Piss Shivers

There’s a detailed description of the male orgasm inside me, waiting to burst forth and leave your eyes sticky with gloopy adjectives and pumping verbs. But I’d like to start small and soft, and harden our relationship later with such things. Suffice it to say that it’s like a sneeze from your downstairs. But that, dear readers, is another story for another time. I’d like to begin with a curious sensation that affects somewhere in the region of 80% of men and just over 50% in women. It’s called the piss shivers, and it’s a great thing you can enjoy with yourself.

It starts as an electric tingling in your lower spine and soon spreads to your entire body, as if a frozen, stick thin Angelina Jolie were running her poisonous talons up and down the sides of your ribs. Imagine a troupe of sexy ants, all wearing shock-rings as they do intricate ghetto handshakes with every hair follicle from your knees to your shoulders.

And as you do the electrocution jig and try maintain your wee stream for all its worth, you thank your lucky stars that you can at least aim at the toilet (even if it does hit the water and make that annoying splashing sound). Because no one likes a man who wees on the floor.


There’s something undeniably enticing about dates, those sweet little packages of middle-eastern promise. They conjure up images of camels and kaftans, nomadic tribesmen and terrible, smelly beards.


Perhaps my love of dates stems from an incident in my youth. Twas my grandfather’s birthday and someone had given him a package of dried dates, a desert oasis condensed into a sticky brick. I was sitting around with my younger cousins looking at my grandfather’s presents (books – but nothing too long in case the old bean breathed his last before he could finish it, chocolates, old spice and the brick of dried dates). I must have been perhaps twelve or thirteen, making my sister around eight or nine, and she managed to convince a cousin of mine that dates were actually compacted wee and poo. My cousin was perhaps six, and as gullible as a lemming at a cliff convention. The conversation went a little something a-like a-this:


Sister: Did you know dates are actually wee and poo?

Cousin: No they aren’t.

Sister (looking at me): Yes they are, ask Paul.

Me: Yup, hate to say it, but dates really are wee and poo.

Cousin: But my mommy likes it.

Sister: Well then maybe your mommy likes to eat wee and poo.

Cousin: Cries and runs away.

Entire family: Horrible tension for the remainder of the afternoon.


It’s still a running joke between my sister and I: Well maybe your mommy likes wee and poo!


There’s just something so exciting about dates for me. They’re like little super sweet camel shits, or desiccated leprechaun testicles. When I taste a date, I imagine for a second that I’m a Bedouin, staring out across the rolling dunes while my arranged-marriage wife from the tribe across the desert milks the goat. It’s heavenly. Except when she gets the nanny goat and the billy goat confused. She’s got a great body, my Bedouin wife. Well, she’s got a body. It’s got all the limbs. And she’s got great eyes, when they face the same way.


Let’s just say it’s quite difficult choosing a wife when they’re all covered in sheets.


Indeed, I imagine stroking my unibrow and sucking on the cloyingly sweet bounty of the date palm when I pop one of those desert fruits between my sun-cracked lips.


But don’t take my word for it, go out and eat some wee and poo for yourself.


Yours yoursly,



Ashtray Electric – Here Comes The Rain Again

I remember Ashtray Electric’s first show at the Armchair Theatre (RIP) where they opened for The Dirty Skirts. They rocked out on that tiny stage and showed the crowd the vision they had for their music. Since then, I have watched them grow and get closer and closer to the musical goals they have set for themselves.

Music | 5 Gum Experience presents: Ashtray Electric – Here Comes The Rain Again from we-are-awesome on Vimeo.


In fact, my original partner on HEADLINE payoff was Rudi Cronje – the champ rhythm guitarist who smokes cigarettes on stage and makes young ladies swoon all over the country. The amount of boobs that have been seen by those wily eyes must number in the thousands. I’m really quite surprised his eyes haven’t turned into nipples by now.

Watching the band grow, and watching a great friend of mine grow creatively has been great. I remember chatting to Rudi before they recorded their current album and he told me that Ashtray Electric were finally becoming the band they were meant to be. I love the idea that they haven’t fully reached their potential, that they are still reaching and trying to find a sound that is truly theirs, or to write an album that is exactly what they want to say. Because at the end of it all, it’s not fun or exciting to remake the same album again and again, like AC/DC for example.

So, feast your eyes, feast your eyes and pay attention – Ashtray Electric are here to stay and will continue to surprise us with new sounds and new angles. May the shadow they cast grow longer and longer.