The Cun
I recently caught up with an old friend of mine, The Cun. The Cun is fucking huge, about 6’ 6” in the old language, rather fat, rather loud.

We have known each other for about 30 years, been through a few interesting events in our youth, but despite our very different lifestyles, we have kept in touch.

Nowadays I have a wife and kids; The Cun has tattoos, piercings, an omnipresent dope habit and still rides. God bless him.

Once a year we catch up, rent a posh unit by the beach for a couple of days and sit around in the sun, drink, talk shit, bbq lots of meat and generally relax.

This year, I during a long conversation over many beers, The Cun reminded me of an event that happened in about 1988, and I shall relate it to you now.

We were sitting on the brown corduroy lounge one night, in our shabby share house, admiring the oil stains on the carpet and enjoying the warm blaze from the recently acquired park bench merrily burning in the fireplace.
There were 5 of us living in the house, and all 5 of us rode bikes. there always seemed to be a variety of unassembled Norton’s in the lounge room, close to the fireplace ‘cos that was the warmest place to work on your bike in the middle of the night.


Anyway, The Cun produces some dope, and I have my first ever puff. And them a bit more. After a while The Cun suggests a trip to the supermarket is warranted, to purchase chocolate and iced coffee, and …..really, really wanted to show me something really really fucking funny in the supermarket. It seemed really really fucking very important to him that I should witness whatever he was getting really really passionate about.


Yeah ok The Cun, but I don’t feel up to riding, so I hop on the back of The Cun’s bike, and we roar off to Woollies.


We park at the front door, The Cun is almost unable to walk because he is creasing himself with giggles, beetroot red face, and something is making him go a bit stupid. Anticipation.

Once inside he’s like’ “Ken Ken, come here, I need to show you this now, it’s fucking wild”….he’s in the Health Section, clutching a box of dried apricots. I’m laughing too, but a bit puzzled, the old grannies in the shop move away from the two stinking bikies in the health food isle.

“Wassup The Cun?” I ask. Befuddled.


He stares at me, crazed grin, and opens a box of dried Apricots very slowly, takes one out, and with , then with delicate sausage like fingers, gently pushes it in half………….

”Look”, he whispers…………….”when you do this, it looks like a cunt!!”






Ahhh, I said, it’s a Box “o” Lips.





And, it's all true. Remember it like yesterday.
( Ken Oath, Thu 21 Jun 2012, 11:19, 2 replies)

to be fair, i still have piercings and tattoos.
i am 39 - 11 tattoos (and the aim is for a full sleeve next year) and 17 piercings. the only ones i've ditched were my nipple rings after i threw my Z650 down the road at 40mph :(
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Thu 21 Jun 2012, 11:36, closed)

The Cun
has a Prince Albert (?)...a ring thru his hogs eye. Proudly showed me last time I saw him.

Also, last time we caught up, rented a beachside apartment, I went for a surf, he went and got another tattoo.


He doesn't surf.
( Ken Oath, Thu 21 Jun 2012, 11:42, closed)

my first husband had a prince albert.
hygiene is everything, gentlemen. just so you know.
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Thu 21 Jun 2012, 13:35, closed)