Frydaysblog

The Con, The Com and the Kims

2012-02-10T08:07:00.001+13:00

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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Whetu Calls: The gift that keeps on giving.

2012-02-03T07:43:00.003+13:00

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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Yule Be Right

2011-12-23T10:22:00.002+13:00

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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The Real McCaw

2011-12-16T08:38:00.003+13:00

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

2011-12-09T09:38:00.001+13:00

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

2011-11-25T09:09:00.001+13:00

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

2011-11-18T08:53:00.001+13:00

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.

Living next to a Garrett

2011-11-11T11:54:00.005+13:00

It’s not for me to speak ill of the (brain) dead, but if the reports of former Act MP David Garrett’s bizarre behaviour are true he certainly deserves public condemnation.
You’ll remember Garrett. It was he who was forced to resign from Parliament last year after revelations he stole a dead baby's identity to obtain a false passport and had an historic assault conviction.
Since then, this week he pleaded not guilty to a drink-driving charge; last month he was suspended from holding a lawyer's practising certificate for 12 months and ordered to pay court costs of $8430 after a Law Society disciplinary hearing. The hearing related to a false affidavit he swore while facing charges over the false passport.
He was previously censured by the Act Party over lewd comments, made homophobic comments on a television show panel, and has been accused of drinking heavily and using online dating sites to meet women while still married.
Now he is reported to have locked his wife and children out of their Kaukapakapa house and told his wife, a Tongan, to “go back to your tribe.”
Now you might be of the ilk that says this simply makes Garrett a man’s man. If you are I guess that’s not sunburn on your neck. For the rest of us he is, at best, a dork and it’s galling to me to have him living just up the road.
So, when it comes to David Garrett, I am feeling anything but neighbourly. If you want to read the full story, you’ll find the report on which this Fryday is based on the Stuff local news website.

A rest is as good as a change

2011-11-04T12:10:00.000+13:00

To save the planet one has to first get on it, and The Greens’ election manifesto shows little indication of that happening soon.
I admit The Greens are passionate and sincere in the beliefs, but I also believe that they are terrified of having true power and a mandate to put some of their more wacky policies into action.
The latest, announced today, is to ban the sale of lollies, sweet drinks and chips at school. Now, that may sound laudable to some, and it certainly is not new, but that’s not the point. The point is that, as a policy, is it likely to secure for The Greens one additional vote that they weren’t going to get anyway? It’s hardly a deal-breaker.
To be fair, there are more substantive aspects to the party’s education policy. For example, they want to reduce class sizes to 20 (probably impractical) and do away with National Standards. But, again, is any of that going to swing any new votes their way?
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Nothing much is changing or will change with this election. It is, for me, amounting to little more than a huge yawn. I am not saying, as some do, that the result is a foregone conclusion; I am saying there is little that is new, little that is visionary, little that captures the imagination (or my vote) from any party in this election.
Given the traumatic 12 months this country has had that yawn quality may just be the welcome change this country needs.
But it is still an election and it is still sad that the political parties disappoint in the way that they do.

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2011-10-28T08:47:00.001+13:00

The Executive Committee
International Rugby Board
Huguenot House
35—38 St Stephen’s Green
Dublin 2
Ireland.

Dear Sirs

We refer to the matter of the presentation of the Webb Ellis Cup at the conclusion of the Rugby World Cup (9 October 2011 inst).

Television footage of the event and personal observation from members at the event offer clear evidence of unauthorised use of our token (more commonly though erroneously called a handshake) by non-Masons, namely IRB chairman Bernard Lapasset, New Zealand prime minster John Key and All Black captain Richard McCaw.

The use of the token in such a manner in a public arena, and indeed in private context, is entirely inappropriate and demeaning to the United Grand Lodge of England and its affiliated Lodges worldwide.

Freemasonry is a fraternal organisation with origins in the late 16th to early 17th century. Freemasonry now exists in various forms all over the world, with a membership estimated at around six million, including approximately 150,000 under the jurisdictions of the Grand Lodge of Scotland and Grand Lodge of Ireland, over a quarter of a million under the jurisdiction of the United Grand Lodge of England and just under two million in the United States.

The actions of the International Rugby Board (IRB) and the individuals involved are an affront to the venerable status of all lodges.

Under the circumstances, we have no option but to impose upon the International Rugby Board and the three individuals named a collective fine of Ten thousand Euro (10,000).

The monies to be paid to this organisation no later than 13 November 2011 inst.

An invoice is attached. We accept Visa, but not cheques.

R.A.H.Marrow Esq
The Grand Secretary
United Lodge of England
Freemason's Hall
Gt Queen Street
London

PS: Bernard—looking forward to catching up with you at the Rugby League Four Nations, Dick.

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Whetu Calls: The Wider View

2011-10-14T09:54:00.002+13:00

The country is in a sombre mood. The litany of disasters, none of our making (though culpability for Pike River is still to be determined), is evoking questions such as why us and how much can one small country be expected to take.
Even that barometer—some say adjudicator—of popular culture, The Zuckerberger, is uncharacteristically quiet: some are trying jokes on it but the Facebook firmament, already hit by Steven Jobs, is simply not in the mood at the moment. Nor am I. When a guy said to me yesterday, “All this and Dan Carter!” I bit my lip and said nothing. I was funnier in the midst of my recent melanoma operation.
So it was something of a surprise when the knock on the Ranchslider came.
Then again, perhaps it wasn’t…

ME:Good morning.
HE:Bro.
ME:What are you selling this time? Mt Maunganui Brylcream?
HE:Funny.
ME:Not really.
HE:Not selling nothin’
ME:Nothin’?
HE:Nah. Giving something away. Koha for youse because youse been so good to me.
ME:What is it?
HE:Wells, you knows that new waka wot the Prime Minister opened yesterday?
ME:Did you go to that?
HE:No.
ME:Why not? You’re Maori.
HE:Wrong tribe.
ME:Me too. Anyway…
HE:Anyways that new waka wot you paid for…
ME:Yes.
HE:Me and the bros want to present you with a small token of our thanks for forking out that two and half million bucks.
ME:Well it wasn’t me only.
HE:Yeah. I knows. But it was all youse white fellas, with wide-screens.
ME:I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. But, anyway, I appreciate the recognition.
HE:The wot?
ME:Forget it. Do you want to make that presentation now, or later?
HE:Later.
ME:When?
HE:Saturday night. We’ll come to you.
ME:What time?
HE:Dunno. What time’s the game on?

Palin into insignificance

2011-10-06T20:40:00.003+13:00

Surprise, surprise! Sarah Palin is no longer running for the American presidency. She said her decision not to run was made only after “much prayer and serious consideration.” Instead, she said, she and her husband Todd would “devote (themselves) to God, family and country.” Interesting that remark, given it is exactly what President George W. Bush did, and in exactly the same order, for two terms as President. He managed. Kind of. Methinks her decision was rather less divine than a dawning realisation that her current campaign has little traction with American voters outside of the Bible Belt and still less with Grand Old Party powerbrokers of the Beltway. It might also have more to do with Palin signing up a number of lucrative TV deals, writing two books, and setting up a successful fund-raising outfit. Or maybe I am wrong. Maybe she is just doing what God told her. After all who are we to question the honesty and sincerity of a politician? And who are we to doubt the power of God—the IRB is everywhere these days.

In a league of our own

2011-09-30T12:56:00.000+13:00

I know that there are many New Zealanders who do not give a toss about the Rugby World Cup. Frankly, I am close to being one of them. I don’t enjoy the games themselves—too much whistle for me, particularly around the scrums. But I do enjoy the enjoyment that most New Zealanders are getting from hosting the tournament. That joy is palpable, mostly in the omnipresent flags. It’s wonderful to see and wonderful to show our many guests. It also shows me something else—something not so palpable—but nevertheless important. It shows me that we New Zealanders are showing a new maturity, and evidence of that is coming from an unlikely source: support for The Warriors. You see, up until now whenever The Vodafone Warriors had a success someone—a leaguee or rah rah—would start the stupid and stupefying debate about which code is the best. Not this time. Some tried, particularly on talkback, but that debate was shut down immediately and those who raised it were made to feel like the retrograde dorks they are. Instead, it’s become obvious that the whole country has got right behind The Warriors, as they have the All Blacks. One of the best quotes I read on that was from, I think, All Black Kieran Read who, when asked what would be the best part of playing Canada during the day on Sunday, replied that it meant “the boys” could get back to their hotel in time to watch The Warriors. Good stuff. Go The Warriors. Go the All Blacks. Go us for growing up and relishing all sports and all our successes.

The Name Game

2011-09-23T11:01:00.000+12:00

One of the more archaic parliamentary terms is to be named. I am not sure what being named means but apparently it puts the fear of God, or more terrifyingly still, the fear of Winston Peters up members of parliament, so it must be important as well as gratifying.
Of course names are wonderful things. And numerous. I have been called many in my dealings with the public. We cannot do without them. One, Prince, once tried, and that didn’t get him anywhere—it was a shambolic, symbolic attempt. Even so, sometimes names don’t quite go together and, even if they do, they may be cause for derision. Within my domain I know of a Rocky, Clay, Emerald and Coral Isle. All related. Emerald and Coral, both not yet married, are often and obviously referred to as Miss Isle.
But what interests me most is the evolving nature of names. Those that are in fashion, and those that fall out of favour—often permanently. It would be too much to assume that Facebook will find favour, but someone has named their child that. There is also an Apple and, topically from the English rugby team, the wonderfully named Will Power. I am having lunch today with an equally wonderfully named Priscilla—that’s not a name you hear often these days, but it is like poetry and deserves resurgence.
Less poetic are names that, I think deservedly, have fallen out of favour and hopefully will never return. At the risk of offending some (and here I have at least checked my mailing list) I would include among those: Agnes, Felicity, Maude, Florence, Bert, Algernon and quite possibly the one name above all nobody wants to hear again…Hone.

Get over it and get on with it

2011-09-16T11:30:00.002+12:00

My friend Whetu was not among the 600 kaihoe or waka paddlers who were such a large part of the RWC opening celebrations. He tells me that paddling a waka up the Waitemata sounded like too much hard work, best left to “the young fellas.” Instead he parked himself in front of the TV, opened a beer, lit a joint and sat back fully prepared to be entertained. With the possible exception of the joint, Whetu was much like any other New Zealander last Friday; either at one of the live events or glued to the TV to watch one of the most hyped events in New Zealand’s history. If transport and other issues tarnished the downtown event, people like Whetu didn’t care. By his fifth joint and twelfth beer, all fetched by the fellesse, he was fully into the swing of things. And if the two teams on the field were barely distinguishable at that point and he was left wondering why Benji Marshall wasn’t playing, it somehow didn’t matter. He was in party mood. We can learn a lot from Whetu, I think. Get over it and get on with it. We have had a week of fallout from Friday. Yes, things went wrong, and, yes, things had to be fixed and hopefully have been. But does what happened (or not happen) warrant the prolonged media beat-up it is (still) getting? I can only think that our overseas guests are probably bewildered at our propensity for self-flagellation. Except maybe the Brits, who are used to that kind of thing. For my part, I am going to take my cue from Whetu. I am going to sit back and enjoy this thing, and all that other stuff can simply ruck off. Fetch my beer fellesse.

Dear John: Goff

2011-09-02T07:19:00.002+12:00

Rt Hon John Key Prime Minister
Care of Distribution Services
Parliament Buildings
Wellington 6160.

Dear John

When one sees you in person or on television one is irrevocably drawn to the image of the, I think Cheshire, cat that has lapped up the cream. There we have it: the perpetual grin, the air of innocence, and the rub my tummy appeal.
Well, that may appeal to the electorate, John, and clearly it does if we are to believe the polls, which I do not. Never have. But it will not win you the election, and I will tell you why.
You see John, what you do not understand about politics is that you cannot treat it as a hobby, which you do. Politics is a full-time profession best left to those who treat it as such and with finesse, skill and respect. A life in politics can be a hard one. Difficult. Challenging. One has to be born into it, ideally, like me, through an academic route. One cannot come to it as an afterthought. An extension of a Parnell cocktail party.
Success in politics requires more than a pretty wife and a planking son.
But your attitude and your approach are not the sole reasons you will not win the next election. There is something far more important. Something you and your advisors have missed and will now find too late to recover.
It is this…
John, you underestimate the intelligence of the electorate. They see through you. They see that you are shallow. They see beyond that perpetual grin and know that it masks a disenfranchisement from the electorate. A desire, if you will, to be among your own kind. Not this kind.
Not my kind.
And this is why you will not win this election John. And why I will. People see me. They know me. They like me. They know I am one of them. Indeed, I am often asked if I am one of them.
They know that I have depth. That I bring to the political table—the mum and dad table of New Zealand—a breadth of understanding, a formidable intellectual equity, a vision and the means to achieve it.
The people of New Zealand are intelligent. They will not be swayed by your superficiality. They want cogent, vigorous politics and confidence that they have a leader with the intellectual vigour to carry them out. They don’t see that in you John. For all your spin-doctors, and for Steven standing in the wings, they haven’t seen that. You haven’t seen that. And it is too late now.
You are on notice. Next week I begin my campaign. Presidential in style. It presents me as who I am. And you are not. Strong. Determined. Brave. A visionary. A statesman. A leader. A future.
It starts with my appearance on Dancing with the Stars.

Sincerely

Rt Hon Phil Goff
Leader of the Opposition.

Dear John: Gadaffi2

2011-08-26T10:16:00.002+12:00

Exalted Leader of the Free Peoples of Aotearoa New Zeland
Parliament House
Auckland
New Zeland

Dear John

Greetings from the free peoples and martyrs of Libya.
I hear you have nice children but one wife only. This is not good thing. A leader should have many wifes so to have many childrens and to not tire one wife. With many childrens a leader has loyalty of family aginst traitorous spawn of leprous camel droppings.
I say this as friend John Keyes.
So that you might haves the loyaties and loves of your peoples I am sending you some of my wifes to share the bed and the burden of your wife. This is generous it is true. But Allah tells me is right.
So I know that you will have satisfies I have decided to come too. And I shall bring our other wifes and our many childrens. This is generous it is true. But I know that the peoples of Libya must sacrifice themselves of their much loved leader to help their brothers in the free land of Aotearoa New Zeland. They says I go and I do as my peoples bid.
I will be there in time for Rugby World Cup. Please have box ready.

Your friend

Muammar.

Tyresome

2011-08-25T10:04:00.003+12:00

I have met a great tyre retailer whom I want to recommend to everyone I know in the region. It's Firestone Albany Village (phone 0-9 414 0857) run by a guy called Steve Abbott. Here's the letter I wrote him--Explains all.

Dear Steve
You promised it would happen, and it did!
I cannot believe the difference in the handling and noise reduction of my 3-Series BMW following your recommended tyre choice and calibration. Everything you said would happen in terms of improvement has and I am delighted with the result.
I am also delighted with the advice you gave me, plus the free remedial work you did on my BMW to repair the “work” done by a previous tyre supplier. Most of all, I guess, I am delighted with your honesty in informing me that, contrary to your pre-examination forecast, replacement bushes were not required after all.
That’s impressive.
Steve, I have no hesitation in recommending you and your team to my friends and colleagues.

Bulls and Balls

2011-08-19T09:26:00.000+12:00

I am so over the Rugby World Cup. I know it is not the RWC organisers’ fault, but all this periphery stuff: The Dolly Partons, the jersey, the abstention et al is so tiresome. And I now hear the possibility that The Warriors may lose the home ground semi, if they earn one, because of the RWC. I am also heartily sick of the hype surrounding it and am yet to be persuaded that it will have any long-term benefit for New Zealand. That said, I acknowledge that it may have short-term benefits. My friend Whetu, of whom you read occasionally in Fryday, is making a killing selling All Black replica jerseys for $30.00. They present very good value because you get two jerseys in one. After three washings and the black dye wears off you are suddenly presented with a Lion Red Warriors’ jersey circa 1995. Whetu is also selling abstention kits cunningly disguised as 12-pack of Lion Red. His rationale? After drinking that much you can’t get it up anyway. Whetu describes it as the Maori contribution to science. And nor is Whetu the only one making a contribution to and a killing from, the RWC. New Zealand’s squeezable pimple, Hamilton, is heralding a rallying cry for its citizens to make an international statement that their village is right behind the RWC and Telecom. Hamiltonians are being exhorted to abstain from sex in support of Telecom’s erstwhile campaign (they haven’t caught up with the news yet). I am not sure whether cows will be disappointed or relieved. On the other hand I hear Palmerston North is taking the opposite approach. They have decided to have frequent sex. Well, as they say, there is a first for everything. As for me? This Fryday will be my only contribution and comment to and about the RWC. I support the All Blacks, but I detest the self-perpetuating dominance of the code and in keeping with most Aucklanders I think there are more important things in life than rugby. I am just struggling presently under the weight and mire of the media to find one.

