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The Seventh Memoir

The time I had a vibrating virgin in my bed

The time Johnny Howard was looking down at me whilst I was pounding away at some 17yr old politician's daughter.

The time I lost my virginity to my best friends girlfriend while he was getting me breakfast.

The Time I went nude on Chapel Street

The time I kicked my backdoor down to for The sex

The time i purchased an arse hole for $2

The Seventh Memoir

I didn’t think this day would ever come, the day I would spew out memoir seven. I can feel the immense pressure as I type away, as this needs to be the mother fucking memoir that will rock your fucking socks off!……. So I have decided to do something a little different. I will fill you in on the little secret of seven. The mythical god that we worship here at ahousenearyou….. Why do we get off on a number? What kinda sick fucks obsess with a number? Where did this originate? Where did the insanity begin? All will be revealed……. In the seventh memoir.

Back in the time where I was more child than man and I was more fat than muscle, my father passed on the gift to overshadow all gifts - the number seven. From an early age my Dad would drill the importance of seven into me “number seven boy, number seven” in a harsh tone as though I was in trouble. “lucky seven boy!” he would bark at me with an elbow nudge to the ribs. Wherever we would go. Whatever we would do, he would draw some importance to the number seven “woo hoo! Lucky seven ay boy?” It confused me greatly for a long time. Why was this number, the lucky number? What made it so special? I confronted my Dad on the subject and his reply was simple“it just is boy!” He had a love for that number that I never thought I could match, until I found the combined strength that the ahny boys have given me, god bless ‘em!

disclaimer: Jonno does not indorse God in his ways, or in his existence

In fact my Dad’s birthday was on the seventh and every year I would cop an earful about the number and how lucky it was that his birthday fell on the seventh. As I mentioned it to my Mum many years later “his birthday isn’t on the seventh! Your father is a fucking dick head! It’s on the sixth!” she disclaimed with a passion as they had divorced when I was little’n’fat. “He has always celebrated it on the seventh but it isn’t his birthday at all, he just loves the number! What a dickhead!

I felt robbed. My Dad loved the seven so much that he changed his birthday!?! I couldn’t believe it! The man is insane! Why would he do such a thing? I thought back to the times that he would crap on about seven and his birthday and luck and all that shit and he was lying to my face! I ran into my Dad’s office yelling and screaming of how he had lied to me and how I hated the number seven. He became very concerned that I may hold it against seven, so he decided to come clean.

Dad’s parents died when he was but a little boy and he was discarded from relative to relative. He had always celebrated his birthday on the sixth, but the truth was that his relatives didn’t have a fucking clue when it was. They got the poor little orphan’s day of birth wrong. It was in fact, the seventh not the sixth. He had been denied the number seven for over thirty years. It wasn’t until the day I was born (as he was also rushed to hospital for a sporting injury) that he discovered the truth. Not only did the 15th of March 1979 bring on the gift of god we refer to as manchild (see disclaimer above) but it also reunited my Dad with the blessed number seven. I have since converted Sammi from number eight to seven and he in return, shared the gift with Matt, Stu and the Butcher. Hence, why we crap on about it so much.

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