Mischief of Feijoas: One Man, One Hedge, and a Rat-Infested Rain of Green Grenades

 

I can do one or both of two things in the unlikely event that I want to eat a feijoa. I can go down to my local Woolworths and pay $7.10 per kilogram for them, or I can walk out my front door, take two steps, and fight a mischief of rats for them.

I hate feijoas, so I am disinclined to do either in order to acquire them. I just wish they would go away of their own accord. You see, I live next to a feijoa hedge, and it’s feijoa season. As a consequence, we are currently inundated with feijoas falling from the hedge and covering our driveway and paths.

The feijoas don’t stay intact for long. They are soon crushed underfoot or under one or other of our two cars. Either way, they create, in their death throes, a horrid mess. A mess which, for reasons I find hard to fathom, it is apparently incumbent on my wife to clean up.

Why my wife? Because I, at my age and with my build, am unable to pick them up. But it goes deeper than that. You see, we live in a gated community—and it is a community, a good community. Most of us get on very well with each other. Except for one thing: we—my wife specifically—are the only ones who pick up those bloody feijoas.

Nobody else has shown the least inclination to do so, despite—and it is a large despite—the hedge being a communal hedge, owned and shared by the community.

And there lies the issue. This gated community of ours is not the only owner of this hedge. The other owners are the rats that reside and proliferate in the hedge and, more recently, in the engine well of one of our cars.

You may think all of this is of little significance. And perhaps it is. But not to us. We loathe feijoas with a passion—and on that subject, why can’t we have passionfruit instead?

At this point, I’m considering a petition to have the hedge replaced with something more civilised. Passionfruit. Lemons. Plastic. Literally anything that doesn’t launch green grenades at my driveway and invite rats to move into my car.

Until then, my wife will continue her daily feijoa patrol, the rats will continue their feijoa banquet, and I will continue to be the only man in New Zealand who can stand ten metres from a free feijoa tree, watch people pay $7.10 a kilo for the things, and still feel that everyone involved is being ripped off.

 

Dear President Christopher Luxon

  

 

 

 

The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard (third door on right). Telephone: 125.

 

 President Christopher Luxon

New Zealand Parliament Gallery

PO Box 55

Wellington

New Zealand

 

Dear President Christopher Luxon

 The Democratic Republic of Wogistans peoples send warm greeting to you.

 I read with much concerns of a coup in your country that you survived—PRAISE BE TO ALLAH.

 My concerns are not that you survived PRAISE BE TO ALLAH, but that you aloud coup to happen in first place. I think what kind of President are you? No coups are aloud in Wogistan. Last coup was mine. Not aloud since.

 I give you good advice to stop you having another one. This is what I do.

•  Make coup makers disappear
•  ·      Make son-in-law or useless second son head of Army.
• ·      Give Army no bullets—give McDonald’s vouchers instead—keep happy.
• ·      Make friends with President Donald J. Trump.
• ·      Pay Donald J. Trump monies.
• ·      Disband middle class—too many thinks.
• ·      Keep lower class happy—instruct State Television to run reruns of Bonanza.
• ·      Join Rotary.

 This make happy country. I look forward to your visit. Bring wives. Much good shopping in Wogistan.

 With sincere facilitations,

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Flanglantelie

President: The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor of Spartacus Male Gym and Bathhouse.

 

 

 

The Waikato University Library Book of Lists-- Te Pukapuka o te Whare Pukapuka o te Whare Wananga o Waikato.

 The University of Waikato presents a delightful ambiguity for the observer. On the one hand, it is, and has been for some time, a hotbed and breeding ground for left-wing radicalism, particularly Feminism. On the other hand, it operates in a largely conservative, right-wing rural community. In an effort to define this dichotomy and perhaps explain it, the author has examined the library of the University of Waikato, seeking to delineate the culture through the books available to the student body. This is what we found: The University of Waikato Library’s Book of Lists.

   

·      Most Popular Book among Binary: A study of the misogyny, disbelief, scorn and derision of “normal” people toward binary people—and how to cultivate it.

·      Smallest Book in the Library: Why Binary People Matter.

·      Second Smallest Book in Library. The Contributions of Waikato University Graduates to New Zealand Society.