Shopping at Sainsbury's

2011-08-12T08:01:00.002+12:00

Is it just I? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is my demeanour. Perhaps it is my reputation for being obstreperous. Perhaps it is because I come from Christchurch for whom there are truckloads of sympathy but no likability. Or maybe it is as superficial as my aftershave. Whatever it is, I feel like a pariah of the people. No matter how much I plead, urge, cajole, beg, I can get no one to join me in the Mark Sainsbury Fan Club. What is it with you people? Can you not see that this man is atop the pantheon of journalism? Can you not see, and be stimulated by, the incisive, penetrating manner of his questioning? Can you not digest and recognise the finesse with which he lulls his interviewees (victims?) into a false sense of security by their thinking they are being interviewed by a complete idiot? Believe me, as an actor I know it takes skill, craft and practice to play an idiot. Unless you are one of course. No, I can find no one who will join me in the Mark Sainsbury Fan Club and that disappoints me. Even Mr Sainsbury has declined to join the club in his honour. When I approached him, his rejoinder was, “What? What do you think I am? An idiot?”
Ummmmm….

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Dear John

2011-08-05T05:32:00.001+12:00

President John Keys
Prime Minister New Zeland
Parliament House
Auckland
New Zeland

Dear John

To the exalted leader of the free peoples of Aotearoa New Zeland—greetings.

After 42 years as benign father to my peoples, God is telling me that the time has come for me to rest. But my peoples will not allow me this rest. They will not let me go. Even as I here write I hear their chants from the street. “Gaddafi must die as President,” they say. I am touched. I am much loved.

So, I must leave Libya so that I might rest. And soon. And in secret.

I am offering myself to a number of countries. Allah be praised that New Zeland is one of them. I have heard much of your country from the many Maories peoples who have trained here with my armed forces. I know that you have much sheep and the Maories peoples tell me that much of your peoples are like sheeps. This is much loved by me.

I know that in New Zeland the people will welcome me as they welcomed convicts from all lands so long ago.

So, John Keys, I offer to you myself. I bestow myself and my family and wives on the peoples of New Zeland. I shall comes next week.

Please have palace ready.

Your friend

Muammar.

1. I have today transferred into your bank accounts US$1 Billion. Please use it to buy me taxi license. I don’t wish to be a burden to your country.

2. Please let Hone know I am coming.

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He aint heavy...

2011-07-29T12:47:00.002+12:00

My brother, who lives in Christchurch, phones me frequently these days. I say these days because for much of his fifty-odd years he rarely rang anyone, let alone made a toll call to me in Auckland. But now he does, and it is a joy to hear from him. He calls me not about the earthquakes or the continuing after-shocks; they do not faze him—and in that regard he is more fortunate than most in Christchurch. No, he rings to discuss the relative merits of our respective rugby league teams, and again he is fortunate; his, The Warriors, are on an upward swing; while mine, The Bulldogs, decidedly are on the downward slope. I should explain that my brother, Peter, is quite a character, and well known around Christchurch particularly in sporting circles through he plays no sport and is content to volunteer for any role that most helps those who do play. He is well liked for that. For that and for various idiosyncrasies such as calling his dog Sarah. The thing about Peter is that from force of circumstance he is the most honest and self-effacing person on this earth. Yet because of that he was for half a century protected by our parents. That protection is no longer there and, as is becoming increasingly obvious with each new day, nor is it needed. My brother is making his own way in the world. He and his dog Sarah. I am immensely proud of who he is and of what he has become.

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Hitting a Roar Nerve

2011-07-22T09:27:00.002+12:00

I was saddened to see on last night’s news the beginning of the end for the venerable Press building in Cathedral Square Christchurch.
It was there in 1967 that I began my earlier career in newspapers. It was there in 1969 that I sat in the company of crusty journos and watched in mutual and ageless awe the first man to walk on the Moon. It was there, a year later, that I had my only knife fight, in the top right corner we saw being demolished last night. And it was in the opposite corner that I communed vicariously with the man of the moment Bob Dylan and shared a light bulb.
It was from there that I began a new life.
So the building is about to go. No doubt the decision to demolish it is justified (though there are those who will dispute that) and I have no issue with the decision—just an incredible sadness, and a baseless anger that Nature and Mortality has in the last 12 months wrought such havoc on my youthful years.
But I was somewhat brightened by the experiences and pontifications of another group for whom the Earth (apparently) moves in far more pleasurable terms. This was the Campbell Live item later in the night about The Obedient Wives Club. Now, that sounds like one of those movies from the 80s starring Dianne lane or Diane Keaton. But, no, this is a group of Islamic wives who believe in complete subjugation to their husbands’ wishes, including sexual. They even include a support group in which they share notes and experiences aimed at being a better “whore” in bed. That seems to me and my untutored but omnipresent voyeurism a totally new perception of Islam. Who thought? We all knew that treatment of Islamic woman, particularly wives, did not meet Western mores, but for Islamic wives to have a position on positions is mind-blowing (so to speak).
Do I condone it? I am Man!! Hear me roar.
After I get Maggie her coffee.

Swear it or wear it

2011-07-15T12:05:00.001+12:00

I don’t trust Americans. This is the nation that voted in George W. Bush. Twice. And may well have done so a third time if the Constitution had allowed it. But I will say this for George W, he had belief. He believed in what God and that higher deity the American Arms Lobby told him, and he acted on that belief. Hone Harawira has only one belief—self, and none at all of belief’s bedmate scruples. But I am now pleased to note that in his grandstanding he may well have backed himself into the corner to which all other naughty juveniles are consigned. This is of course his refusing to swear fealty to the Queen. Oh yes, you are making a statement Hone—which is you are an idiot. Have you had a thought Hone as to where to next? You see, until you so swear you can’t sit in Parliament. And if you do now so swear you are backing down and showing the lack of scruples and beliefs you never had in the first place. The rather pleasurable, though tragically remote, irony is that through this action we may well have seen the last of you—and it will be of your own doing.

Harawira Hard to Wear

2011-06-24T14:09:00.000+12:00

Let me tell you about this sinking feeling I am experiencing. Likely it is similar to yours, and for the same reason: Hone Harawira. I have the sinking feeling that he is going to win tomorrow. Too many with too little common sense consider him akin to the Messiah—the great brown hope of Maoridom. Tai Tokerau is his fiefdom. I don’t think in fact he offers anything to Maoridom and his pattern in Parliament has been a consistent one of self-interest. In any other field but politics he would defy belief, as a man with no belief except self. But let’s not be unkind, let’s just except that he is a cretin. Albeit a cunning one. So, why is Fryday giving him any space? Only because I could not let a remark by Harawira on this morning’s Radio Live programmes go unremarked. Harawira was on the programme with the ever-reasonable Labour candidate Kelvin Davis. During a tense exchange between the two, moderated by Marcus Lush, it was Harawira who invited Davis to “shut your fat mouth.” A small matter perhaps. But then again if that childish rejoinder is all Harawira can come up with he deserves neither his position in Parliament nor the support he will get tomorrow. I am tempted to say those who vote for him will get what they deserve. And I guess they will. But frankly nobody deserves Harawira—not Tai Tokerau, not Maoridom, not this country.

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The Hamilton Public Library Book of Lists

2011-06-10T11:33:00.003+12:00

With the onset of winter (though it doesn’t feel like it) and the prospect of winter reading, it is time to announce this year’s Annual Hamilton Public Library Book of Lists:

§ Most Borrowed Book: Knot in my Lifetime—Best Bondage Knots by Master Spartacus.

§ Most Borrowed Autobiography: Buggered if I do, Buggered if I don’t—A Waikato Life by A Cow.

§ Most Stolen Book: How to Live Life on the Cheap in Hamilton.

§ Thinnest Book: The Wit and Wisdom of Hamilton Mayors.

§ Thickest Book: God Help Me—Religious Writings of Hamilton Mayors.

§ Best Council Publication: Doing it by The Book—The Bible and its Role in the District Plan.

§ Best Academic DVD: Country Calendar—The Classic Years.

§ Most Borrowed History DVD: The Best of Fred Dagg.

§ Most Borrowed Movie: Spartacus.

§ Best Academic Publication: Straight Furrow.

§ Most Borrowed Fiction: Hamilton, A Great Place to Live by Jacinta Shakk.

§ Most Borrowed Non-Fiction: Buggered if I do, Buggered if I don’t.

§ Least Borrowed (Equal First): A Life on the Edge—Living in the Shadow of Auckland and The Fryday Bound Edition.

§ Most Borrowed by Females: How to Become a Hairdresser.

§ Most Borrowed by Males: Buggered if I do, Buggered if I don’t.

§ Most Borrowed Music Book: Your Banjo—How to Play It, How to Duel With It.

§ Most Borrowed DIY: Clan-Derstine—How to build a Home Clan Lab.

§ Most Borrowed Gardening Book: Going to Pot by Anonymous.

§ Most Borrowed Self-Improvement Book: Auckland Street Maps.

§ Most Borrowed CD: Gotta Get Out of This Place—The Animals.

§ Most Borrowed Fashion Book: Fluff and Fiddle—Cross-Dressing on a Budget.

§ Most Borrowed Cookbook: Hamilton KFC Locations.

§ Best Feel Good Book: Leaving Ngaruawahia by Wally Stott.

§ Best Sequel: If a Sheep’s Your Thing by the author of Buggered if I do, Buggered if I don’t.

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At least I now know why I am here

2011-06-03T11:41:00.002+12:00

In my view one of the silliest sayings in modern business parlance is “bring (something) to the table” or its variant “put it on the table.” Nevertheless I can live with it more than I can live or abide the vastly more ubiquitous “going forward.” So I was only mildly aggrieved at what that great philosopher of the modern age, Robbie Williams, brought to the table—or more accurately—my newspaper this week. Now, you’ll remember Robbie. He hasn’t had a hit for a while, but he had a string of them a while back. He also had a well-publicised fling in the Metropolis while here, which was by all accounts more satisfying to the flingee than the flinger. But I digress. No, the latest revelation about Mr Williams is that he injects himself with testosterone twice a week. He believes—and I quote him here—that it improves his skin, hair and memory. At least he can now remember when he last had a hit. Fair enough Robbie, testosterone is a welcome change from what some singers inject themselves with. But what I then found a little off-putting is his revelation/epiphany of the true meaning of life. At least his life. But he also implies that it covers all humanity. It appears that I have for all of my 60 years laboured under the misconception that I was born here only to make up the numbers and to slag off at Hamilton. Not so. If Mr Williams is correct, and I use his words here as published by the Herald today: “We are built to F***” Wow, and here I was dwelling on the superficiality of life, when Mr Williams finds, identifies and expounds its true complexity. Thanks Robbie. I feel enriched. I am taking my wife to the Metropolis tonight to celebrate.

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Wellywood Willy

2011-05-27T13:26:00.000+12:00

I am not going to enter into the Wellywood debate. Well I would, but I am so over it. Shakespeare may well have had it in mind when he penned Much Ado About Nothing. But then he knew nothing of Wellywood, Hollywood or, I imagine, any other wood other than that growing on trees. He was therefore as he says elsewhere “thrice blessed.”
But in observing the debate I cannot but reflect upon the smugness exhibited by the media, most of which is located outside of Wellington. It is almost as if they see here a heaven-sent opportunity to cast aspirations in Wellington’s direction. To imply that Wellington is ripping itself apart over this issue is surely an overstatement, yet this is exactly what the, mainly Auckland based, media would have us believe.
Why? To venture an opinion, many Aucklanders consider Wellington a yoke and Wellingtonians consider Auckland a joke. In a word or five: they don’t like each other.
Admittedly, Wellington possesses a holier than thou attitude to most things, which gets up the nose of Aucklanders who would rather just go about sailing, and funding the rest of New Zealand. So to see Wellington turn on itself is apparently worthy of extravagant coverage.
Not that we in Auckland are strangers to vigorous debate—but our debates are about deeply-seated, emotion-laden issues such as whether the Warriors should play at Mt Smart or Eden Park. The sheer silliness that is the Wellywood debate is breathtakingly trite by comparison. So much so that I am lead to opine that it is nothing more than a media beat-up worthy of the worst of Mark Sainsbury.
Wellingtons don’t hate each other over this issue—they hate Aucklanders, yes, for everything—but they are fiercely and rightly proud of their city. If a few want to protect that city from the triteness that is the Wellywood sign—good on them. But it is hardly open warfare on the street.
So, let’s hear no more of the silly Wellywood debate. Willy would not have had a bar of it.

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To Boldly go to...Hamilton

2011-05-20T10:09:00.000+12:00

It comes as no surprise that the Discovery astronauts visited Hamilton. There is a synergy there; both crew and city have been off the planet at various times. Nor was I surprised to hear mission commander Colonel Eric Boe waxing eloquently about the New Zealand countryside on his way from Auckland to Hamilton—Americans are prone to say nice (read right) things when in another’s country. But, please, the Waikato? Outside of Canada there is a no more boring landscape in the world, and clearly Colonel Boe has seen more of the world than most. But what embarrassed me most was the meagre turnout that turned out to greet them in Hamilton. These astronauts had taken the Hamilton flag all the way into space—God knows why, there is enough debris up there already—and were now returning it to Hamilton. So, who turned up to say thank you? Well there was the interestingly named mayor, Julie Hardaker, but that was about it. I can imagine the low turnout if the ceremony was at night in Hamilton—one doesn’t want to interrupt one’s witches coven or BDSM munch, but this was in broad daylight! It is not as if living in Hamilton you have anything else to do. So, where were you Hamilton? And why did you embarrass the rest of New Zealand? Oh, sorry, I forgot, that’s what you do best.

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The World's a Stage

2011-05-14T06:39:00.004+12:00

Last night I watched a performance by a comedian with his mouth taped. The humour, and there was much of it, was largely visual and involved a high level of audience interaction and—at times—humiliation. If one felt uncomfortable at the prospect of being singled out to go up on stage, one could at least surreptitiously look at one’s watch knowing that the show was only an hour long and time was ticking by. What is it with the terror of being dragged up on stage? It’s known that public speaking is the number one fear for many people. And even those of us who appear on stage regularly don’t relish the prospect of doing so without recourse to scripts or scotch. But I digress. The comedian I saw last night—The Boy With Tape on his Face (real name Sam Wills)—is a very funny and clever man. Very resourceful as well, given that he has only props, music and an audience to work with. Of course he also has a gimmick—a mouth taped shut. And as I sat watching him last night I couldn’t help thinking New Zealand would at present be well disposed to another comedian sharing that gimmick. But I can’t see Hone doing that.

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Bin there, done that

2011-05-06T12:22:00.000+12:00

Are you sick of Hone yet? I am and I see no benefit in inflicting upon you another Fryday on him. Nor on Hone’s hero the great “freedom fighter” Osama Bin Laden. So we move on to someone of equal intelligence to them: the Helensville Lizard. Now, I am not freaked out by lizards or indeed any other so-called creepy-crawlies. Admittedly I don’t drool over them but I do admit a sneaking affections for the multitude of lizards that share my property in Helensville. One, and I can only assume it is the same one because all lizards (and Harawiras) look alike to me, even visits me regularly in my office. Imagine therefore my chagrin when yesterday, while doing a job for my charming wife (who looks nothing like a lizard), I inadvertently sucked one up in my Leaf vac. I saw it go and was momentarily conflicted as to whether I continue my task or set it aside to try and rescue the lil’ critter. I decided on the latter. I am delighted to state that I succeeded. My friend the lizard was recovered from the vacuum bag unhurt, and somewhat ungratefully I thought scuttled off into the protective foliage. But was it ungrateful? I have just seen a lizard come to my door and deposit a dead fly. A gift of gratitude perhaps? Unusual I would say from something that crawled out from under a rock. Perhaps I should ask Hone—he’d know.

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Whetu: Travelling Easy

2011-04-29T09:56:00.002+12:00

HE: Ki ora Bro.
ME: Ki ora Whetu. What’s it this time?
HE: What’s what, Bro?
ME: What do you want this time?
HE: Me?
ME: You.
HE: Want?
ME: Yes.
HE: Want nothin’ Bro.
ME: Nothin’? Nothing?
HE: just comin’ to say good bye or as you PC honkies say Haere ra.
ME: You going somewhere?
HE: Leaving Helensville mate.
ME: Oh?
HE: Move out next week. Moving to Parnell. Choice place. Pool. Backyard for hangi. Take the missus…maybe.
ME: How can you afford that?
HE: The missus?
ME: The place.
HE: Rolling in it mate. Heaps of it.
ME: So the crop came in?
HE: What?
ME: Nothing. Forget it. How did you get all this money?
HE: Gotta job.
ME: You haven’t had a job in years.
HE: Gotta job six months ago. Earning heaps.
ME: What job?
HE: Good job.
ME: I guess it must be. But doing what?
HE: Hone’s travel agent.

