Stab: “We don’t want you to get laid!”

The radical magazine from Australia tries to keep you chaste!

Stab magazine is the greatest thing on earth, no? The rare mixture of a consumer facing “We’re young! We’re cool!” plus no taste plus easily hurt feelings plus paranoia plus SurfStitch is pure gold.


But would you like to know one better thing?

Jeans that scream, “I’m lonely and forty and live in a small town!”

And Stab in partnership with their owners at SurfStitch and no taste and easily hurt feelings and paranoia just posted its greatest piece yet. It’s Cold Out! Here’s Some Very Good Pants:

Oh don’t get me wrong. I love advertorial, truly, but let’s just read the intro:

I once spent a pleasant solo weekend in San Francisco. One night, while enjoying a pint at a poorly-lit joint in The Castro, they were playing old rock and there was an old guy sitting in the corner. He was smoking cigarettes and reading a book. I assumed he was from Berkeley.

But something about him was particularly engaging. Was it the tobacco? No. Only Kate Moss looks good while smoking. It was the pants. Straight leg, fitted, uncontrived. I knew that if I ever hoped to be as intriguing as that man reading a book, smoking cigarettes in a bar at The Castro, I would need a pair of similar trousers. Or at least something close.

And now let’s look at the trousers again but this time in action…


“I’m lonely and forty and live in a small town!” (Or a Mormon ex-presidential candidate)

I love Stab but Stab doesn’t want you to get laid.

Would even a hydro-foil be propelled by such a faraway swell? We'd have ask Laird.

Maddo: Shoulder-Hopping Champ!

It's official! Gary Linden wins the Blood Feud!

There I was, sifting through the internet’s jumbled ball of content in search of whatever cool/funny/important snippet I could deliver to the Grit. After an hour of disappointing videos and blasé news pieces, I was close to giving up. Then it found me.

Somehow this little jewel has escaped the wider surfing community for an entire week. Today, I can say with complete certainty, I’ve found the absolute best thing on the web. Please enjoy Robbie Maddison’s Pipe Dream 2.

Where oh where do I begin? How about some Robbie quotes:

“I knew that if I was gonna do Pipe Dream 2 I’d have to push the limits even further.”

Soooo you went from Teahupo’o, a world-class wave barreling over shallow and sharp reef, to a six-foot day at Todos Santos, a relatively soft and exceptional deep “big wave” location? Makes sense!

“The drive behind setting a world record in the distance ride was because a young kid from Montana saw Pipe Dream 1 and built himself a bike that went on the water and set a record at seventeen miles. A few days after breaking the record he drowned riding his bike, so I wanted to do something to honor him. To shine a light on what he achieved.”

I’m not gonna be the guy who claims Maddison is at all responsible for Blake Becker’s death. That would be cruel and unusual. But I simply cannot pass on the concept that Maddison thinks he is honoring Becker by breaking his world record. You’re “shining a light on what he achieved” by stealing the young man’s place in history? Is this some sort of trickle-down lighting principle?  

(Post wave ride) “That was so gnarly dude I was like braaap braaaap braaap”


Oh. My. God. Was his “ride” not the most amazing thing you’ve ever seen? Five seconds of shoulder-hopping, and half of it slow-moed, which means in reality it was a three-second performance. Come to think of it, shoulder-hopping is too generous. The man was in the channel while a non-breaking swell lurched at a 30-degree angle behind him.

And, no Gary Linden? What happened to Maddo’s promise of, “We filmed the entire encounter so we will show it raw for all to make their own call”? That incident is maybe the only thing that could have saved this hundred-fifty-thousand dollar dud.

Or a total success, if you consider it a comedy piece.


Matt Wilkinson and the pain of youth!

What decisions have you made, when young, that continue to haunt?

Matthew Wilkinson is, by all accounts, a wonderful young man. Kind etc. I have thoroughly enjoyed the brief time I’ve spent with him. He was considerate, easygoing, etc. I think we ate Chinese once in San Francisco and while I don’t remember him paying the bill, I don’t remember paying it either.

And when he started last year’s season as if flung by a trebuchet the world chuckled and applauded. “Oh look! The fun boy won!” “The blue collar kid!” The yobbo!”

“Surfing yobbo. He’s not pretty but this is Australia’s latest king of the waves.” The Australian proudly declared of the native son.

Matt Wilkinson took offense at being called a “yobbo” though (Australian for redneck I think) and called for the writer, a wonderful journalist by the name of Fred Pawle, to be publicly whipped.

But it appears as if he has been branded whether he likes it or not. This morning, Australia’s Daily Telegraph began its write-up of the Bells’ event thusly:

He was the jester of world surfing – a likeable, fun-loving larrikin and one of the most popular surfers on the world tour.

And do you think Matt Wilkinson likes how he is forever branded? A larrikin (Australian for drunk boy I think)? The jester of world surfing?

I think not since he called for a flogging just last year but that is the pain of youth. Decisions made when young that refuse to let go even after age and seriousness take over. Do you think he regrets wearing his funny wetsuits? Not getting Invisalign? Wearing cowboy hats?

Oh but he shouldn’t! Regret is a poisoned chalice. He should embrace his branding like it has embraced him. He should roll out more funny wetsuits and he should never get Invisalign and the cowboy hat suits him. He is our man from Snowy River!