·      Largest Book in the Library: The Unseen but Not Unexpected Detrimental Effects of Colonialism on Māori Culture.

·      Most stolen Book: Being Māori-- Kei te harikoa ahau ki tenei.

·      Best Historical Book: Why Communism on Campus is Still Relevant.

·      Most Relevant Political Tome: Talking Trotskyism.

·      Best Light Reading Category: A Thesis on the Anomalous Machinations and Conundrums Besetting the Ibellula Insect of the Infraorder Anisoptera…For Dummies.

·      Most Desired Book: Place, Space and Sex: Geographies of Sexualities, published by Rowman and Littlefield.

·      Best Biography: Jacinda—Those Golden Years.

·      Most Despised Biography (withdrawn): The Runner—How Jacinda Ardern Left New Zealand.

·      Best Autobiography: Air Quotes and Stridency: My Story, by Chlöe Swarbrick.

·      Most Popular Political Commentary: A dissertation on the Rise and Rise of The Green Party of Aotearoa/ New Zealand. He tuhinga roa mo te Rise and Rise of The Green Party of Aotearoa/New Zealand.

·      Most Read Medical Book: Common Viruses of New Zealand Cows.

·      Best Farming Book: Sheep Shagger: The Secret Life of a Waikato Farmer.

·      Best How-To Book: Size Matters: How to Use Big Words When Small Ones Would Do.

·      Most Popular Reference Work: A Dictionary of Obscure Words Guaranteed to Make Every Thesis Sing.

·      Most Requested Book: Government University Grants—How to get them, how to use them, and how to book that research trip to Bali.

Trump Annex

Office of The President of the United States of America.

1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW, Washington, DC 20500, USA

Telephone: You’re Crazy, right? Truth Social: #millionsofpeopleloveme

Dear God,

 

First of all, Happy New Year. A very big New Year. Probably the biggest you’ve ever seen. You’re welcome.

 

I’ve been told by many people—tremendous people—that you’re the King of Kings. Some say you created the heavens and the earth in six days. Very impressive work ethic. Very strong numbers. Honestly, my contractors could never. Maybe next time you want to do a universe, call me. We’ll put our names on a few galaxies. The Trump-God Nebula—people will love it, they’ll say they’ve never seen stars shine so bright.

 

Now, about this past year. I don’t want to say you could have managed it better, but there were some disasters, some fake news, some very unfair polls. A lot of people are saying your approval rating is slipping. If you need someone to handle your PR, I know a guy. Well, I know me. We’ll fix your image—very fast, very easy.

 

For the New Year, I’m asking for just a few small things: good health, a third term, huge wins, and that my enemies continue to be confused, exposed, and, ideally, retired, or jailed—peacefully, of course. Also, maybe turn down the volume on hurricanes and pandemics. People are tired. They want rallies, they want ballrooms.

 

If you could also keep my hair looking good, that would be fantastic. A true modern miracle. People touch it, and they can’t believe it. You did tremendous work there.

 

Anyway, keep up the good work up there. You’re doing an amazing job—though there’s always room for improvement, believe me. Maybe think about term limits for mosquitoes, but not PRESIDENTS!!!!.

 

Anyway, Happy New Year, God. Let’s make it great again—maybe the greatest year in the history of years. You handle the miracles, I’ll handle the branding.

 

Sincerely,

Donald J. Trump

President of the United States of America and Venezuela and Greenland---but wait, there’s more!!!.

 

Why is Trump Trying to Explain this Crash?

 

It is rare for Fryday to cover the same subject two weeks in a row, but President Donald J. Trump's pontifications regarding the tragedy over the Potomac deserve nothing less than a scathing response.

Even by Trump’s standards, which are minimal at best, his trying to mine political capital from the tragedy is ill-conceived, ill-judged, infantile and pathetic.

Attributing the crash to diversity in hiring as a possible reason for the aircraft colliding is, at the very least, premature and unworthy, considering investigations have yet to start.

They are also unnecessary, given they are not the opinions of an expert, are not supported by evidence (and are unlikely to be), and reflect poorly on the presidency when compassion and gravitas are needed.

To be fair to Trump, he did admit that he had no evidence to support his statement and that “it just could have been [diversity].” But why say it all? The President’s judgement and maturity must be called into question.

But Trump doesn’t stop there.