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Queer as Folk

2011-04-22T11:23:00.003+12:00

Surely it is a grim irony that Radio Live’s rural programme should this morning have an item on the extermination of rabbits. One would have thought the wilful destruction of Easter Eggs’ primary distribution channel could have waited until after the break. But farmers are not noted for their sensitivity or for embracing the finer nuances of life. That surely is why so many of them gravitate to Hamilton. Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing personally against rural folk, but after my experiences this week I do feel that far too many of them have the rather off-putting propensity to pick up their banjos and start duelling. Those experiences have been unsettling but don’t warrant detailing here. Suffice to say the North Country saying of “there’s nowt so queer as folk” certainly applies to some of our citizens and whilst many of those live in our cities, it seems to me a greater proportion live in our rural heartlands. Rather than far from the madding crowd, they are the madding crowd. I have also found the unsettling truth that a disproportionate number are called Watson. I don’t know why. Perhaps the inter-galactic travel agency that deposited them here lacked imagination. But they are among us. We have to live with it. However, having interacted with so many over the past week I, for one, am in no hurry to go canoeing any time soon.

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Interesting Times

2011-04-15T09:08:00.005+12:00

As one reaches one’s dotage one finds the greatest of pleasures in the humblest of activities.

Gone are the great events of the past—the road-trips, the late-night poker, party crashing, the unrestrained (and restrained) sex and not caring what scotch one drinks.

They have been replaced with reading the Rodney Times.

Now I know this is not everybody’s cup of tea (another new-found pleasure), but the Rodney Times can be an interesting read. As a newspaper serving a largely rural area it gives insight into the lives and activities of a disparate if somewhat smug community.

I can take any edition as evidence of this. Yesterday’s for example. The lead story is an armed robbery of a bar not far from here, and under that story, on the same page, RT trumpets the lowest recorded crime in 15 years. The juxtaposition shows the editor has sense of humour.

But like so many things it’s only when we take something further that it gets interesting. The Kumeu Volunteer Fire Brigade is hosting a hoedown night, the mayor sat in a chair in Warkworth, Wellsford Kindergarten has a three-day (!) pumpkin festival, and we are told that on May 5 and 19 there will be ukulele lessons in Orewa—one is required to bring one’s own ukulele, though practice ukuleles are available for those not so endowed. I have bought mine.

As if to prove that even Rodney has a seedy undercurrent, we are told in the headline on page 15 that there is a Chery (sic) ripe for plucking. Unfortunately, that is another of those events now beyond my capacity and ability. With that as an appetiser though, one inevitably gravitates to the classifieds. If one is looking for raunchy escort ads one is disappointed, “Hire a Hubby” doesn’t quite mean what you think. But you can still get an Aurora Psychic Reading (“the best in New Zealand”) and whilst I am devastated to read that I have not won the Kaipara College Easter Raffle, it was at least won by Fryday reader Leigh Wilson, and Mr Mike Walker is happy to add the piano to my ukulele tuition.

The untutored may well think that reading a paper such as the Rodney Times is like a trip to Hamilton. But, I submit here, that is unfair. A trip to Hamilton is never great, never humbling, and certainly never a pleasure.

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Whetu Calls: Te Bismarck

2011-04-08T09:59:00.002+12:00

HE: ‘Morning Bro.
ME: I know why you are here, Whetu.
HE: What? Is you one of those clairevoyeur types?
ME: Nope. I just read the paper, and knew you would be around. Is that it?
HE: What?
ME: Is that it in your hand?
HE: Yus. A plastic waka.
ME: And you is—are--selling it?
HE: Yus.
ME: As a kitset?
HE: Yus.
ME: All boxed up and everything?
HE: Yus.
ME: Why does the box say The Bismarck?
HE: What?
ME: Why does the box say The Bismarck?
HE: Spelling mistake. It should say Te Bismarck.
ME: I see. And why does that picture show gun turrets and radio aerials?
HE: It’s a fortified waka.
ME: So, apart from being plastic, it is a true representation of an authentic Maori waka?
HE: A what?
ME: I don’t think so Whetu. But thanks anyway.
HE: Not interested Bro?
ME: No.
HE: What about a used Skyhawk then?
ME: No.

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HE: Going cheap.

Low Mark for Schoolboy

2011-03-25T08:31:00.002+13:00

At the age of 10 I was, as we characterise it today, a high achiever. Then abruptly and brutally I was brought to my knees by a scandal. The lasting trauma of that was the humiliation of being stripped of my prefecture in front of the full school assembly. Remember, I was 10. May the headmaster who made that decision rot in Hell.
For that reason, among others, I am firmly of the camp that says Hastings Boys’ High head prefect Kenneth Bradley should not be stripped of his prefecture because of a drink driving conviction. He has paid his penalty in court and has now the added penalty of having the matter discussed debated and debased as a national issue.
Leave him alone.
But this is not about Mr Bradley. This is about Mr Sainsbury.
Did you see his Close Up item on the issue on Wednesday? His first question of the Hasting Boys High principal was: “Does your school condone drink driving?” Oh, for God’s sake Sainsbury! What an idiotic question, right up there with your past idiocies.
I have the impression that Mr Sainsbury and his producers think he is asking the questions we would like to ask, or at least want answered. Well, here’s the message—we don’t. We are too intelligent. We don’t need stupid questions such as the one above and the clichéd questions that followed it and appear so frequently in Sainsbury interviews. Questions such as: “What kind of message do you think…” and “What do you say to the people….” I am just hanging out for somebody to reply, “Frankly Mark I don’t give a shit…and what did happen to Paul Holmes and Brian Edwards?”
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Ring of (un)Truth

2011-03-18T09:09:00.003+13:00

I have to admire Ken Ring.
For all the hedging of bets such as predicting after-shocks in Christchurch virtually every second day amidst a swarm of such shocks he is at least willing to go out on a limb and predict a “big one” on one day: March 20. I understand from last night’s Campbell Live that he now denies making that prediction, but unfortunately for Ken it was literally recorded and it is here: http://www.radiolive.co.nz/Ken-Ring-predicted-Chch-Earthquake-and-the-current-terrible-weather/tabid/506/articleID/16322/Default.aspx from Marcus Lush’s Radio Live show.
So, I submit, Mr Ring’s credibility hangs on that day or, to give him a little latitude, a couple of days either side. Or does it? I earnestly hope for the people of Christchurch that he is wrong. But I’ll go out on the same limb he is hanging on so tenaciously and say he will be wrong. And I say that because of other circumstances and proclamations that suggest to me Mr Ring is nothing but a charlatan. For example:
1. His claim that dolphins beam sonar signals to the moon. Why? Is there someone there to hear them?
2. His claim that New Zealand is half the size of Australia, but most of it is under the sea. Well, that puts a new perspective on the foreshore and seabed debate.
3. He is the co-author of a book on how to read a cat’s paws. Pawmistry: How To Read Your Cat’s Paws. It’s interesting that Mr Ring no longer includes that book on his website in a list of his publications
4. Among his many self-proclaimed assets and abilities he claims to be a mind reader—you wouldn’t want to read mine Ken.
5. His previous careers as a clown and magician.
6. If he is that good, why didn’t he predict the (much larger) earthquake in Japan?
Ken Ring has his believers. You may well be one. Fair enough. But I am not one of them. I place no credence on his predictions and even less on his plaintive proclamations that he is not scare-mongering or promoting his myriad of books.
If I am proved wrong on Sunday March 20 my being wrong will be superseded by a far far larger tragedy. But I don’t think I will be.

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Our Broken City

2011-03-04T06:37:00.001+13:00

In my youth I was a fan of the occult and thriller writer Dennis Wheatley. I remember little of his books now but one line from them lives on in my memory and at times gives me succour. It is: “It is God’s gift that there is no pain beyond a body’s ability to endure.”
My belief in that dictum took a severe hammering this week as I listened to the wretched stories of those who survived the cataclysm, and those who cling fiercely and bravely to the belief they are (still) on a rescue mission.
Nature raped that city. My old city. I worked in the Press building.
But it is the human tragedy and the human stories that defy belief. It is not for me the scale of that event. As damaging as it was for the community the city and the country, we can at least share that, deal with that with compassion, with strength and with a country united.
What we cannot share, what no level of compassion could hope to overcome, are moments. Moments and memories of horror and terror which so many people ill equipped to deal with them endured and will have to endure.
People like you and me.
I cannot conceive of what was it was like to be in the midst of those moments that Tuesday—one minute pounding away at a computer, next buried under tonnes of rubble listening to the harrowing screams of the dying in the darkness. I cannot conceive because you are a secretary, a reporter, an accounts clerk—you are not an off-the-shelf victim or some extra in a bloody Hollywood disaster movie.
All you are is someone who that day expected to go home at the end of the day.
Like me.
That is the human tragedy of the Christchurch Earthquake (and, yes, let’s make it a proper noun): that you are one of us.
But unlike us, Nature, and whatever or Whomever we feel controls Nature— inflicted upon you a dreadful pain beyond capacity to endure.
As Australian Foreign Minister Kevin Rudd so prosaically but perfectly put it…
“It’s just not fair.”

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Bring Back Buffoonery

2011-02-25T07:47:00.002+13:00

I have been thinking of buffoon. Buffoon is a word not often used today, which is strange because it is one of the few words in the English language that has an exact meaning and therefore not open to ambiguity. It means, according the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, a ludicrous person. It does not mean idiot or wanker, which mean something else but often supplant buffoon these days. No, buffoonery has an exact meaning based on ludicrous and it should be brought back with haste because as I have seen in recent weeks and last night in particular there are so many to whom it so aptly affixes. Here is my list of current buffoons.

§ Hone Harawira—for throwing his toys out of the cot because one of his toys was not a ministerial limousine..

§ Moammar Gadhafi for having too many toys and using them to shoot people.

§ His son, Saif al-Islam Gaddafi, for saying the protests are the work of “drunks” –in a Muslim country.

§ Former Secretary of Defence Donald Rumsfeld for insisting even today that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction.

§ George Bush Jr for employing Rumsfeld

§ George Bush Sr for having Junior.

§ The Egyptian who named his daughter Facebook.

§ The Mexican woman now in the ninth day of a hunger strike she plans to continue until she gets an invitation to Prince William’s wedding.

§ Me for calling it Prince William’s wedding rather than Prince William and Kate Middleton’s wedding.

§ Me (again) for forgetting—or not knowing—a good friend’s birthday (sorry Linda).

And finally, the biggest buffoon of them all…
§ Mark Sainsbury—for a tragic, tragic disaster that deserved reporting of gravitas not idiocy.

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Old Friends

2011-02-18T07:44:00.002+13:00

When I was a child, one my pleasures was the reading of the Biggles series of novels by Captain W.E. Johns.
I don’t know what drew me to them, but I know I was not alone; Biggles (worth) and his “chums” Bertie, Algie and Ginger had squadrons of, mainly male, readers throughout the world. Later in life I was to successfully parody those books in a play I called Biggles Flies Undone, which today, 28 years after its writing, is still performed.
In my late-teens I was drawn to another British series, that of Flashman, the consummate cad authored but not created by George Macdonald Frazer. Here the attraction is more evident—fast-paced, rollicking adventures set in historical events and featuring no small amount of sex. Later still I dropped the adventure bit and just went for the sex—the books of Henry Miller.
The point is that certain authors have charted my life and had my loyalty. One, a significantly attractive author from the United States, Sharon Kay Penman, even has me a fawning fan. They have stuck with me—until death, in the first three cases (Sharon lives, as does love and lust)—and I stick with them.
I can’t say that of other areas of my life. Nor can anyone, I think. We all hope those closest to us will remain so forever but even that can’t be certain. We hope that business relationships, particularly the rare friendships forged in the furnace of business, will be as enduring as steel but they too are prone to tarnish and rust. Let’s not even consider politicians.
I am drawn to the conclusion therefore that the only true rendering of the enduring but hopelessly optimistic adage “until death…” is a man’s reciprocated love for his dog. Everything else is fiction.
Am I depressed by that? No. Even an exemplary bottle of single malt whiskey will not last forever, not in my reach. And friendships, like whiskey, are there to be enjoyed and honoured while they last, as long as they last. To cultivate the analogy just once more: whilst most whiskeys and friendships are quickly consumed and have no lingering aftertastes, there are others—rarities—that linger and provide a fine “finish” and delicious memories. They are life’s treasures.
At 60 years of age I have more old and deleted friends than I will ever now have new. But that is a library of enrichment for which I am immensely grateful.

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King Bee A

2011-02-11T06:42:00.002+13:00

Dear Liz
I may call you Liz, may I? I feel I know you so well and should we ever meet I am certain we would have an immediate rapport. Of course you would need to take my word—and me being a politician you may have some difficulty with that “Ha Ha”—but I am generally considered here in New Zealand as most approachable and, to use the vernacular, something of stud muffin.
Now, I trust I am not being too forward in writing to you like this. I have read that you are in some form of relationship with the Australian cricketer Shane Warne, but I have also heard that you are nothing more than text mates. I of course am married—more honesty—happily so, the Woman’s weekly continually tells me.
But I have always been able to differentiate between love and lust. I compartmentalise and it would be true to say that until such time as Bronnie takes to wearing dresses held together with safety pins, as you so graphically did some years ago (I still have the photos) she will remain in the love department while you will reign over that of lust.
Liz, you are hot!
Of course one is talking here of unrequited lust. There can be no expectation here of me, a mere prime minister, entering into anything untoward with the most beautifully proportioned, most seductively-eyed, most sensual woman in the world. Any requiting must by necessity be vicarious. And if Bronnie is woken at night by my sighing and groaning, one does not want to disabuse her of the notion that I am simply thinking of Hone Harawira.
Of course I am not; he is not hot.
I hope you will forgive this dewy-eyed boy—this man with a heart of lust—venturing forward in such a manner. Further, I hope that you will allow me to write to you again. Little missives from the king bee in the beehive.
I remain your devoted fan,
(Not so little) John.

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Brace Yourself

2011-02-04T09:36:00.002+13:00

Prime Minister John Key is sporting a new holographic wristband that claims to improve performance and keep the body at an optimal "ionic balance" with "free-flowing energy pathways". Now, I also wear bracelets, two of them, given to me by my wife. But as much as I appreciate and love them (and her) they are not the swept up “New Age” bracelets that Mr Key is sporting. What on earth is ionic balance? And would it not be more apt for a politician, particularly a prime minister, to deal to iconic or even ironic balance? Still it does demonstrate that Mr Key is a new age man in touch and comfortable with his feminine side. Which makes something of an ironic balance, given that a former prime minister always looked more comfortable with her male side.

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Not a hickey as we know it Jim

2011-01-21T12:35:00.002+13:00

Of all the body modifications—tattooing, piercing, etc—one can inflict on one’s body, the least intrusive would seem to be submitting to a hickey. The fact that I don’t really enjoy a hickey (from memory) does not mean I demean those who do. Yet, I read today in the NZ Herald that a woman in Christchurch came perilously close to losing her life because of a hickey. It appears that a 44 year-old woman experienced loss of movement in her left arm after her former partner gave her a hickey on her neck, near an artery, while watching television. Her surgeon told The Press in Christchurch that there was a clot in the artery underneath the love-bite, which had gone into the woman's heart and caused a minor stroke that led to the loss of movement. The woman recovered but I note that her lip-smacking partner is described as “former” and one assumes that his somewhat vampiric tendencies are targeted elsewhere. Love does indeed hurt.

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The Swinging Sixties

2011-01-14T09:25:00.000+13:00

On Monday I turn 60. Sweet. Time to bring out the bucket and, to quote Jack Nicholson, not trust a fart. I have two consolations. One is that I hated the fifties –there is no particular reason and I felt much the same about the thirties; twenties were great, so were the forties, so will be the sixties--it’s every second decade, seemingly, that I get my shit together. The second consolation I have in turning 60 is that I am far from alone and far from old. The post-war baby boom saw to that. I am sure that in the history of the world there has never been as many people in their 60s or a greater determination not to think of it as a termination. Having said that, one must at this age wrestle with mortality. So, here is my bucket list. Rather than fill it with things I want to do before I die, I am filling it with things I hope I live long enough to see:
• The Black Caps win a match
• The Bulldogs win the Telstra Cup
• Canada win anything
• Intelligent life form discovered in Hamilton
• Me (society) not being blamed for every ill befalling Maori
• The return of the whiskey lake
• The Man Booker Prize given to someone readable
• Wilson Parking reduce its fees
• A Tui Billboard: Wilson Parking Reduces Fees—Yeah Right
• Recycling bins for infomercial exercise equipment
• Recycling bins for failed ideas—sorry, we already have that, it’s called Parliament
• A stop to the smaller and smaller type faces on anything I read these days
• President Jed Bush—let’s have some more fun
• A bald televangelist
• No televangelists
• The Super City work
• Mark Sainsbury ask an intelligent question
• Phil Goff give an intelligent reply
• Benjie Marshall as prime minister
• 70.

