying to get laid already — and get back in the water.”

    I know: it’s a philosophy that runs against every bit of advice that throbs across your developing, adolescent brain (and at least one or other organ) on a daily basis. Magazine covers, e-spam, adverts for everything from car insurance to dick-fixing drugs — they all imply that sexual conquest is the most important pursuit in the history of the world. That putting your ‘whatsit’ in some strange girl’s ‘whoozie’ is the highest state of consciousness. That the moment you climax the Big Guy himself will pop out of the glove box, high-five you, then push you out the hatch of your Mini Cooper and into a ticker tape parade, where you’ll join hands with the Larry Flindt and the Dalai Lama on a never-ending, multiple-partner-studded path to greater enlightenment.

    Well, they’re all horribly wrong. Truth is: the need to procreate is the basest of all natural drives. (Well, third basest, really.) Something any human can do. In fact, these days between horny high school teachers, online porn — let’s not forget the Catholic church and Oprah’s South African school for girls — it is nearly impossible to turn 18 with your virginity still intact. Rest assured, if you just keep breathing, you will start humpin — most likely before you finish the first week of university. Quite possibly without even really trying or — depending on the amount of alcohol and/or roofies you consume — remembering.

    Surfing? Well, shit pal, if you can maintain a weekly attendance policy at your local break past the age of 30 you’re in the top 10% of your class. (Especially once you knock that poor girl from computer class up halfway through September and find yourself working as a chimney sweep at 17 to pay for nappies.) After that, it’s gonna take every lick of energy if you want to keep scoring good waves and pulling solid manoeuvres.


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