In the same statement, he suggests that the helicopter pilot might not have been wearing night-vision glasses. Again, this is unnecessary and premature. Why is Trump trying to explain this crash? And from what standpoint? He does not have the expertise, retrospect, or foresight for such utterances.

And he is achieving nothing.

But he does utter one truism in his statement. Well, to be more accurate, it was Vice-President Vance who said, “If you don’t have the best standards when you’re hiring, it means on the one hand, you’re not getting the best people in government.”

He is dead right there. He and Trump only have to look in their mirrors to see that.

 

Letter to God

 

All the news that is S**t to print

 

People losing their jobs is not good news.

But the question is: is it news at all?

I am referring to Newshub's imminent demise and TVNZ's staff cuts, which have led to the cancellation of several long-standing programmes. The number of staff cuts makes for grim reading, but does it warrant the amount of coverage it received from the media? Is it new, and is it, to a certain extent, self-inflicted?

In answer to the first question: I would say no. The fact that a major broadcasting operation, Warner Bros. Discovery, is closing its New Zealand news operation is news and probably does warrant heading the television news of its masthead channel and that of its government-owned rival. But doing so night after night with media-savvy presenters and newsreaders fronting impromptu press conferences was audacious, ludicrous, repetitive, and ultimately, I think, ineffectual.

What is not in question is the media’s right to do it. This is media having access to media. So, they used it. Over-used it, in my view. And that is in stark contrast to the meagre and all-too-fleeting coverage of substantial redundancies in other industry sectors.

But they aren’t the media.

I guess it’s a case of if you have it, flaunt it.

The second question is: is it new? No, the demise and the reduction of media have been going on for a long time and are wholly understandable. Economic factors are a big driver, and I can remember a time in America—a time in the 60s when, notwithstanding it produced some of the greatest columnists of all time, 305 daily newspapers closed their doors. And it has continued; since 2005 the U.S. has lost nearly 2900 newspapers, and 45,000 journalists have lost their jobs. Magazine numbers have had a proportional decline.

Whilst there are no exact numbers for newspapers and other media outlets going to the wall in New Zealand, we see anecdotally the same decline happening here.

So, the third and final question, is the decline of the media self-inflicted? In part, yes. Media can point to greater competition, the advent of social media, the cost-of-living crisis, audience and advertising distribution, COVID-19, and a score of other factors. But could not one of the reasons be that people no longer respect or trust the media—particularly the news media?

I look at what is served up to me today, and what I see and hear is concerning. For example, this morning on ZB radio, the three main news items were about the release of reports—obscure reports by obscure groups on obscure issues—hardly worthy of the research, let alone the publication of that research. Check out the TV news tonight; it’ll probably be the same. Put simply, reporters are not reporting other than to parrot the latest press release about reports soon to fade into obscurity.

They are not doing their job—hunting out and reporting on the important issues.

And then we have the failure of the media—particularly television—to demonstrate any objectivity. You may disagree. But do you recall those days of the Podium of Truth? Jessica, then Tova, then Barry? Jessica saw the light and did a Jacinda (runner), Tova went to podcasts, and Barry is still—well—Barry. But they have been replaced by a new breed: Maikie Sherman (TVNZ) and Amelia Wade (Newshub)—strident, full of self-importance and, given their reporting, totally bereft of credibility.

The perceived Maorification of the media may also played a part in declining ratings for the news.

And then there is the quality of presentation and reportage of the news. We have, for the most part, young, inexperienced news reporters who want to be the next Woodward or Bernstein. They haven’t the training for it, and more importantly, they don’t have the editorial oversight that maintains the standards—grammar, spelling, consistency--and even the objectivity of quality reporting.

There are exceptions. I think Newshub has some good people in there and in my view generally do a better job than TVNZ.

But increasingly, I am turned off and turning off the news—all news.

The old saying, I think from the New York Times, “All the News That’s Fit to Print,” is no longer fit for purpose.

Loose lollies and other proclivities

 

With the passage of time and a diminishing libido an old man like me loses his passion for the proclivities of youth such as horny women, masturbation, and Richard Laymon books.

Instead, one seeks other interests for an increasingly chaotic and ill-disciplined mind that is constantly conscious and concerned about the signs of early dementia and Parkinson’s.