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Dollars and sense

2011-01-07T21:49:00.002+13:00

Have you a spare million dollars? Good, I need it. Leave it in your letterbox and I will come and fetch it. I promise you it will be used judiciously if a little imprudently. It will, at least, be better spent on me than on this:
http://www.trademe.co.nz/Browse/Listing.aspx?id=344096961.
I can’t quite make this out—here is a guy on TradeMe asking one million dollars for a pair of “original” personalised plates celebrating New Zealand’s victory in the 1995 America’s Cup. I can understand his asking for that—you are free to ask what you want on TradeMe and I could ask that for a set of my toe clippings—but who would pay $1,000,000 for a pair of plates? That, I can’t understand.
To add insult to usury the seller goes on to suggest: “…if you are having difficulties in buying the perfect gift, then why not consider these plates?” Yeah, right; I can think of a number of you who will welcome this chance to buy me a million dollar gift (did I tell you it is my 60th Monday week?). But not this one please; I don’t want to spend the next 60 years publically proclaimed as a wanker for having such pricey plates on Pricilla (my car).
At time of writing, nobody has made a bid. Shock, horror. But if you are interested, a wanker, have no sense and no interest in giving me your spare million, the auction has 30 minutes to run.
Good luck.

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Dollars and sense

2011-01-07T08:36:00.002+13:00

What's Cooking

2010-12-31T12:09:00.001+13:00

Congratulations to Alison Holst for deserved recognition in the New Year’s Honours list. I have never met her, but Mrs Holst strikes me as a self-effacing, gentle woman of the sort destined sadly to fade into memory. Or am I being too harsh here? Perhaps the matronly and maternal are resilient enough to cope with a rapidly changing world that places greater store on the quantity of your Facebook friends than the quality of your scones. I certainly hope so because we need women like Mrs Holst. We men need women like Mrs Holst as a constant reminder of a happier time of unthreatened self-delusion that women ruled the kitchen, and men the rest. It was of course never true but Mrs Holst, and millions like her with her gentle smile, made it seem so and we men, hungry for aggrandisement, dined richly if a little blindly at her table. Still do. Fryday wishes everybody a spectacularly enjoyable 2011.

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Getting your leg over

2010-12-24T10:16:00.000+13:00

If I recollect correctly, hedgehogs, when I was young, would curl up on the road when faced with an on-coming vehicle. Most would therefore die—a fact the more observant and learned of the species learnt from. These days, they keep running. Similarly, the pukeko, within my lifetime considered a flightless bird, has learned to fly, albeit somewhat ungainly. But fly it does and it lives. I believe this is called evolution. Whether it is a divine consequence or just a consequence of pragmatism, I cannot possibly comment. But, whatever the reason, it has happened in a remarkably short time.
I have another example of recent evolution but this one can certainly not be attributed to a whim of God or even practicality; it just seems to have happened. When I was young, male dogs inevitably and with considerable élan, lifted a hind leg to urinate. These days they don’t—well many don’t. Have you noticed that? My own male dog, Luke, is a fine upstanding dog, except in one respect: he doesn’t stand to urinate. Rather he squats like a female. And he is not alone in this. I have seen this with many male dogs and I am drawn to the conclusion that some canine social engineering is at work here and that male dogs like male men (tautology) have succumbed to the pressure to adopt many of the traits of more dominate females of the respective species. As any married man will tell you it is the only way we can live the quiet life to which we males aspire. Dogs are obviously no different. They have to turn to their feminine side to stem the tide of the feminisation of the race. Men learnt do this in the 60s, when—as any old codger was fond of stating—men and women became indistinguishable. The nadir was the unisex toilet and I wonder from that how on earth the wall urinal has survived.
So my dog is a squatter. I didn’t think that much about that, least of all be bothered by it. Not until earlier this week when I took Luke to the vet. There we were—Luke and I—waiting outside in the sun when a Jack Russell and its owner approached us. The owner and I entered into a light conversation, which included inevitably admiring our respective dogs. Of course I detest Jack Russells but this was not the time or place. Nor was it the time or place for said Jack Russell to lift its leg and piss on my boot. But it did. The owner was shocked and apologised profusely. I was shocked as well but more about the lifting of the leg. It occurred to me suddenly that I hadn’t seen that from a dog in ages. Even Luke looked quizzical—is that how it’s done? Well, yes it is Luke, or it was. That was the way it was done. At least in the old days. Just leave out the boot bit. Luke I guess just metaphorically shrugged because he has never attempted to replicate the Jack Russell’s deed. No need I think is his view.
I love both my dogs dearly and equally and that will never change. But at this time when I am acutely aware of the passing of generations (see last Fryday) I hanker after the old days. Days when men were men and women were out the back. Days when men did it in front of a tree, and women did it behind a bush. There was a penile pride at play in those days. Not these days.
Haunted by those thoughts, I sometimes look at Luke and I think—Mate, as much as I love ya, can’t you stand up and be a man just for once? Just for me. Just for old times.

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In the light...

2010-12-17T07:27:00.002+13:00

Yesterday I buried my father. That is not the literal truth; my father was cremated, not buried, and I certainly did not do that! But you get the point.
I have resisted writing about the death of my father until now because I thought you would find it (a) boring and (b) a solicitation for sympathy, when none was wanted nor needed.
The moment of death—and note here my refusal to use the euphemism “passing”, passing is what’s done in cars—was a relief and a release, not least for my father. His illness was long and cruel, particularly for a man for whom life was a banquet. He wanted to go. His reply to a caregiver in his last days was evidence of that. She asked him if he needed anything; he answered “a gun.”
As it was, his death was somewhat more sweet and serene. It happened just after he farewelled a woman who meant so much to him in his later years. And, if there is an afterlife, I believe there are enough people and dogs in it that knew Dad and would be there to welcome him. I think he knew that.
So, this Fryday is not about lamenting a lost father, though it stems from that, it is more about a lost love. At yesterday’s service I planned to read Dylan Thomas’s classic poem on the death of his father, Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night. It seemed apt and my favourite passage has all the power and intensity of a nail gun:
Do not go gentle into that good night
Old men, at close of day, should rage, rage
Against the dying of the light.
I love that passage but faced with the death of my own father I found myself questioning its veracity. What on earth was Thomas thinking when he wrote Do not go gentle…? Of course they should go gentle. My father did in that last tranquil moment. And the arrival of peace was I think a blessing. Did he “rage rage” against that arrival? No. He wanted to go. So he did. Simple. And I, at close of day, am thinking that my once favourite poem is, in the light of day, just a load of crap.

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It's so wong

2010-12-10T10:37:00.000+13:00

Down the road from the home I share with my wife, two dogs and a cockroach is a combined café and bookstore. It is a pleasant place to eat, read and meditate. It was also the gathering place of the Helensville literati, until he left. After a morning writing I took myself there for lunch yesterday. I hoped to recharge the brain with some good reading. Instead I purchased a Joe Bennett book. Just kidding. Joe is a good writer and very very humorous. He has a syndicated column in several newspapers and about 10 collections of those columns. He’s a Pom, now resident in Lyttleton. His commentaries on New Zealand life are dispassionate and, unusually for a Pom, perceptive and respectful. I don’t know how many columns Joe Bennett produces, but I am assuming he commits to at least one a week, and the subject matter ranges from his dog (frequently) to Paul Holmes (less so). HE MAKES MUCH OF THE MUNDANE. Which leads me to Bill English. I have nothing against our deputy prime minister, but I watched him on television yesterday and his performance in the House was insipid at best. His defence of Pansy Wong was toothless in the face of a sustained attack by Pete Hodgson. Incidentally, it was Pete Hodgson who gave us the parliamentary quote of the year the day before. After a not particularly funny and certainly laborious speech in rhyming couplets by National list MP Aaron Gilmore Mr Hodgson commented: “Mr Gilmore delivered his speech in verse, Not particularly well-written; certainly not terse.” Ms Wong was not well served by her deputy leader and if her command of English is not good her command by English is decidedly lacklustre. As indeed is he these days. I met him once and found him distant. I can live with that; more than I can live with the hypocritical joviality of Rodney Hyde, anyway. But what John Key and the government and New Zealand need these days is strength. The country is going through appalling drama at the moment and politically there is more to come with the Foreshore fiasco. To watch Bill English sit there so lacklustre and seemingly still smarting and sulking at being overthrown in favour of John Key is not a good look. He should retire and be replaced with someone—anyone—with more drive and direction. Joe Bennett fills the bill. So, sadly, does my cockroach Bill.

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Of Nappies and Nipples

2010-12-03T09:43:00.002+13:00

In his later years the great American actor Spencer Tracy was incontinent. Katharine Hepburn looked after him. She was his soul-mate, his partner, his life. She was with him when he died. Katharine was Spencer’s backbone. His rib. And it was in that guise that she starred in a movie with him—Adam’s Rib (1949). It of course evoked the biblical proclamation that God created Eve from Adam’s rib. Why the rib, I don’t know. I would have thought there is at least one other male appendage more crafted for creation than a rib. But a rib it was. I won’t mess with God. But that doesn’t explain nipples. If woman is derived from man, in that order, why does man have nipples? On a man, they must be about as useful as a George W. Bush dissertation on quantum physics. But they exist. And according to the Bible, they existed first on a man. Why? Was God experimenting? Is man an experiment—a try-out, a prototype—and woman the real thing? Did God, when He was designing the male architecture, say I’ll put one of those there and that one there and see if that works and if it does I’ll give them to Eve and make them super sensitive so that Adam has something other than apples to munch on? If that is the way it worked, I guess God simply forgot to take them off Adam. God can be forgetful—look at Hamilton. But if we do not accept God as the answer then there is still the question: why do men have nipples? For the answer to that, I trod the oft-trod passage of modern pilgrimage: I went from God to Google. And according to Google, all men are bisexual, which of course explains the rugby scrum. It appears that when we first appear, God has a bet both ways. It is only later in the piece that he bestows an extra piece. Or not. Meanwhile, the nipples stay. And maybe God has a point. Nipples do no harm. In fact, they give men a small glimmer of equality with women. Something shared. And in that context nipples have a stand-out quality—unique as a body part. I could kiss them for that.

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A Special Place

2010-11-26T12:10:00.002+13:00

Queen Victoria is purported to have stated that she was not amused. By what or by whom I know not. But she would have been in good company in New Zealand this week. The country, rightly, is in a sombre mood. There can be very few who have not been touched deeply or do not share the grief of the Pike River families. Much continues to written of the tragedy and Fryday is tragically ill-equipped to add anything profound, except to state that there is one individual who should take Fryday’s cue and shut his mouth. He is an embarrassment and, as their self-appointed spokesperson, a further and unnecessary infliction on the grieving families.
My own week has been lightened immeasurably by the arrival, occupation and company of a French family. The family includes my goddaughter of whom I have responsibility for her spiritual guidance and upbringing. Again I am ill-equipped. I have to rely on the good sense of the girl herself to lead the right path through life. I am sure she will—a week with me has undoubtedly shown her the result of taking the wrong path. The fact she is now heading toward Hamilton will undoubtedly complete that education.
Their command of English is excellent but still provides some amusing moments such as “get a grip, mate” delivered with a soft and lilting French accent. They apparently learn that from television. And I too have learnt from observing them. I have learnt that there is much in this country that is totally foreign to—well—foreigners. Hokey Pokey ice cream is one of course. But I didn’t realise that Jaffas was another. Smokers too. And you should have seen their surprise and delight when they ordered hot-dogs from the Leigh Café to find they came as some unidentifiable object on a stick. There is nothing like that in France.
No doubt as they travel through New Zealand they will find much more that is unique to this little country of ours. And whilst those children will not know it –and nor should they—their presence has given me a near-xenophobic pride in New Zealand, particularly the way in which we as New Zealanders compassionately and sincerely dealt with Pike River. New Zealand ceased to be a country; it became a family. Could that have happened in another country? In France? I don’t know. Perhaps. So, I won’t call it unique to New Zealand. Just very very special.

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The Two Faces of Facebook

2010-11-19T09:09:00.002+13:00

There is a passage in The Social Network when Facebook co-creator, Mark Zuckerberg, says the servers serving the site and its 500 million friends must stay up. If they go down, he says, Facebook goes down and so does its credibility and quite possibly its future.
Well, this morning Facebook went down. It’s still down, at least for me. So, do I feel dispirited, distraught and deprived? No. I love Facebook but I am not addicted to it or reliant on it. For me it just serves as another way of keeping in touch with friends new and old. It doesn’t teach me anything or otherwise enrich my life and I can see why some don’t understand Facebook or its popularity and others openly despise, fear or simply ignore it.
But it’s there. There to share.
It’s there with its zillions of photos of drunk teenagers making silly finger signs, trash-talking students, stupid surveys, myriads of ads and invitations to parties at Castor Bay. Facebook can be stupid and stupefying.
But it’s also there for families and friends to share, to chat, and to upload photos, thoughts and memories in a manner that mail—even email—cannot accomplish.
I have heard some elderly folk lament the lack of personal contact and somehow blame Facebook for that. Well of course families and friends are different these days. Only it seems in Hamilton do they still stick together, picking on their banjos. The rest of us, as my own family attests, are spread throughout the world. Facebook is a way of bringing us together, keeping us together.
So there are two faces to Facebook. On balance I would have to venture the opinion the world is better off for having it.
Even if Facebook is still down on me; I am not down on it.

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A Nod is as Good as a Winkler

2010-11-12T11:44:00.003+13:00

One of my more humiliating episodes of a life richly episodic was in a play called I Hate Hamlet in which I played the great American actor John Barrymore teaching a young actor how to play Hamlet. I am no Shakespearian actor. I was excruciating and it was fully ten years before I returned to the stage—and that was in drag!
But as bad as I was, it wasn’t as bad as the television appearance of Henry Winkler when he attempted a soliloquy from Hamlet. True to their wont (and credibility) the American audience cheered and whistled as The Fonz finished his farcical and facile portrayal. The point is, that audience thought Mr Winkler couldn’t really act in high theatre and in their admiration for him—or more accurately The Fonz—it is was lost on them that they were exactly right. But The Fonz was the epitome of cool in those days and Mr Winkler played him brilliantly particularly when we consider how remarkably uncool Mr Winkler looks these days.
So what has all this to do with Len Brown?
Mr Brown was cool too. Particularly when compared to that walking stress-inducement John Banks. That may have been the reason for the landslide vote in his favour.
But already after just two weeks in office and in conversations I am having with others I am detecting some disquiet and disappointment at Mr Brown’s performance so far. His Obama-like vision seems to have cooled somewhat and already I am hearing that he is starting to prevaricate on promises made and to hedge on some key issues.
However, it is early days. Mr Brown may yet become the best mayor Auckland has had in decades and Fryday will be proved wrong.
But if I am right, Mr Brown’s election campaign may just prove to be nothing more than a great acting performance deserving both the acclaim Mr Winkler undeservedly got and the public derision I deservedly did.
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Helen Earth

2010-10-22T06:51:00.001+13:00

Hell on earth did Helen Kelly get to have so much sway over the film industry and in particular the production of The Hobbit? Yes she is president of the New Zealand Council of Trade Unions which purports to have 350,000 members which I doubt, but surely in that role her focus should be protecting the interests of members rather than decimating the industry that feeds them? However, the rights or wrongs of the industrial issue are not the issue of this Fryday—despite the fact that Helen Kelly has fostered just about every malcontent going from women’s rights to global warming (oh please!) and her crony Robin Malcolm is almost as bad. No, the issue at issue is who is Helen Kelly? Kelly is a common name but I wanted to know if she is related to the late Pat Kelly—a staunch communist and erstwhile secretary of the Cleaners and Caretakers Union in the 70s. So, where could I find out? Wikipedia of course. But do you know what? When I went there, the page on Helen Kelly had been “deleted.” Deleted? Why does that somehow unnerve me?