Go get ’em, yob!

And then the lil fuckers get old enough to shred alongside daddy! How good is that!

The Surfer’s Guide To Having Kids!

You can spawn…and…shred!

Five days ago, lil Mike C lit up on the horrors that lay await for any surfer should he sire a child.

A brief, but revealing excerpt:

“The simplest tasks are made difficult, the most basic pleasures induce painful amounts of guilt, and surfing — especially for people with nine-to-fives — is almost entirely out of the equation. Being a parent truly is a full-time job, and through this trip I’ve gained newfound respect for any child-rearing couple. I don’t know how single parents even survive, to be honest.”

(Read on here)

Makes a man tremble in his shoes don’t it? As it should.

And shouldn’t.

I’ve spawned kids almost since the day my vital spermatozoa announced itself in a dream (Nordic woman on rug by fire. Round, brown ass lifted a little, face turning towards me at the moment of ejaculation.)

Three I’ve kept, a few others were binned.

What kind of relationship is it where a woman offers her stud a pass-out? It ain’t reverse sharia. Be your own man. An hour out of her day so she can look after own kid ain’t gonna kill her. And, anyway, there’s a good chance you’re projecting your own guilt onto your gal.

Yeah, wah, wah, wah etc. Except what’s better for society? A kid no one wants (click here for the theory that legalised abortion lowers the crime rate ) or you take the gamble a foetus can’t feel the knife slicing it apart. I think, or at least, hope the latter.

Anyway, I got kids and surf pretty much whenever I want. Tends to be a lack of desire that keeps me out of the water more than responsibilites.

Here’s how it works.

      1. Babies don’t need two parents around ‘em: It’s a simple notion. A baby needs food, sleep and you gotta keep it warm. It takes two adults? The hell it does. It’s one of society’s laws, howevs, that you’ll meet a gal, she’ll want a kid while you’re noncommittal about the idea, so you go along with it cause you’re an easygoing sorta guy. Baby showers. Baby talk. Then the kid comes and you’re suddenly the devil for ruining her life. And you get thrown this guilt thing if you want to go surf. Speak frankly. Share the kid-rearing. She gets up all night to plant the kid on her cans, you do the morning shift and let your gal sleep in. Stuff the baby in a papoose and go surf check. You get back, you hand kid over. You go surf.
      2. But keep it short. Who needs two-hour surfs anyway? You’re not there to talk shit. Surf a double-heat, forty minutes. Twenty waves and you’re out. Your gal is thrilled ‘cause you’re back in an hour. And you ripped the heart out of the session.
      3. Know your tides and swell directions. Don’t drive aimlessly for hours. Know your spot. Hit it.
      4. This pass-out bullshit: What kind of relationship is it where a woman offers her stud a pass-out? It ain’t reverse sharia. Be your own man. An hour out of her day so she can look after own kid ain’t gonna kill her. And, anyway, there’s a good chance you’re projecting your own guilt onto your gal. Maybe she’s delighted your fat ass is out the door.
      5. Multiple kids: This is where it gets tricky. One kid is easy. Two parents means there’s always room for the other to hit the booze or go surf. Two kids is five times as hard as one; three is ten times. My advice? Stick to two and cut ‘em three years apart. That way, your bigger kid can walk, feed itself, don’t need plastic pants etc.
      6. The money thing. Mike C gets it right here. Kids are expensive. And not just school, clothes, school, all those lessons, all those birthday party presents every weekend. But remember pre-kids when hard times hit you could lay low, share a cheap room, live on Weet-Bix? When you got kids it’s not just their welfare, but their view of the world you’re shaping. You don’t want to send ‘em to school looking like bums. Or missing out on all those wonderful material gifts.

The upshot?

Life is meaningless, and absurd beyond measure. At least it is until a couple of kids show up. Their existence in your life creates a sense of legacy and turns you into a teacher of life’s precious gift. It anchors your place in the universe. For the first time in your life you feel love. Real love. A family you created. A world within a world.

And y’know what that means? Don’t get divorced ’cause you want to chase tail. Even if it’s all going to shit, even if the gal is crazy. Especially if the gal if crazy.

Bottom line: If you want your kids to prosper, love your woman, their mama, like she’s the last girl on earth.

Now go spawn!

Can a man get more centered?

Watch: Africa’s Second-Best Surfer!

Say hello to Brendon Gibbens!

Belt me if I’m wrong, but is Brendon Gibbens not Africa’s second-best surfer of today? Of course we could get semantical and insist that Ando is technically Saffa, or that Ramzi Boukhiam’s backhand is a downright weapon, but no. I believe Brendon Gibbens plays Africa’s second fiddle.

For those who believe that Sean Holmes has a timeless flair or that Michael February is an actual human who exists on this planet, allow the clip below to sway you in Brendon’s favor. Also feel free to hit mute and add your own soundtrack, if dungeon metal ain’t your schtick.

I find Brendon’s flexibility a thing of wonder. No one’s legs bend like that except for John and maybe Alex Knost. The inward compression allows Brendon to absorb massive airs without fear of blowing an ankle or knee. It also helps him click some crazy nosepicks when desired.

And what of that last tube? You know it’s a good one when a professional surf filmer stops panning.

All I gotta say is watch out Damien Fahrenfort, this guy is coming for your throne!