Wrong Location? Yeah Right!

The Tui billboard “Santa even likes ginger kids. Yeah Right!” offends J White. He says, and Fryday quotes here the NZ Herald: “It (the billboard) is offensive and degrading towards children and singles out a natural occurrence of which a child has no control…” Besides the sentence being grammatically bankrupt, the sentence itself is equally if not more offensive than the billboard. Is J White implying in the phrase ‘has no control over” that, if they did, children would elect to be something/anything other than a Ginga? Well, they may do. But I can’t see the same implicit phrase/aspiration being levelled at a brunette, raven-haired or blonde….well, blonde, maybe. But it was not that which caught Fryday’s attention. It was the brewery’s apology and explanation. They did not wish to give offence, they said. It was a scheduling glitch, says DB. A mistake. It was placed in the wrong location. It was supposed to be placed where no-one who saw it would be offended by it. Where those who did see it would enjoy the laconic and iconic humour. Where there was humour. Certainly not where it wound up…Hamilton.

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Now playing: Leonard Cohen - Democracy
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Doing it by the (Face)Book

Saying I worked in advertising is something of an oxymoron. There was very little work, as I now know it, but a lot of drinking, card playing and cavorting. At the time—in the 70s—it was the expectation of that industry and the envy of others. We were the bight young things before the stockbrokers stole the mantle and then destroyed it. I see many of the people I consorted with back then on Facebook. They look considerably older, much settled and, one supposes, a little wiser. There are only two I see in person and regularly. And that is after a hiatus of near-on 40 years in the case of one. The others are probably like me in that they are content in the constraint of the Facebook contact. Facebook is like that: it brings you close but not too close, and as you and I are of an age and of an age, we have various other ways of making contact, such as an old-fashioned method called a telephone. I find it remarkable that my sons employ Facebook as a preference to even email. Is email going the way vinyl and video…obsolete? Maybe text will be next…thank God. So I do enjoy the direct engagement with true friends as distinct to the Facebook kind. In fact I am having dinner tonight with the one of those I have retained from those far-off advertising days. The one with the hiatus and a past propensity to go Greek, so to speak. It should be enjoyable, lively and, if conspicuous consumption makes it far from memorable, it will be just like those far-off advertising days, before our lives became a timeline on Facebook.


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Now playing: The Band - Life Is A Carnival
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Now playing: The Band - Life Is A Carnival
via FoxyTunes

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Now playing: The Band - Life Is A Carnival
via FoxyTunes

Do you want fries with your Fryday?

The fourth biggest burger chain in the world has been accused of targeting poor New Zealanders. The basis of the complaint, from Wai Community Board chair Derek Battersby, is that Carl’s Jr. is opening stores in “deprived” areas such as Glen Innes, Takanini and Avondale. Oh? They can’t be all that deprived if they have a Carl’s Jr., Helensville doesn’t have one. Mr Battersby’s concern, and for this we can read assumption, is that low socio-economic groups—deprived groups—will be more susceptible to the high calorie intake/menu offered by Carl’s Jr., which boasts by the way a foot long cheeseburger. Mr Battersby recommends what today seems the all-too omnipresent panacea of all perceived ills: “a campaign to educate people about fast food.” Just another case, I suggest, of everybody wanting to teach somebody something. And like every other education campaign, other than Drink-Drive, unlikely to make one iota of difference. Anyway, Mr Battersby’s so-called deprived persons are not being targeted by Carl’s Jr.—they haven’t even opened a store in Hamilton—fast food is targeted by deprived persons—and most everyone else as well. It’s the way the world is. Mr Battersby may not like it, but there is little use in him not accepting it.


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Now playing: Kris Kristofferson - Broken Freedom Song
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The Con, The Com and the Kims