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Aitken for it

2010-10-15T07:57:00.002+13:00

I am sure there are New Zealanders out there who take the sporting rivalry with Australia seriously. I haven’t met them and nor do I particularly want to, given that they come from Hamilton. But I do derive some modicum (and no that doesn’t mean ejaculation over the Internet) of satisfaction at the look on Australian netball coach Norma Plummer’s face when her team was beaten by the Silver Ferns last night. I have nothing against Norma—I like most men try and avoid that—and I think she is good for the sport and for television, but she along with Australian cricket captain Ricky Ponting exemplify everything that is wrong with Australian sport. Confidence, even arrogance, is good in sport and I wish we had more of it in New Zealand. But supercilious superiority is not. And that is what these two exhibit. Norma lost last night. So did Ricky. One is tempted to say to them get over it. But because they don’t read Fryday that’s pointless and in any case I don’t really want them to get over it. I want them and their superiority to dwell in the loser basement for a little while yet and for the Silver Ferns and their coach Ruth Aitken to enjoy all the plaudits they so richly deserve... as New Zealanders.

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When Whetu Comes Knocking

2010-10-08T06:30:00.001+13:00

ME: So you want the job?
HE: Sure do, bro.
ME: And you think you are qualified for it?
HE: Sure do, bro.
ME: But why?
HE: Why what?
ME: Why do you think you are qualified for the job?
HE: ‘Cause it’s a choice job.
ME: Yes Whetu, but why do you think you are more deserving of the job than, say, me?
HE: ‘Cause look at me, bro. I looks and sounds like a New Zealander, don’t I? Nobodies look like they come from Aotearoa like Tangata Whenua, unless you thinking of John Key after he is off sunning in Hawaii.
ME: So you think being brown is qualification for the job?
HE: Yep.
ME: Anand Satyanand is brown.
HE: Who?
ME: Sir Anand Satyanand, the Governor General.
HE: The what?
ME: Look, are we at cross-purposes here…?”
HE: I’m not cross.
ME: You’re looking for a job?
HE Sometimes, bro.
ME: You want this job?
HE: Choice job.
ME: The Governor General’s job?
HE: The what?
ME: The…Look, what job are you looking for?
HE: His job.
ME: Whose job?
HE: Paul Henry’s job. Choice.
ME: Oh God!
HE: Free breakfasts, eh?

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Now playing: Johnny Cash - (There'll Be) Peace In The Valley
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Should that not be pubic places?

2010-10-05T20:03:00.003+13:00

I feel embodied and enriched by my vicarious association with these wo-men (see previous Fryday), especially when I read what else the one on the left (in more ways than one) has involved herself with:

Research Interests
In 1985 I completed a Masters thesis in which I argued that sexual violence against women helps to ensure that space ‘belongs’ to men. In 1997 I completed a doctoral thesis titled ‘Geographies that Matter: Pregnant Bodies in Public Places’.

Over the past decade my main research interests have been in ‘geography and the body’. I’ve critiqued the (masculinist) epistemology and ontology of the discipline. I have also focused attention on the ways in which particular axes of embodied subjectivity such as gender, sexuality and maternity become entwined with space.

My current research interests are:
- maternities and space including mothers using ICT
- sex and gender studies including masculinity studies
- feminist, queer and poststructuralist theory
- 'fat' bodies: representations and materialities
- food, place and identity for migrant women
- qualitative methodologies

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Ana Kiss (My A**s)

2010-10-01T10:37:00.003+13:00

I don't usually give Fryday over to other writers, but I couldn't resist this, which is, characteristically, from the Hamilton NZ Facebook page. Anarchist Geography?:

Two Waikato University feminist geographers have had their work acknowledged by the New Zealand Geographical Society which is meeting in Palmerston North this week.
Professor Robyn Longhurst has been awarded the society’s most prestigious award, the Distinguished Geography Gold Medal for outstanding and sustained contribution and service to geography.
Her colleague, Associate Professor Lynda Johnston has been awarded a Distinguished Service Award for her significant contribution to New Zealand geography and its community over the last five years.
They both obtained their doctorates at Waikato and have gone on to become well known internationally. The Geographical Society’s Executive Manager June Logie says it’s great to see them rewarded for many years of strategic and important work. “They are significant feminist New Zealand geographers who’ve made enormous contributions in their area of research. Their work has received much acknowledgement here and overseas and it’s great to see them.”
Longhurst and Johnston research and write about people and place and the importance and influence of gender in people’s lives. Much of their work has been a collaboration - their latest book is called Place, Space and Sex: geographies of sexualities published by Rowman and Littlefield.
Professor Longhurst says she was drawn to human geography by a previous Society medal winner Ann McGee who taught at Waikato. “When I was a student, Ann really opened my eyes to radical geographies, she even taught anarchist geography, and it became important to me to do research that brought about positive social change.”
“We’ve also had good support for our work from the university,” says Associate Professor Johnston. “Waikato’s led the way with feminist geography and given us time and space to do work that’s far from mainstream and sometimes risky. So it’s good to be recognised.”

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Kaiapoi

2010-09-24T06:40:00.000+12:00

In my innocent years—all eleven of them before lust visited—I had a healthy respect for authority. Authority meant my parents, my teachers, Community Constable Jack Highstead and everybody over the age of 12. Of course I was brought up in Kaiapoi where innocence and respect were the norms and a rebellious streak in me meant I soon lost mine. But Kaiapoi never did. It retained its innocence and its naïveté through decades and generations. People who were conceived there stayed there, made love there, married there, had children there, and not necessarily in that order. Generations of families attended old schools there—and even, nowadays, the brash “new” secondary school. Employment was mostly mundane—Kaiapoi is not exactly replete with hit men and theatrical types—and a man could rise to prominence as a pharmacist. That was Kaiapoi’s charm and its innocence, but almost fifty years after I lost mine, it lost its. The earthquake of September 4 destroyed literally and figuratively much of what Kaiapoi stood for. Ironically it wasn’t the epicentre of the quake but it was the centre of devastation and the people of Kaiapoi have a right to be aggrieved at the unfairness of it all. I am told that many of them are still in shock and the television pictures don’t do justice to the injustice. But if Kaiapoi has lost its innocence and temporarily its charm, it has not lost its resilience. The people of Kaiapoi are bouncing back already, determined to rebuild their town and their lives. And if Kaiapoi is now to be forever remembered for its quake rather than its woollen mills, I hope it will also be remembered as the little town that rocked, then came back.

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Please Miss

2010-09-10T06:43:00.001+12:00

One of the effects and benefits of growing older and becoming a curmudgeon is one holds teachers in less awe, respect and reverence. Not that I have anything against teachers per se, it’s just that those sentiments, stemming back to childhood when teachers were the primary authority figure, are as hard to shake as Bill English and just as irrelevant. For example and until recently I would in the unlikely event of recognising my Primer Two teacher in the street likely still address her as Mrs Grimshaw and no doubt fawn upon her by reason of her being my erstwhile teacher rather than her being something in the order of 127 years old. That’s teachers for you. They command respect. Until you reach my age. Until you read, as I did this morning, that they are bemoaning the fact that they earn on average and after 15 years experience $52871.00 per annum. And what is the reason for this bemoanment? The sum? No. It is that Australian teachers earn more ($63447.00). So? Listen teachers, there is hardly a profession in which Australians don’t earn more. Live with it. The rest of us do. Stop whinging. And while we are at it, where do you get off publishing self-authored reports stating New Zealand teachers work harder for less pay, without presenting any evidence to support that dubious contention? I am sure that kids are just as obnoxious in Australia as they are here, so I am not sure why you work any harder. And while we are at it (2) what’s with the name of your union? NZEI Te Riu Roa? Oh so very politically correct. Why not something more simple and apt such as Consolidated Union New Zealand Teachers? Now, that I like!

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Plumbing the depths

2010-09-03T07:46:00.000+12:00

As spring has so patently sprung it is hard to write about serious subjects. So I won’t; I’ll write about Hamilton. One cannot read Hamilton’s Facebook page without falling into the full scathing scarring morass of deprivation. We in Auckland just can’t hack it with Hamiltonians when it comes to excitement. Look at what our southern neighbours are occupying themselves with this week:

• Wie Waikato Free Children Chinese (Pin Yin) Course http://www.facebook.com/ChineseClass Waikato Chinese School (WCS) will provide a perfect opportunity for children to study free Chinese
• Lainie Poon Hamilton Club Pro Shop - we are a NZRA TOP SHOP FINALIST for the Waikato!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOO!!!
• Rebecca Boulton Hoffman We are a finalist too - Bakers Delight Hamilton East Yay, yay. Woo Hoo!!!
• Sustainability divide emerges in wake of recession: University of Waikato
www.waikato.ac.nz
The economic downturn has created a growing sustainability divide, separating New Zealand businesses which “get” sustainability from those which see it as “nice to do”. That’s the key finding from a new survey by researchers at the University of Waikato Management School.
• Cameron Kay Hi Everyone Try this exercise to increase the amount of compassion in your life and the world. The expected result is a personal sence of peace. http://www.avatarjournal.com/en/home/exercises/37-ex-17-compassion.html If you enjoyed that, try these other exercises...
http://www.theavatarcourse.com/en/experience-avatar.htm...l
• Roberta Campbell Just wondering or curiosity's kills but id any1 know's Levi joey olsen just wondering if any1 could check up and see how he is or wot he's up to des day's.. hope he is welll kia ora
• Mediarts Wintec Puppetry exhibition 'Strings Attached' opens on Tues 7th 5.30pm at Ramp Gallery, Collingwood St - all welcome.
• Plumber sets sights on teaching: University of Waikato
www.waikato.ac.nz It may seem like a radical change of professions to some, but James Thomlinson says training to become a primary school teacher after five years as a plumber feels like a natural progression.
• Hamilton NZ feels like wrapping up with a nice fresh scone. Suggestions as to where to find the best scones in Hamilton...?

It was not Fryday’s intent when composing this to make you miserable. Of course not. But now that you are, because you don’t live in Hamilton, I can hope only you can make the best of your Auckland or elsewhere weekend…anyway.

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Roy--You Rock Girl!

2010-08-27T06:43:00.002+12:00

So Rodney and Roy have buried the hatchet in something other than each other’s backs and moved on. Their mutual adulation was somewhat nauseating and in Roy’s case more than a little mocking. But any smug satisfaction she now has, she deserves—she out-mastered the old dancing master himself and her sudden appearance in Parliament ahead of time and without notice was beautiful to behold, as was the look on Rodney’s face. Hide had nowhere to hide. Last week Fryday opined that the very public falling-out would hurt Rodney Hide more that it would Heather Roy. Some readers took issue with that, citing that Heather was out of a job and Hide wasn’t. I stick by my contention—I thought then and I think now that the incident would not only lose Hide his job in the next election it would consequently lose the Act Party its place in Parliament. The big loser would be Rodney Hide. I can’t see the events of this week changing that frankly. As they say, once a loser…

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You can run but you can't...Hide

2010-08-20T10:30:00.004+12:00

A couple of years back I was waiting at an Eden Park bar (which you do) standing next to someone I vaguely recognised but could not place. I obviously stared at him a little too long because he stuck out a rather large hand and informed me that it was good to meet me again. Okay, he is the consummate politician but the incident shows just how disingenuous Rodney Hide is; he and I had never met before. I was reminded this week of that small incident when I read of his falling out with Heather Roy. Among Roy’s complaints is that Hide is something of a bully. He denies it. But I believe it—he has bullied just about everybody in Auckland over the governance issue. And no amount of dancing, glad-handing, forced joviality and sun-eclipsing attire will persuade me differently. They are simply Jekyll masking the real Mr Hide. No doubt he will run again in the next election, but I believe this destroying of Roy—along with the Super City issue—will damage him more than it will her.

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The Rat Pack

2010-08-13T06:40:00.000+12:00

Opposite where I live is a cemetery. Its residents are for the most part quiet. They keep to themselves and don’t trouble me. Or my dogs. Nor do I trouble them. I do not venture over there at night to wake them. I do not invoke or insult them. And there is no intent on my part to instigate Satanist ceremonies and orgies. Indeed I doubt that Helensville harbours orgies of any sort anywhere. In fact, Helensville’s principal appeal may be that its cemetery is the liveliest place in town. It’s a quiet town. Quiet as the grave. Yet we learn today that we have reason to flee—a flea. It appears that the local rats of the rodent kind are carrying typhus carrying fleas. This does not come as welcome news, nor is there consolation in the hospital board’s less than comforting claim that “less than 2% of those who contract typhoid die from it.” We have all been instructed to be on the alert for rats and do all we can to eradicate them from the town. I will participate in that campaign with enthusiasm and vigour. I don’t like rats anyway. Nor fleas. But I do like life. I honour it and my life with my wife. And dogs. I have no intent to be among the 2% and join the folks across the road—nice as they are.

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Suffer Little Children...

2010-07-30T07:29:00.001+12:00

Without humour there is no humanity; without humanity there is no humour. I think that just about sums up George W. Bush. Any humour, and indeed humanity, during his eight terrible years in office was mostly unintentional. Mercifully, he is largely forgotten (hidden?) these days though his acts in office are not. Not forgotten—and no longer hidden—the seemingly endless and tragic stream of infants beaten-up and killed by relatives and family acquaintances in this country. Another this week.
One can’t find any humour there nor does one look. Still less: humanity. These people do not have humanity; they seem barely human. Yet it is we in society—implied white society—who are held accountable for these atrocities while they are held as victims to that society. Surely we must bring to an end this resilient, archaic view and face the awful but I think accurate truth that something intrinsic is at work here. God help us, and our children.

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Now playing: Leonard Cohen - The Gypsy's Wife
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The Baron of Boring

2010-07-23T06:49:00.000+12:00

Today I am going on a mystery bus tour to a destination that remains, well, a mystery. I have no great aversion to being on a bus, and none at all to my fellow travellers whom are all good people. What I have is an aversion to the unknown. I like to know where I am going. I like to plan and I have no great tolerance for adventure. That makes me I think as boring as a room in Hamilton full of South Africans talking soccer. But that is the way I am; everyman’s John Key, Canada and Hillary Clinton wrapped up in one—the Baron of boring. But it takes people like me to make people like you look exciting. It’s relative. I am sure that with your thirst and passion you feel you live exciting lives. I am sure you have just sprung out of bed and cannot wait to push on into the new day mining it for every gem of adventure and sensation that you think with confidence it will undoubtedly contain. And at the end of the day when you have exhausted it and yourself you will no doubt be replete with stimulating memories and rather than climaxing there you will turn your mind to the next day and be full of eager anticipation. I admire that. I envy that. And if it didn’t make you sound so much like a born-again Christian I might even like that. But anticipation, eager or otherwise, tends to bypass Helensville on a cold Fryday morning. In fact I may just well have seen it go past on a bus. Just not my bus. I think I will go back to bed. Enjoy your day; Kevin have a great birthday.

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Bain in the Butt

2010-07-09T07:41:00.004+12:00

I don’t know whether it is Robin or David Bain who is guilty. I am tempted to say I don’t care, but I suppose I have to believe it is in everyone’s interest that justice is seen to be done and that whomever is responsible for this crime is brought to that justice…provided they are still alive. However I am on surer ground when I say my lack of an opinion can be fully justified because I wasn’t at any of the trials and I never heard the evidence in full, so any opinion I could have would be pure unsubstantiated speculation.
So, I have no opinion.
But what I do have is repulsion for Joe Karam and David Bain’s self-laudatory “defence team.” Karam and that team remind me of Sea Shepherd—disingenuous, irrevocable and patronising. But what really gets me is the news today that they (the Bain team) is suing Trade Me. Why? Because of messages about Bain posted by the public on Trade Me’s message board.
Now, whilst I acknowledge that I have no opinion on this case I also acknowledge that there are others who have. In my view they are entitled to air those opinions in any forum. That’s democracy. If Karam retains the right to say Bain (David) is innocent why is he of the counter view that someone should not be allowed to have a contrary view? It is after all just a matter of opinion and we are all entitled to exercise ours. Aren’t we?
So, for what it’s worth Joe stick to your case and get off ours.

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Walmington-on-Sea Gazette

2010-06-24T06:33:00.004+12:00

From Dad's Army Programme

It’s War! Great Britain and France at War With Nazi Hun  I Defy Mr Hitler: Church Fete Will Go On—Vicar  Jones The Butcher War Special: Pork 2p a pound.