Two Kims have figured prominently in Fryday’s life of late, the first with pleasure the second vicariously. Our friend Kim Gordon and her husband Glenn gave birth to their first child, Lola. From the photographs I have seen Lola looks a delightful little baby and, even if she is giving a Kim a few sleepless nights that suggest the baby could be more aptly named Barry, Kim and Glenn are still wonderfully blessed. Congratulations.
The other Kim is also a baby, a big bear of a baby: Kim Dotcom. I knew nothing of him before the police raid on his Coatsville rented mansion, but I have taken a fascinated, vicarious and voyeuristic interest since. Who hasn’t? Go on, admit you have. This is not how the other half live; this is how the other 0.00007% live. Not for the likes of you and me. And am I full of envy? Of course I am. They say that money can’t buy happiness. That is so much BS. Of course it can; it can also apparently buy you a prison term but that is another story. One sidebar story was that Mr Dotcom has been refused bail because he posed a flight risk and allegedly had the resources to falsify the necessary documentation—presumably a passport. Hello? The guy is six foot zillion—are you going to tell me that Emigration won’t recognise the differentiation, discrepancy and distinction between the imposing figure in front of them and whomever the passport identifies? I am not saying let him out; but really this reason, if alone, is such a crock.
I am ambivalent about Dotcom. I know nothing of him, other than of his lifestyle. I have never used his on-line service—never knew it existed. I am in no position to judge him, nor would I want to. What I can say is that for however brief a moment Kim Dotcom added interest to an otherwise fairly dreary summer.
Kim and Glenn Gordon would not have thought it dreary I think; summer gave them the most blessed gift possible. But for the rest of us it’s somewhat worrying that Kim Dotcom and his mansionarial machinations are all we got.


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Now playing: Neil Young - Someone's Gonna Rescue You
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Whetu Calls: The gift that keeps on giving.

HE: Kia Ora Bro.
ME: Kia Ora.
HE: Happy New Year, cuz.
ME: And to you too, Whetu.
HE: Got the place lookin’ nice.
ME: Thank you.
HE: The old lady well?
ME: Yes. Yours?
HE: Dunno. Hasn’t seen her for days. You going to write about Waitangi this Fryday, Bro?
ME: Don’t see why I should. Doesn’t interest me really. Why?
HE: ‘Cause if you was I could save you sending the koha up there. I could collect it here.
ME: This is the koha that Maori are charging the media to write about the Waitangi celebrations?
HE: Not charging, bro; expectin'.
ME: Well I am not writing about Waitangi, so I am not payin'…paying.
HE: You are not writing about Waitangi?
ME: No not at all.
HE: You are not even going to mention it at all?
ME: No.
HE: Not once?
ME: No.
HE: Four times…
(PAUSE)
ME: How much?
HE: Fifty bucks should do it…Kia Ora bro.
ME: Happy New Year Whetu.


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Now playing: The Byrds - Ballad OF Easy Rider
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Yule Be Right

Yuletide is a word rarely heard these days. It is archaic, and irrelevant, like Hamilton and Hone. Yet it is a lovely word that evokes a more pleasurable and innocent past. It smacks of logs on the fire and snow on the sill. It’s better than the more didactic Christmas, which is in reality two religious words stung together. But Yule (a pagan festival) and Christmas (another) are not about etymology, they are about serenity—the time in which the little pleasures of life reign over the self-absorption of other times of the year. A time to share good fortune with friends and family. I will have my brother staying with me, and that is the first time that has happened at this time of the year in, well, years. I have written of my brother before. He lives in Christchurch. He is completely unfazed by quakes, or anything else for the matter. He loves his dog, and to him that’s all that matters. The little pleasures. Serenity. Looking back on my own year, I have met more good people than bad, and again it has been a long time since that happened. It’s been a great year, and it’s going to culminate in a great Christmas…Yuletide, with friends and family. Here’s wishing the same for you, for everybody, even, yes, Hamilton.

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Now playing: Joan Sutherland, Zubin Mehta; London Philharmonic Orchestra, John Alldis Choir - Puccini: Turandot - Diecimila Anni Al Nostro Imperatore!
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The Real McCaw

This morning the Prime Minister revealed on Radio Sport that he offered All Black captain Richie McCaw a knighthood in the New Year’s Honours List. John Key further revealed that Richie had declined because he (McCaw) felt it was too early for such an honour. Implicitly that left the door open for one later, and most New Zealanders would probably applaud that. Having said that, I can think of a number of New Zealanders who have accepted the honour who are far less deserving of it. The criteria of who gets a knighthead these days seems to be a lot looser than that of the Knights of Old and Knights of Bold. If we go back to those days, to gain a knighthood one had—generally—to be brave, chivalrous, to exhibit considerable prowess on the battlefield, and to be diligent in protecting the sanctity of a woman’s maidenhood. Well, if we replace battlefield with rugby field and acknowledge that protecting maidenhoods may be more honoured in the breech than the observance, nobody would be more qualified than Richie. But it won’t be this time. Richie’s decision. But when they do come knocking again—as they will, perhaps on your retirement Richie—accept it then. You deserve it. We deserve it. It honours you. And in some way it honours us, and who we like to think of ourselves as New Zealanders—the Real McCaw.

Footnote: In the same interview, the Prime Minister would not be drawn on whether Graham Henry had been offered and accepted a knighthood. We were simply invited to “wait and see.”

Whetu Solves the World's Problems

I hope I am not courting fate when I proffer the hope that New Zealand is in for a happier year in 2012 than it experienced for much of 2010 and 2011. Touch wood that the only residual dark cloud is nothing new and indeed is so prevalent and perpetual to be almost non-existent: the performance of the NZ national cricket team. It won’t get any easier for them, coming off an Australian tour and then having the South Africans here.
But elsewhere I detect that despite electing a government the majority of us wanted and winning a world cup that we needed—and note there the relative priorities—its still been a hard year. I think the government should make it mandatory that we all take a two-week break after Christmas to recoup and recover and marshal our ravished recourses.
The country can run itself for a while can’t it? Alternatively we could just give it to the Maori Party to run for a couple of weeks—by the time they had finished with the consultative hui etc nothing will have happened, a fortnight will have gone by, and the power base will have been restored. Or maybe we should just let Phil Goff have a go for a couple of weeks—bit like giving the retiring front row prop a kick at goal when the game is already won (or lost)—fun, a nice gesture but ultimately meaningless. Hone would be good except that he would probably be on the first plane to Paris for a fortnight. Then there is Winston—ah, Winston—what would Winston do if given power for a couple of weeks? Well, you couldn’t of course. He would never take it. Two weeks? Two terms more like it, that would be his negotiating position, and then he would be so contrary he would also demand the post of Leader of the Opposition, in opposition to himself.
So, if we did have an enforced break as a nation who should we put in charge? My mate Whetu says it should be him. He says he has the perfect panacea for our ills. He says he wouldn’t need to be prime minister for a fortnight. He would just take us all down to the pub on the first day, Treasury would shout a few Lion Reds, we would collectively solve all the world’s problems in one afternoon and then his government would send us all on hols for a couple of weeks—at their cost. Which is kinda where we started, eh? Go Whetu!

A Soft Election

John Key tells me on his Facebook page that he is starting his morning with a sausage sizzle in Taupo. I am drawn to the obvious conclusion John having his sausage in such a place is far more edifying than his having a hamburger in Hamilton. I have no idea how Phil (me with confidence not) Goff is starting his day—though I can understand if it is with a degree of tiredness and resignation. I imagine that both leaders are greeting this last day of formal electioneering with relief that it is nearly over. I know I am. The aspirations of the leading candidates have hardly been inspirational for the rest of us. I find it interesting and little disquieting that most interest in tomorrow’s result lies with the performance of the secondary parties—most notably The Greens, New Zealand First, Mana and, making a late surge—those happy clappers of the new right, The Conservatives. Perhaps that is how it should be. After the hard twelve months we have been through, to wind up the year with a soft little election to play with may just be what we need and deserve. I am up for it.

Of words, wines and whines

Many whiskeys ago I was asked to write the blurb for a set of labels for a new wine. I must have been successful because the wine sold well and today is considered something of a benchmark among the Marlborough whites. I should be happy but I am not. The result says less for my way with words than for the way of words, and their ability to sell.
You see, I wrote the blurb knowing very little about wine and without having even opened a bottle of this particular brand. I made it all up and delivered characteristics to these wines that to this day I have no idea whether they were accurate.
It didn’t seem to matter.
What seems to matter in this world is the degree of pretentiousness you instigate, instil and infuse into wine writing. The thesaurus is the bible of the wine writer. Where else would they find such meaningless descriptive linguistics as “unctuous”, “intimidating”, “forthright” and (my favourite) “fleet of foot"?
It is almost the purest style over substance in writing. The facts should in wine writing not only not get in the way of a good story, they should be banished to the bottom of the cellar forever hidden from the light.
As evidence, let’s look at some examples I picked lately. The wines don’t matter, the words do:
· The fine milk chocolate appears alone at first and gradually begins to flirt with elegant notes of wood and warm spice which bloom and disappear
· The fruit is restrained, the texture is soft, and there’s a smidgen of that ethereal ‘Sideways’ character lurking in the bottle.”
· The delicate nose succumbs and seduces. Lulls you into a false security before the onslaught…
· El Cid remains resplendent in this evocative red from the steppes (sic) of Spain.
· The palate offers the slightest of orange chocolate with the citrus providing a loving and gifted partner upon a marriage bed paradoxically redolent of Scottish heather.
That last one, and the propensity to evoke all kinds of other tastes, provoked one frustrated drinker I know to exclaim, “Why can’t it (wine) taste like grapes?” The wine writer I know replied simply, “Then it would be grape juice.” True. But about the only thing in wine writing that is.