Great Britain is at war with Germany. Prime Minister Mr Chamberlain has declared war on Germany following that nation’s invasion of Poland. It is expected that the nations of the Empire shall follow suit.
In Walmington-on-Sea, Mayor Bertram Fosdick declared the town ready to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with King and Commonwealth in defence of the country.
“We shall not be found wanting,” he declared. “This is a time for all good men to stand steadfast in face of the enemy.
“I intend phoning Mr Hitler and telling him he will get a bloody nose if he shows his face in Walmington-on-Sea,” said Mr Fosdick.
Meanwhile our Vicar, Reverend Timothy Farthing, says he won’t be deterred by the announcement of war. “I think this Mr Hitler person is a very rough fellow and I will not be bullied by him,” promises the brave Vicar. “The church fete will go on this Saturday as planned. And once again Mrs Fox’s giant melons will be a sight to behold. I can’t wait to get my hands on them.”
In other reaction, Walmington-on-Sea bank manager Mr George Mainwaring says he will be raising a Walmington-on-Sea Home Guard platoon. He is calling on all men to rally around the flag. “We have good British stock in our town,” says Mr Mainwaring and the sight of them standing shoulder to shoulder exposing their weapons will not be one this Hitler chap will want to see in a hurry.

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Lady Hamilton

2010-06-18T07:41:00.006+12:00

Let’s set the record straight.
Hamilton is vivacious, classy, cultured and aesthetically perfect.
Compared to Mongolia.
Just.
Did you know that Hamilton has a Facebook page? Yes, it has. You can find it here: http://www.facebook.com/HamiltonNewZealand.
There is a curious paradox here: whilst Hamilton is hardly worth a visit (why contend with the escaping traffic?) its Facebook page certainly is. How else would you know that “If your (sic) looking for affordable & professional beauty therapy in Hamilton goto The Wax Pot Beauty & Spa on 18 Claudelands Rd! Best Brazilians & Spray Tanning in Hamilton!” or “Hamilton is New Zealand's largest inland city, situated on the banks of the Waikato River, (the country's longest river).” Wow!
But some people do love Hamilton. One such appears on Hamilton’s Facebook home page (go there if you don’t believe me). Lisa Alica says of Hamilton, “I LOVE Hamilton !!! X O X O X.” Then again Lisa on her own Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/SoftLisa) also expresses an interest in Aliens, UFOs, extraterrestrials and, interestingly, something called CloneMike. And as well as the Hamilton page she also subscribes to the following: Semir Sam Osmanagich (discoverer of the Bosnian pyramids) , David L. Powell III , Alif 1 EBOO S.A.F.E. , Medical Ozone Therapy , 1,000,000 Strong Against Offshore Drilling , Recuirculatory Haemoperfusion RHP , Dr. Duke's Wild Ride , Bonaparte Lake Resort , Erich von Däniken's Official Fan Page , I Know What I Saw , NorthWest Music Scene , AmKon Dot Net , Stone Circle Video LLC and Jesus Daily . And this is Lisa. I rest my case.
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If butter wouldn't melt

2010-06-17T20:18:00.000+12:00

"Princess" Laila.

Shane Jones and the second coming

2010-06-11T11:52:00.002+12:00

I am tempted to comment on Shane Jones but unlike Mr Jones and before him Mr Wilde I can resist temptation. So let’s look to other, lesser, matters such as the Rugby World Cup. Are you over it yet? I am. The hysterical and statistical hype that surrounds this event puts it in the league of the second coming and I guess for many die-hard rugby fans it is, though for them league is an anathema with which they refuse to be associated. Having said that they all reside in the South Island so we can equally easily disassociate with them. For the rest of us, in the north, who have actual lives, the rugby would cup (and I commit here the capital crime of refusing to attribute capitals) is a parasitic boor garnering more attention than it deserves or will eventually realise. But it has curious paradoxes. For example, the Japanese team was training here in Rodney last week. Curiously, it had few Japanese. Clearly, they have a quota of “whities”. I am also reliably informed that they will when they return next year bring the sixth largest contingent of fans of any team in the competition—some 4500 fans. Strange. The teams above them must be bringing a massive number of fans if the Prime Minister’s prediction of 85,000 fans “at a minimum” is to be reached. Still, if Mr Key is correct in his prediction we can all expect to benefit economically and none will anticipate that more keenly, I feel, than the owners of hotel porn channels who must now be wondering where their future lies now that Mr Jones has his card taken from him.

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Condom in Court

2010-06-04T06:12:00.001+12:00

A sexual abuse trial was aborted after a juror revealed he became aroused while listening to evidence from the alleged victims.
NZ Herald: 3 June 2010.

This is the case of sexual abuse of two young females, heard in Auckland. The elderly juror confided to another juror that he was being aroused but was “controlling it” by wearing a condom in court. I sincerely hope he was wearing something else as well.
Lawyers say the episode was unusual but not unknown and this was yet another reason to have sexual abuse cases heard by judges only. Well, I am incredibly relieved to learn that judges cannot get sexually aroused. I am not sure why I am relieved but it is oddly comforting that our judiciary is not prone to precipitate or even sluggish ejaculation. Clearly, they have it in hand. Or not.

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Rogeting the Mother-in-Law

2010-05-21T06:43:00.001+12:00

Right now it is raining, a state of play extant through the night. That is good because here in the north the region generally and farmers specifically need to recover from a prolonged drought. At least I heard it described in the media as a prolonged drought. I would have thought that any drought, by the nature of droughts, is prolonged and to call one as such is a tautology. Or am I wrong? I wanted to find out. So, as is my wont (I am a sad case), I looked up prolonged in the dictionary. Right next to an advertisement telling me that I too could lose 20 kgs in 4 weeks my on-line dictionary defines prolonged as relatively long in duration and protracted. Fair enough, except relative to what? So I am right and to my mind prolonged drought is a tautology. It is also in terms of the verb, prolong, suggestive of someone committing an intent—which in the case of a drought is patently wrong. Delving further into the vexatious word I found in the accompanying on-line thesaurus several alternative words and phrases that mean much the same thing as prolonged. Among the phrases are “tediously protracted” (again fair enough) and then this: “A lengthy visit from a mother-in-law.” What? Mother-in-law jokes? Has the good Roget developed a sense of humour? Surely not. I could delve into this further but I fear I have prolonged this Fryday long enough. Have a good weekend.

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Now playing: Nilsson - It 's Been So Long (Harry Nilsson) 1967
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2010-05-14T08:17:00.002+12:00

NZRU apologises to Maori players
14/05/2010 6:08:02

Maori players receive apology from NZRU and SARU for being excluded from tours to South Africa during the apartheid era...

The knock on the door was not unexpected…
ME: Hello Whetu.
HE: Kia ora bro.
HE: Youse fellas enjoying Helensville?
ME: Very much so. Nice town.
HE: Wes fellas own some of it, you know.
ME: Wes…we know. Is that it? Is this a shakedown on the house?
HE: Hey bro…you think I would do that to you. You like a cuzzie to me. You whanau. We known each other since we were tamariki.
ME: What is it then?
HE: I want an apology.
ME: An apology?
HE: Yep.
ME: What for?
HE: For stopping me getting in the 1962 Under 12 Canterbury Rugby League team.
ME: I did?
HE: Youse did.
ME: How did I do that?
HE: Your dad was the selector and he didn’t pick me.
ME: And that is my fault how?
HE: The sims of the father.
ME: Sins.
HE: What?
ME: Sins of the father.
HE: Whatever. Anyway, I want an apology.
ME: I apologise.
HE: You do?
ME: I do. That it?
HE: Ah…nope.
ME: What then?
HE: I want some food as well.
ME: What kind of food?
HE: You.
ME: Me? You want to eat me?
HE: It’s a joke bro.
ME: A joke?
HE: Jeeze, you white fellas can’t take a joke, can you?

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A Game of Three Halves

2010-05-07T06:39:00.001+12:00

Tonight New Zealand plays Australia in the ANZAC Day rugby league test. Most Kiwis hope for the best and expect the worst. The New Zealand team appears to be too young, too inexperienced and too light to compete with a star-studded Aussie side hunting for State of Origin places. But it should be a good game and I shall be watching. Pity it’s not actually on ANZAC Day though. It used to be and that showed a great deal of sensitivity by Australasian rugby league as well being a good marketing ploy of course—neither of which could be comprehended by the omnipresent but moribund rugby code. But here is a thought: why not play all three major codes—rugby league, rugby and cricket—on the same day, ANZAC Day? You could play a league test in Sydney at 2.00, rugby in Melbourne at 4.00 and a 20/20 cricket match in Brisbane at 7.00. Indeed, with all the facilities Australian have you could play all three games in the same city with the same set of spectators travelling to each venue and the Australian television networks competing for rights.
Of course we would probably still lose all three matches to the Aussies. And I now come to my point--to my way of thinking it is not the games, nor even the losing—it is the captains’ post match speeches that most differentiates the codes. Based on speeches of old here’s how I see them going:
Benjie Marshall (Rugby League)
Well, mate the boys are pretty battered and bruised. I thought we were right in it for the first half mate, but you can’t afford to give the Aussies any space out wide and if you do mate you can expect Lockyer and the boys to take it to yer. League’s a game of possession mate and we just didn’t get up for it today mate.
Richie McCaw (Rugby)
Fairly shattered, to be honest. I thought if we could control it there in the tight we would be in there with a chance. But all credit to the Australians they dug deep and at the end of the day were a better side on the day.
Daniel Vettori (Cricket)
Disappointed to be honest. Our top order didn’t do enough and that put pressure on our lower order. We’ll put that game behind us. Regroup and look to next year. No, I don’t see any selection changes—I’ll probably still trot out the same clichés I do every speech.

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I Tuku I Take it

2010-04-30T06:53:00.004+12:00

Tuku Morgan is looking happy these days, isn’t he? Gone are the ball-dancing boxer-undie look of his days with Aotearoa Television Network, which somewhat belied his earlier incarnation as one of the Tight Five.
Today, he is looking positively beaming. He may have lost his reputed $18,000 a month with the network (and the network itself) but Tuku’s creed and greed to live by—there’s always more where that came from—certainly holds true.
Mr Morgan has screwed yet another deal out of the government. Tainui’s 1992 Man of the Year certainly does it well, and repeatedly. The Waikato Deed of Ownership Settlement is only the most recent of a long list of Tainui “settlements”: though you won’t find that on the Tainui website nor interestingly on Parliament’s own settlement process page which hasn’t been updated since 2006. So Tuku “Take It” Morgan is doing a good job for his people; you will forgive me however if I state that he does nothing for me. The home page of the Tainui site quotes this ancient Maori saying “Maaku anoo e hanga tooku nei whare (I shall fashion my own house)”. These days Tuku might well add, “…with Government money.”

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It's all in the water

2010-04-23T06:35:00.000+12:00

I am intrigued by a story coming out of Gisborne. One has to be—by ANY story coming out of Gisborne.
Anyway, it seems police caught and charged a man called Richard Carlson for possession of cannabis while he was fleeing the coast during a tsunami warning. Carlson was found with nearly eight kilograms of the drug in his car. The cannabis was—the police admitted—of poor quality (did they smoke it?), there was no evidence of Carlson selling the stuff, he had no criminal record and he and his wife were in fact pillars of the community. But he done wrong and he got caught. Richard Carlson, 57, was sentenced to 12 months home detention for his crime.
Fair enough.
But what intrigued me about this story was not that, it was this: Carlson was stopped and caught by police because they spotted a broken tail light on his car and pulled him over.
Let’s pause for reflection…
· There is a tsunami warning
· People acting on instructions are moving from the coast
· Police are stopping people for broken taillights?
In sentencing Carlson, Judge Tony Adeane said, "These facts, with respect, could only happen on the East Coast.”
They (the facts) lay "between irony and farce", said the judge.
He is right.

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Law & Disorder

2010-04-16T06:34:00.002+12:00

It’s a fine line between law and disorder. There are cops who could be criminals and criminals who could be cops. Certainly there are those who are both. But we hear from several sources that New Zealand has one of the least corruptible police forces in the world. I can accept that. I have met many cops over the last few years, from Commissioner Howard Broad to my local community constable and all I have found to be very dedicated and, to the best of my knowledge, honest. And they are efficient, as I found from their quick recovery of our stolen goods a few weeks back. Incidentally, the crime resolution rate in Rodney where I live is just over 50%, which I find acceptable. So, I think we have a good police force here in New Zealand; the best that money can’t buy. But there is one person, no longer serving but a former constable in west Rodney, of whom I want to make special mention. I first met Anna Crane in a public meeting in which she exhibited the slightly sour demeanour that “police representatives” always seem to adopt at such meetings. I don’t know why they are like that. I don’t expect to be in the presence of the Laughing Policeman, but joviality is surely not beyond attainment. Anyway, that was Anna then and I am talking about Anna now. Anna now works for the local council where she continues to serve the public but adds to her role de facto liaison between council and police. She is also my go-to person when, as often happens, I have to get a message or request through to police without going through more formal channels. Each time I have dealt with Anna I have found her cooperative, informative and friendly. I have also found that she remains in touch with the community and despite what she may have seen as a serving officer demonstrably retains a belief in the inherent good of that community. Anna is also a mother and I assume a wife. She has a family, a life and most important: these days, a smile. No doubt some will regale Fryday with stories of bad cops and that is fair enough. But here on this day and in my own little way I want to acknowledge a good cop, as she was and a bloody nice person as she is.

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You have to Hannah it to him

2010-04-09T06:42:00.002+12:00

A friend of mine once remarked that there are no challenges in life, only opportunities. He is of course a sanctimonious shit. There are challenges in life. There are also problems, issues, contradictions and resilient aggrievements. They collectively add colour and weight to our lives, and in that context they are not opportunities they are enhancements.
Such it is with “bishop” Brian Tamaki.
What would I do without him?
The man is an asset. No one whom I can think of is riper for ridicule.
Unless now it is the editor of New Idea. Dear reader you cannot imagine the joy Fryday experiences at the opportunity to bring the two together in the form of the following article that appeared in the magazine and again on the Xtra website. Upon reading it, I found myself looking at “bishop” Tamaki in a new light and with, I have to say, like Hannah, an adoring gaze.
That was before I vomited.
Read on…

To many, Destiny Church leader Brian Tamaki is a money-hungry religious fanatic, robbing his spiritual faithful of their hard-earned cash under the pretence he's working for God. But to his wife Hannah, he's an angel.
This week the pair celebrates their 30th wedding anniversary – a testament to their unwavering love and united beliefs. They're convinced that by doing God's work they can weather any storm. For three months they've faced criticism about the controversial Destiny Church, but Hannah stands by Brian and the enterprise they created 12 years ago.
'I was going to make Brian successful in whatever he put his hand to do. [Creating Destiny Church] is the call of his life and I'm in partnership with him.'
Hannah, 49, gazes adoringly at Brian, 52, who she sees as a generous, kind man who works hard to provide for his family and keeps their relationship strong.
'He was my babysitter,' she says with a laugh, reaching to hold Brian's hand. 'We've known each other since we were 12 but started going out when we were 15.'
First dates were spent driving Brian's Zephyr Mark II through Tokoroa and going to the flicks. Hannah knew she'd always be by Brian's side. She was determined her adult life would be the polar opposite of her childhood.
Broken home
Hannah was raised by her father Basil, a rare situation during the 1960s. Her mother abandoned the family during Hannah's early school years.
'I saw my dad cut up with the way my mum treated him,' says Hannah, who has the title of pastor and manages the church's administration. 'When I made my promise to Brian, "Until death do we part," I meant it. I'm a person of my word – we both are.
'There are times where I'd storm off and be disappointed in Brian, but the reality is, when I examine my heart, I love him. He's my partner for life until we get to heaven.'
Their children, Jasmine, 31, Samuel, 27 and Jamie, 28 – all of whom are involved in the church – stroll into the couple's lavish home at Maraetai, East Auckland, giving Brian and Hannah a hug. As their 10 children run to snatch a cuddle from their grandparents, Hannah looks at Brian, her heart swells and she thanks the Lord.
But their relationship didn't start in the church.
'We had a cream wedding,' Hannah admits. 'We had our first child when we weren't Christians and lived together for a year and a half before we got married.'
At age 18, Hannah fell pregnant with Jasmine. Although Brian missed the birth – he fell asleep at the wheel after milking at his aunt and uncle's dairy farm and crashed his car into a power pole – he supported Hannah and three years later, after converting to Christianity, they married.
'Our conversion was very defining, especially for me,' Brian says. 'Up until that point I would have been a normal Kiwi. I was involved in rugby, pig hunting, I was into everything, being 20 and at the prime of life.'
Hannah and Brian were both raised as Methodists, but Brian's mother Margaret had a strong influence on his religious convictions. She dealt with the stigma of leaving her wealthy family to marry a Maori, who in turn wasn't interested in being a father to their three sons. Every Sunday she would walk her boys three kilometres to church.
'She looked down at these three half-breed brats who were misbehaving a lot,' Brian says. 'Her dedication would have a big mark on my ministry, particularly in the areas of keeping promises, doing the hard yards and resilience. All that started from my mum. She was very strong.'
In the '70s Margaret became a born-again Christian and soon his father converted. After Jasmine was born, Hannah was eager to re-explore her religious roots.
'We realised our lives came from dysfunction,' Hannah says. 'We came together because we love each other. Then God came into our life and sealed our love all the more. He gave us an understanding that we could make a difference.'
Brian adds, 'We weren't in abusive families but we saw it all around us – at the rugby clubs, certain sides of the family with gang affiliations, guys I worked with. When I saw the results of that on some of my cousins from my generation on both sides of my family, there were things that were never dealt with. The succeeding generation had to deal with what was left on the table.
'We were determined to change and make a better future for our kids and our grandchildren. And that came from the Bible. God says from generation to generation the Lord blesses you and that your children will do better.'
But Brian and Hannah have been accused of misinterpreting the Gospel by former parishioners, who say the couple are running
a 'money-making cult' under the guise of God's word. Earlier this month 20 members of the Destiny Church's Brisbane congregation walked out.
They disagreed with the church covenant where members were encouraged to buy a $300 signet ring, stop buying coffee and give up Sky TV so they could develop Destiny School.
Hannah might be forgiven for feeling upset by these claims, but instead she says they've made them more convinced than ever they are on the right track.
'I'm not going to be ashamed of working hard and getting somewhere,' she says defiantly. 'Millions of dollars haven't gone missing from the church.'
Money matters
Brian and Hannah say their assets have come from 'hard work, clean living' and building up a 'nest egg' established before the church. Brian says his $500,000 boat has been upgraded over the years after he bought his first vessel 15 years ago. Their $1.5 million home, with expansive sea views and a pool, is a result of buying their first house in their early 20s following an inheritance from Hannah's father.
They deny their annual joint salary is $1.1 million, and Brian says he's never received $12,000 for a speaker fee. They won't say what they do earn, except to confirm their total annual income is 'under $500,000', including all offerings and koha.
'It's not anyone's business,' Brian says, scoffing at reports that he receives personal tithes from his pastors or expects gifts. However, he explains that koha or presents are 'not uncommon amongst Maori and Pacific people [the cultural background of many of his worshipers]'.
'Destiny has a wonderful culture of giving amongst members and, on occasions, towards me,' Brian says.
They say their salary is from running Destiny's 10 churches and Destiny School, providing oversight for pastoral care and working on sermons for TV broadcasts and church services.
'We're really fortunate if we spend four nights in our own bed a week,' Hannah says.
Brian adds, 'It's CEO status, because of the expanse of ministries. A lot of preachers of this size [church] will come in and go and not touch the general core of the people. I'll walk slowly through the crowd after service.'
In the face of such strong adversity, the pair turns to each other for unconditional love and support. They relish their private time with children and friends, who often dine in their home.
And although the church focuses on traditional patriarchal Christian values, the Tamakis' marriage is like any modern-day family. Both work full-time and share chores, including cooking. They live with their granddaughter Eden, who they whangaied [Maori for fostering or adopting] two years ago; Jade, a Christchurch pastor's daughter who attends Destiny School; and their two Pomeranian dogs, Mercedes and Lulu.
Hannah frequently returns home around 7pm. 'I do the housework late in the night and early in the morning, but if Brian gets home from the gym, he'll always put a load of washing on and chuck it in the dryer. But he'll never make the bed,' she adds with a laugh.
Nights are spent studying the Bible or watching TV. Brian enjoys documentaries on the National Geographic and Documentary Channels.
There's one rule when they head to bed. 'When we get to the bedroom door, all business is off. There's no church talk,' Brian says. 'That's how we tune out.'
Hannah adds, 'We'll pray together, read our Bibles, but we don't talk business because we're together 24/7. We're both really passionate about what we do, so it's hard sometimes.'
Long, happy marriages take work, and the Tamakis believe the success of their union is not only because they've stuck to their vows, but also because they work hard to keep the romance alive.
'After the last time I went away Brian lit candles. Then the [grand]children came so that was the end of that,' Hannah says, laughing.
Brian will often surprise her with her favourite red roses and they try to get time alone.
'We make sure our marriage is kept enriched by trying to slip a night away during the week,' Brian reveals.
For their 25th anniversary the couple splashed out on a trip on the luxury cruise ship Queen Mary II but their 30th will be low key. They've planned a getaway to the Coromandel followed by a few days with new Brisbane church pastors, Phil and Patty Kingi.
'We haven't set any goals for this one,' Hannah says.
'Thirty years together is a milestone and to think all your children have grown up, now we have our grandchildren, it's fantastic.'
Judgment Day – The Church
Twelve years ago the couple moved to Auckland, and with 20 members from Lake City Church Rotorua, launched Destiny Church based
on a Pentecostal worship style.
Conservative with a literalist interpretation of Biblical teachings, worshipers focus on traditional family values and believe same-sex marriage is not Biblically sanctioned. Those who drink, smoke, gamble, use pornography or have premarital sex 'would be helped to heal'.
Members are encouraged to tithe 10 per cent of their earnings, and give 'offerings' above that. The church has a strong multicultural following with many Maori and Pacific Islanders. Men swear allegiance to Brian under a 'covenant', which he says seeks to build Destiny's vision.
'The way I preach the word of God has an appeal to people that say, "I can sense where he comes from." If they're coming from a life of crime, drugs, broken homes, gangs – which a lot have – you know why they've come. They see our marriage, my children and our 10 grandchildren all in the same church, that we live our lives well. It's not excessive.'
The church adheres to prosperity theologies and the Tamakis believe God has provided their wealth.
'Why would you want to be part of a church where you think it's going to take you back and you're going to lose? What I see [around me] is a blessing from God,' Brian explains. 'I want people to know we don't have to hide from the world that clean living is going to have these results.'
From the initial 20 who joined in 1998, this number has grown to 6000 here and in Australia. Almost 200 children of parishioners attend Auckland-based Destiny School, which caters for pre-schoolers through to high school. There are 400 on the waiting list. Primary school students pay $55 a week and high-school students pay $120.
'In five years we'll have 1400 church members in the school. That's how fast it's growing,' Brian says.
Growing the school is their passion and they say the institution focuses equally on academia and character building.
'We want our students to be educated the best they can academically but we also have a character curriculum so they learn how to respect people and one another,' Hannah explains. 'They learn about truth, entrepreneurial skills, money and the importance
of a good work ethic.'

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A Town on the Edge

2010-03-26T06:26:00.000+13:00

Christchurch is a town that lives in the edge of a precipice. I know this because I am in it and I have observed this. It is a town—not a city—that for all its self-perpetuating superiority and self-aggrandisement lacks confidence. It is like Muhammad Ali, should he float like a butterfly and sting like a butterfly. Christchurch is on the edge. They have their purple patches; but they are terrified of the sodden, brown muddy mess they most easily can fall in to. They find safety in numbers. They have their much vaunted team successes: The Crusaders, Canterbury cricket, The Pulse. But are they yet to find one individual successful sportsperson? No. Safety in numbers. Christchurch, if it cannot hide behind strength of numbers and a team ethos, would rather just…hide. It does so in its gardens. I love its gardens, but one gets the feeling that they are created by aficionados who would rather hide from the real world, particularly Auckland, and not come out from behind the daffodils unless wrenched. One gets the feeling that rather paradoxically they would enjoy being wrenched. Christchurch is like that—a veneer. Like Hamilton. Christchurch presents itself to the world as one thing and a contented complacent world accepts that. I cannot. What I see is a superficial smugness hiding a deep malady of frustration and vexation that for all its protestations of culture, history and class Christchurch is not, after all and in the final reckoning, Auckland.

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A Taste of Perfection

2010-03-12T10:13:00.002+13:00

I remember a very funny Hancock’s Half Hour (is there any other kind?) called The Bedsitter in which Tony picks up Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities. Tony reads the first line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”, and then sets the book aside, explaining, “If he (Dickens) can’t make up his mind then he (Hancock) can’t be bothered.” In this episode and in many others Tony Hancock, in his shows and in life, was on a constant quest to improve himself. In many of the classic episodes of his radio and television shows he did reach perfection but the quest continued and eventually killed him. Most of us see and accept perfection as an unattainable goal. Nevertheless a few still try to achieve it and that trial can consume them. You probably know some. I do. My own quest for perfection is a little more pragmatic but just as pricey: Lagavulin. The 16-year-old Lagavulin is the single most beautiful single malt scotch in the world. RKN, who I think now reads this column will dispute that but he is in the wrong. Lagavulin is what I call a layered scotch—it has layers of sensation that repeatedly bid entrance long after you have consumed and swallowed your first dram. It is this repetition, akin to “Bishop” Tamaki’s requests for money, that makes Lagavuhlin the gang-bang of all scotches. However, it exacts a pretty exacting set of criteria; it should only be drunk late at night while one is alone and musing, it should be drunk from a proper scotch glass and with (at most) a dash of water, and ideally should be followed by sex. And with regard to the last, I should stress that it is only the Lagavulin that should be sampled alone, not the sex. Do all of that and you will have a taste of perfection. I get through a fair few bottles of it myself, and you can read into that what you will. Cheers!

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Bishop to Rort

2010-03-05T06:41:00.001+13:00

The latest revelations—and revelations is seemingly the only link Destiny Church has to The Bible—about Bishop Tamaki come as no surprise to Fryday readers.
Fryday has maintained from the outset that Tamaki’s “church” is little more than a rort and the Christian principles Tamaki espouses on television and elsewhere are impurely cosmetic.
But Fryday believes the end is nigh for Tamaki and his henchman Richard Lewis. The weight of media and public opinion is having an effect: Pastors are starting to mutiny, church members are leaving and revenue is declining.
Amidst his latest pontifications, Tamaki says that God has a plan to restore the lost wealth to the church. Apparently God’s plan comprises installing eftpos machines in the church.
We will never see the back of Bishop Tamaki (and believe me the back of his hair cut looks as bad as the front) but Fryday believes we will see a lessening of his power, his influence…and his victims.
Thank God.

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Saint Luke

2010-02-19T08:56:00.001+13:00

This week we were burgled. A laptop and an iPod were stolen. But a lot more would have gone had it not been for the advent and the intervention of our dog Luke. Luke who is a light sleeper, unlike the rest of the family, and is something of a sentinel heard something. Enough, apparently, to waken both himself and his protective senses. In Luke’s world something was wrong and that was annoying. Luke, who is otherwise quite a placid dog, doesn’t like to get annoyed and does like to take it out on someone when his is. In this case, fortunately for us, that meant burglars. Big brave burglars, who fled at the sound of a dog clearly on the warpath and with an appetite for a Burglar King. What they didn’t know in the darkness was that this loud and aggressive dog is still a puppy and barely taller than their shins, though, it has to be said, is clearly capable of extracting said shins. So, we were saved further loss by a very small dog with a big heart and a propensity for protection. The burglars have been caught by the police (thank you) and our goods recovered. However, we are told that there is no guarantee we won’t be burgled again. So, here’s the message and the warning for anybody thinking of burgling our place: next time, Luke will be bigger but just as annoyed.

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Banks for nothing

2010-02-12T06:35:00.001+13:00

If you don’t know that John Banks is running for the mayoralty of Auckland you are either not living in New Zealand or you are very lucky. The rest of us, I hazard to say, are fed up with his pronouncements and proclamations. Never in all my years in local and national politics have I come across a more opportunistic politician. But that is not the worst. The worst is his blatant, superficial and patronising pandering to the populist vote. You may not think it, outside of Auckland, but Aucklanders are generally fairly sophisticated and are not anti-Wellington. Yet Mr Banks, in his frequent assertions that we won’t be told by Wellington what to do, suggests we are and that the populist vote is that superficial. It would hardly surprise me if he next turns his xenophobic attention to the Australians and evokes the underarm incident. It will not surprise you then that if he does I will likely commit New Zealand’s first act of political assassination. We have nine more months of him and it will get worse in the lead-up to the elections. My view is that Mr Banks has little to offer us, has not kept to any of his previous promises and is little more than a pandering, obnoxious son-of-a-bitch whose only merit is giving Fryday something to write about in these post-Bush years.

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Going to to the dogs

2010-01-22T06:39:00.003+13:00

I have nothing against people who dislike dogs. It’s just that many of them seem to be intolerant of those, like me, who do like dogs. I have become aware again of this Holden v. Ford chasm since taking delivery of two dogs on Boxing Day—one aptly a boxer. For my wife and I they have replaced most everything, except each other, as the loves of our lives. There is no doubt they are challenging, hair-tearing, frustrating and their toiletry habits and remains reminds one of those dreadful minefields that blight our world and history. But they are also lively, lovely, cute and adoring. Despite being different breeds and with an age and size difference they get on well together and they have taken to their spectacular new home and to us with alacrity and unrestrained joy. Our border collie is called Luke; our boxer is called Laila, after Mohammed Ali’s daughter—herself a famous boxer. Luke and Laila will offer little to you as Fryday reader but they offer a lot to me. And they are offered here as record of their presence rather than any precursor to the unrelieved tedium of my always talking about my dogs. Don’t you hate it when people do that? Almost makes you want to dislike those who love dogs, doesn’t it? No. :-)

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Virgin Territory

2010-01-15T10:23:00.000+13:00

A friend of mine recently and cleverly described France as a country as much in need of change as it is against it. I am sure this holds true of many countries. But my friend’s adroit and intimate view of France (she lives there) will confirm what many of us feel about the perpetual Peter Pan of Europe.
It is also the way I feel about the district in which I live—Rodney, just north of Auckland in New Zealand. Rodney is something of an eddy in the comparatively swift current that is Auckland. Those who choose to swim against the current are grateful to be swept into the Rodney eddy to rest, relax and enjoy the relative peace and solitude. Some only visit, while others plan to stay forever. It is the latter who seem most reluctant to accept change to their quiet little backwater. But change is about to be forced upon them, for later this year Rodney will cease to exist as a legal entity. It is about to drown as Auckland bursts its banks, literally and figuratively, and floods its hinterland. We are all to become part of one of the largest metropolises by area in the world. We are to become each of us one of those much-maligned In New Zealand and derided elsewhere commercially crafted articles—an Aucklander. Uncharacteristically for the normally indecisive Auckland we even have a date for it: November 1. Most of us approach our date with decadency with the same foreboding we would an adult circumcision and we anticipate much the same pain. Only this time we in Rodney will be adding something rather than taking away from what could (still) be the biggest cock-up in recent New Zealand history. Nevertheless, we are ready for you Auckland. Come and have us. Do your will. Deflower us if that is your want. But forgive us if, while you do so and you have your wonton way, we Rodneyites lay back and think of Hamilton.

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In Your Face

2010-01-08T08:34:00.003+13:00

I can understand how it happens. I can understand how it can be addictive in the fashion of assorted drugs, chocolate, coffee and, in my case, slaggng off Hamilton. I can also understand how some would get a degree of self-aggrandisement from it. But I don’t understand it at all. I cannot get my head around Facebook. Nor Twitter nor the myriad of other social networking methods that seemingly now dominate the Internet. I know how to use Facebook. Mostly. What I don’t know or understand is its attraction to its millions of users. Perhaps I cannot understand why anyone is in the least interested in “What’s on (my) mind” or maybe I find the predominantly congratulatory and laudatory messages somewhat implausible—I know that there a lot of nice people out there, but that many that often? One section of Facebook interests me though; it’s called The Wall. People leave messages on it. And in that, they are carrying on one of the longest traditions known to man—leaving a message for someone else to read at their leisure if that is their wish and their will. One knows that earliest Man did it and the tradition carries on today. I honour that, and I acknowledge the role Facebook has in that. But I did wonder what, of all the messages left through the aeons, which was the most famous and most resilient. It would depend on the language of course, but of English my vote would go to the ubiquitous Kilroy. Nobody knows who he was—if indeed there was a “he.” The not always reliable Wikipedia attributes the phrase and its associated graffiti to “calling cards” left by American servicemen serving in WWII. There are many urban legends attached to the Kilroy graffiti. One states that Adolf Hitler believed that Kilroy was some kind of American super spy because the graffiti kept turning up in secure Nazi installations, presumably having been actually brought on captured Allied military equipment. Another states that Stalin was the first to enter an outhouse especially built for the leaders at the Potsdam conference. Upon exiting, Stalin asked an aide: "Who is this Kilroy?" Another legend states that a German officer, having seen frequent "Kilroys" posted in different cities, told all of his men that if they happened to come across a "Kilroy" he wanted to question him personally. The graffiti is supposedly located on various significant or difficult-to-reach places such as on the torch of the Statue of Liberty, on the Marco Polo Bridge in China, in huts in Polynesia, on a high girder on the George Washington Bridge in New York, at the peak of Mt. Everest, on the underside of the Arc de Triomphe, scribbled in the dust on the moon, in World War II pillboxes scattered around Germany, on a tile in the bathroom of a Grainger in Baltimore, around the sewers of Paris, and, in tribute to its origin, engraved in the National World War II Memorial in Washington, D.C. So, this Kilroy, whomever he may be, seems to have been here, there and everywhere. Except on Facebook. I am yet to see him make an appearance there—other than a site in homage to him. Perhaps he has passed on. Or simply perhaps the world has passed him by and he, like me, finds Facebook’s Wall sends him…well…up the wall.

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Body of Work

2010-01-01T15:25:00.001+13:00

Death has dogged me this New Year. Yesterday, New Year’s Eve, I was enthralled, if a little taken aback, by a radio series titled 14 Entertainers Who Died in Plane Crashes. The programme informs me that there are more than 14 but these in ranking order are the most affecting. I imagine for the deceased they were all affected in much the same way—Death has a certain commonality about it—and some will be mortified (!) that they didn’t make the Top 14 cut, particularly as 3 of the 14: Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper were all on the same plane. One would have thought that a more equitable dishing out would have been…well…more equitable. My other brush with death came today when I visited the cemetery across the road. It is an ancient and gracious cemetery. One hears nothing from the occupants of course, but their inscribed tombstones speak volumes. For anyone for whom this would be practical, I suggest a visit to the Helensville Cemetery. I would however proffer one caution—it truly is one of those nice places to visit but one wouldn’t want to live there places. But you may well be drawn to ask why on a beautiful New Year’s Day I am visiting a cemetery. In truth, I cannot answer that, but I have a feeling that 2010 is going to be a particularly perverse year for your Fryday scribe.

Shooting Santa

2009-12-25T06:45:00.001+13:00

I am invited by a magnificent friend of mine to come and share the Christmas cheer. That is most kind and gracious of her. The fact that she resides in France while I am in New Zealand and any such sharing is largely vicarious in no way diminishes my appreciation of her offer. Appreciation, kindness, grace are all part and parcel of Christmas of course. Not so, apparently, for Jehovah Witnesses. I wished one Merry Christmas the other day only to suffer the retort that “I am a Jehovah Witness. I don’t believe in Christmas. You’ll forgive me if I don’t wish you Merry Christmas in return.” Now, I can accept most religions (well, in truth I can’t but that is another story) but it seems somewhat churlish of this one, Jehovah Witnesses, that an exponent is not allowed to exhibit the simple grace of accepting another’s belief and set aside one’s own to offer a common courtesy. Besides, I thought Jehovah’s Witness was a Christian church. Did you know they don’t believe in Christmas? Well, I do. I believe in Christmas and in that belief, I wish you a very Merry Christmas. Unless you are a Jehovah Witness of course. In which case all I can offer you is commiseration and a request that if Santa somehow mistakenly stumbles down your chimney you don’t shoot him as a home invader—others do need him.

Shut the Closet

2009-12-18T06:39:00.001+13:00

Salivating at the prospect of Christmas and the attendant break, are you? I am. It has been a harsh year for many, me included, what with the economy, employment uncertainty and the return of the Backstreet Boys. In addition I have this year played a tutu-wearing fairy, a gay hairdresser and, most recently, a character whose propensity is to get into another man’s trousers. I have also with my wife bought a new house, which is good in most respects but does add to my already over-burdened vocabulary the phrase “household chores” and commits me to a life in servitude to the National Bank. I have written little of significance in 2009 and with the departure of George W. Bush and Helen Clark, Fryday has struggled. Thank God for Brian Tamaki, though God has little to do with Tamaki. On the positive side I have bought that house, my resilient wife still tolerates me, Lagavuhlin still distils and imminent puppies insist. Life after all is good and destined to get better.

I don't loke it

2009-12-04T06:55:00.000+13:00

One of the guiding principles of my life is to minimise my use of the word whatever. Whatever in the young lexicon is to imply tacit rather than wholesale acceptance and intent to move on. As I am no longer young and have no respect for the young their use of whatever in that context will not knowingly be replicated by me. Nor will their profligate use of the extremely versatile but somewhat soft word “like”—as in seemingly every second word uttered by a young woman being like. Interesting point that, I never hear it used by boys. Have you noticed that? Have you also noticed that it always appears in the middle of a sentence, sometimes several times, but never at the end? A young woman told me once that the reason for that was compliance with an unwritten rule now in customary use. Strange, considering the very use of that word in this context defies all rules and logic that I know of. But whilst the use of like is strange the word itself is not. A strange word is loke. There is a word, the wonderful Urban Dictionary designates and defines it. Loke means deep affection towards your significant other, which is stronger than like, yet not as strong as love. I am told that you can even buy mugs, T-shirts and cards proclaiming your loke for someone or something. I am not tempted. It is yet another travesty of English. I say to you emphatically, it is with “whatever intent” that I will either like (most) everyone or love some. I refuse to loke anyone. Loke it or leave it.

Hone he could do it

2009-11-27T06:43:00.001+13:00

HE: Hello Mother
ME: Hello Whetu.
HE: You’ve moved.
ME: You’re good.
HE: Cause of me?
ME: I do nothing cause—because of you.
HE: I let the bros know.
ME: Thanks.
HE: Looks after youse they will.
ME: Thanks.
HE: Hello Mother.
ME: Yeah, I know. Hone?
HE: Cool eh?
ME: Not really. He’s just a raciest pig. And not that mature either. I would have thought better of youse Whetu.
HE: Hone’s the man.
ME: Whatever.
HE: Youse mothers been raping our land for centuries and any bro that suck up to youse mothers is nothing but an Uncle Dick.
ME: Tom.
HE: What?
ME: Tom. Uncle Tom.
HE: Who he?
ME: Doesn’t matter.
HE: Whatever. Hone’s the man.
ME: Look I got to go.
HE: You met his wife?
ME: Hone’s?
HE: Yes.
ME: Yes.
HE: Choice eh?
ME: Very.
HE: Spend a week in Paris with her and have you mothers to pay for it…
ME: I guess.
HE: Hone’s the MAN!

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Alarm bra

2009-11-20T06:45:00.002+13:00

Yesterday for the first time I activated the alarm system we inherited with our new home. It was less than five hours before it sent its first false-alarm to the monitoring service and ejaculated a screaming orgasm of a siren that I am told many of our neighbours thought heralded either a tsunami alert or the imminent arrival of a tardy Japanese invasion force.
It also drew forth the local constabulary who took the time and trouble to ring me at work to say my alarm was going. As I am unaware that I am “known to police” as police parlance puts it, this was an agreeable surprise.
But I was left to question why I am known. I would not have thought that even in a community as small as the one I now live in I was of such standing in that community. Both my speeding tickets have been paid, so it cannot be that. The sign out front proclaims and promotes the builder of the house, rather than a tinnie house. The light to the side of the house is blue rather than red testifying to the virtue rather than the vice of my lovely wife. Yes, I know I have not yet made my promised Westpac Rescue Helicopter donation, but it is a little early to call the police in on that. Yet I am known to police. Am I perhaps erroneously on one of those secret lists of “people of interest” they circulate through their stations? You know the ones: known car thief, hangs out (literally) at public toilets, steals bras, criticises Council. I am none of these of course. But now I am paranoid—what do the police have on me?
Or am I just being alarmist?

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Going for a Burton

2009-11-13T06:42:00.003+13:00

Having never sat on a jury I am not sure I am qualified to write this fryday. Nevertheless, qualification has never stopped me before, so here goes. What was the jury thinking in the Burton case? Why did they take almost two days of deliberations to find this maniac guilty? Okay, Burton’s criminal history was denied them, and one can take issue with the propriety of that given that: Burton is serving a life sentence, with a minimum non-parole period of 26 years, for the murder of Lower Hutt man Karl Kuchenbecher in January 2007 while he was on parole, and he had served 14 years for the stabbing murder of Paul Anderson outside a Wellington night club. But here are the facts that were presented to the jury:
• Burton stabbed a fellow convict several times with a sharpened steel rod in a corridor outside the cells in Paremoremo.
• One of these stab wounds, to the heart, caused injuries that required emergency hospital surgery to save the convict’s life.
• Security camera footage shown to jurors during this week's trial showed Burton entering the convict’s cell. The victim was seen backing out of the cell shortly afterwards, pursued by Burton.
• Burton was seen pursuing the convict up and down the corridor three times, with an object in each hand.
• Burton’s victim was eventually pulled out of the corridor by security guards. He was escorted to the prison medical centre, where his eyes were seen to roll backwards and it was only the intervention of a guard that prevented him from falling to the floor.
Excuse me? I think that is fairly compelling evidence of Burton’s guilt. Yet, it takes almost two days to find this guy guilty? But the other question is, why should it tax me so? Good question, and well in keeping with the undoubted astuteness and intelligence of Fryday readers. Well, the answer is this; we are told that the courts are overloaded and that many cases never come to court because of it. Yet here we have a court case involving a man (Burton) already in gaol and clearly not going anywhere fast that goes two days over time because of the vagaries of a jury. I know that’s not the court’s fault and I don’t have an easy answer but common sense would surely suggest the jury system has done us a disservice here.

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Naked Opaque

2009-11-06T06:44:00.003+13:00

You have no doubt heard someone described as having penetrating eyes. It seems a favourite phrase of trash novels and women’s magazines. I am yet to meet anyone with truly penetrating eyes. The closest is Helen Clark, whose eyes are so cold they have the penetrative effect of ice cream on sensitive teeth. But that’s not quite the same as the novelists’ declaratory intent. Some people are also, we are told, gifted with the ability to see right through us. We are on more sure ground here—I for one am easy to see through I am told. Anyone can do it, which makes it particularly difficult for me in my profession as a spin-doctor and is probably why I may occasionally go a little over the top on the enigmatic bit; which is all a facade—you see through that, don’t you? But there are some among us who are less penetrating than grating and the reason is: they are so superficial as to be transparent. One such is Rodney Hide—naked ambition without the brains to pull it off. Another is Hone Harawira—on the make and out for the take. “Bishop” Brian Tamaki is an obvious example and no amount of protestations to the contrary will convince me that he is anything but a two-bit opportunist. His henchman, Richard Lewis, is worse but somehow more honest in his deviousness. And it is that honesty that can, somewhat paradoxically, make someone more opaque. Take John Key—I think Mr Key is basically honest (still) so it is hard to work out why he is doing the job he is now doing and what his ambitions are. George W. Bush is another. Bush, despite all that was written about him, is basically honest—he doesn’t have the skill or the intellect to be anything but. The more we saw through him, the more we were forced to ask what the f**k is he all about? You get the point? Naked opaque. Perhaps it is the profession I am in but the honest among us make me uncomfortable. Go away.

Prawn to Bishop

2009-10-30T06:52:00.002+13:00

I have no time for the self-anointed Bishop Tamaki. Even less time for him after Garth George’s revelations in yesterday’s NZ Herald and Tamaki’s performance on last night’s Close Up. Despite everything said to the contrary by Tamaki and his cohorts, Tamaki is nothing more than a self-delusional megalomaniac. Read this from Tamaki’s autobiography, and I repeat autobiography—Tamaki wrote it himself: “Never before have the forces of religious, political and social activism converged more powerfully than in the life of Bishop Brian Tamaki.” Has Tamaki not heard of Mohandas Ghandi? We are now told that any of “the 700” approaching The Bishop must kneel before him and those bringing gifts can approach closer than those who aren’t. I can only imagine that those bringing a Harley Davidson for the Bishop, as has happened in the past, can qualify to get right up his arse. Personally, I am just grateful to The Bishop for allowing me to be in the same city. Bishop Tamaki tells us that such protocols and covenants are simply manifestations of respect determined and dictated by members of his church, not by himself. Again he is being disingenuous. One gets the feeling that nothing happens in that church that is not initiated by Tamaki or, more likely these days, his chief henchman and head of the church’s “political arm”, Richard Lewis. Tamaki’s response to the various accusations swirling around and about the church hinge on two factors, that it is all a beat-up by the media and that his church is full of love and does good things. There may be some truth in the first, and Tamaki was essentially made in the media, and he has probably sound evidence for the second. But one is drawn to the conclusion that Tamaki is now out of control and that his church and ministry is less about loving God than loving Tamaki. Or does he now think they are one and the same?

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Home Sweat Home

2009-10-16T07:49:00.001+13:00

Last week someone said to me that moving from one home to another was the single biggest cause of suicide during the Victorian era. I find that hard to believe. Poverty surely would win, in that era and any other. But being in the midst of a move—which this person knew about so his statement was neither particularly helpful nor tactful—I can attest that it is pretty traumatic. It has an air of uncertainty that no amount of planning or organisation can completely vanquish. Indeed I can state from personal observation that the more organised you are the more stressful it is when things start to go wrong. My wife, whom I can state emphatically is the most organised person I know, planned this move almost on her own. She did a superb job. Not so those entrusted to implement her plans. Our so-called “professional movers” (three of them) can be best be characterised as The Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse on draught horses. They wreaked mayhem but at a pace more redolent of Helen Clark’s libido. As a consequence our move took longer than expected and was more expensive than anticipated. But…we are now ensconced. And this weekend, with that slow but still chilling clip-clop clip-clop receding into the distance we plan to enjoy every moment of our new home.

Samoan Shoes

2009-10-02T06:40:00.002+13:00

Last night I dreamed that my wife left me, my new house fell down, and so did I…down a 600-metre cliff.
Dream interpreters will have a view on what that means. I would be interested in hearing from them. But what I think it means is that I need a holiday. Fortunately, next week I am getting one.
But the remarkable thing about that dream is that it didn’t include anything about my work. Given that work has figured relentlessly and remorseless in previous dreams, except when it’s inducing a sleepless night, I would think it would have figured in this one.
I have had a bad week. But others have had it worse, far worse. I think here most of the people of Samoa, American Samoa and Tonga and also the Philippines and Indonesia. Many had little to start with; now they have lost everything, including lives and loved ones.
Now we have the call to help: food, shelter, medicine, people, money.
And shoes.
I heard yesterday that one of the more pressing problems is that there are so few shoes in Samoa and so much glass on the ground. Cut feet are compounding the island’s medical problems. That’s something I didn’t think about and good on those who did—and created a specific charity: Shoes for Samoa. I don’t know how widespread that is, but here in my local town you can donate shoes through the supermarkets.
Today I’ll head down to the supermarket to hand over a few shoes, then I’ll take a break to move into a new home that is still standing with a wife who is still with me.
Life for me, though still not a dream, is not so bad after all.

Treeson

2009-09-25T07:26:00.001+12:00

We New Zealanders have been criticised rightly for our Tall Poppy Syndrome—i.e. our propensity to criticise or otherwise ridicule those among us who succeed. And by the way I don’t believe we are alone in that or that it is necessarily a fault... I am sure that other nations do it. And those who don’t, such as Australia, are displaying an unwarranted arrogance and, in Australia’s case, a need to obviate the claim of once a convict always a convict. But we New Zealanders do knock down our achievers and it is not a good look. It’s for that reason I am reluctant to write about Sir Howard Morrison. Sir Howard died yesterday. That is sad. He will be missed. He achieved much. And was much loved. But not by me. I met him a couple of times and each time he was an arrogant son of a bitch. That’s my experience and my opinion. However, that is not important, nor is it what this Fryday is about. This Fryday is about how the media has treated Sir Howard’s death and Sir Howard’s death has been treated with an overkill bordering on the obscene. Both major television networks were live at Ohinemutu last night. Why? What did that add to the story, other than give Temuera Morrison an opportunity to grandstand? And why did the death of a man, who happens to be part Maori, give justification for Simon Dallow to deliver his introduction entirely in Maori? And as for “the great Totara has fallen” uttered by all and sundry—spare me. Even Radio New Zealand had erstwhile Howard Morrison Quartet member Wi Wharekura proclaiming that Sir Howard’s death made him (Wi) a superstar! I know that’s not Radio New Zealand’s fault, but perhaps they should have shut Wi up or not put him to air instead of him making a fool of himself. There was and no doubt will be more of this media orgy, but I have neither the time nor the space to list it, and frankly can’t be bothered. Sir Howard was a flamboyant character and, as he admitted on many occasions, an egotist. He would have loved all this media attention and considered it warranted. He was after all The Great Totara. Fair enough. But this little sapling finds it all a little sickening, that’s all.