In my case, those new-found interests include Charles Dickens's books, Mississippi's music, and shops.

Of course, the first two need no explanation—at my age and with my ailments, Bleak House becomes a light read, and The Blues befits my state of mind. But shops?

I have developed a fascination with fascinating shops.

They can be fascinating for any number of reasons, but the most prevalent are what they stock, the eccentricity of the owner, or both.

An excellent example of the latter is a small liquor store on the main street of Katikati in the Bay of Plenty. It’s called Finer Wines but stocks far more than just wines. That’s why it is so fascinating: almost every inch of available floor space is stacked shoulder-high with cases of liquor—wine, beer, and spirits. There is so much of it that walking two abreast between the stacks is impossible. Nor is there room to pass someone if they are already in the narrow corridors between the stacks—you must wait for them to vacate the area.

I have seen nothing like it before.

But what makes Finer Wines even more remarkable is the owner. He will tell you, as he told me, that the reason he has so much stock is that he has just taken delivery of new stock and hasn’t had time to put it away. That is not true. I know for a fact (because I was told) that his shop has always been like that and has been so since its opening.

 Even more remarkable, and alone worth a visit, is that this man seems to know where to immediately find any bottle in the shop even, in my case and my request, the most obscure of whiskies. He will also tell you something about every bottle you may be interested in, give tasting notes, and make recommendations.

Finer Wines in Katikati is well worth a personal visit, but there is also a website if you can’t make it.

The other store of interest to me is closer to my home in the Bay of Islands. It is the general store in the small rural town of Okaihau. It is owned by a friend of mine, and next to the district’s best butcher, which is why I first visited it.

The general store lives up to its name by being just that—it stocks just about everything, from fresh produce to toys. There are clothing, books, paintings, and garden tools. But most fascinating of all is that the store is a throwback to an earlier era—and deliberately so. There are loose lollies of the long-forgotten but fondly remembered (when seen) kind, such as large spearmints, milk bottles, smokies, and humbugs. There are toys I remember playing with as a toddler but haven’t come across for decades, and there is a woman behind the counter who looks and acts like Ronnie Barker’s Arkwright from Open All Hours. My wife and I spent almost an hour in this shop the other day and I am sure we didn’t see all this wonderous shop has to offer.

Settlers Way Country Store—make a visit or shop online at https://www.settlersway.co.nz/.

So, deprived of, or perhaps more accurately, dispensed with the proclivities of youth mentioned above, I am quite happy to settle for the small things in life, such as these shops.

They are my happy place.

 

The Long Walk Back

 

Someone, it may have been Will Rogers, once said of California that it was as if the United States had tilted, and all the country’s nuts slid into the Golden State.

I felt that way when I watched Parliament this week. It was as if the floor of the House had tilted, and all the nutters were deposited in its northeast corner.

They are all there—The Greens and Te Pati Māori—all Tā Moko and broad-brim hats, nestled in their little enclave, clinging smugly and righteously together.

Occasionally, one of them will venture out in a quixotic endeavour to harry the hoards. However, as Julie Anne Genter found this week, the long walk back can be costly and humiliating.

Of course, Genter’s embarrassment is just the latest among the greenery. There is also the bullying allegation against Genter, the shoplifting of Ghahraman, the exploitation allegations surrounding Darleen Tana and that ridiculous attempt by the Greens to oust their leader, James Shaw, last year—too white, too old, too male, too sensible.

Too bad he’s gone.

Add to that list of tribulations their behaviour of a couple of weeks ago when they turned up in the House en-mass wearing Shemagh Tacticals Desert Scarfs, presumably in support of Palestinians in Gaza. Not a good look on you, James, but you were at least saved, by conveniently being overseas, of the disgrace of looking like a dickhead.

Then, on Tuesday of this week, all the women of the Green Party turned up in matching green frocks and ill-fitting frocks, too. They looked like a contingent from Gloriavale. What was that all about?

Te Pati Māori say some outrageous things and they love to provoke. But co-leader Rawiri Waititi usually does it with quiet humour and good grace, and the party usually sticks to its core values.

So, what are they doing over there on the road to nowhere in the northeast corner?

If I had a message for Waititi, it would be to get out of there before it is too late. Allow your magnificent Tā Moko to shine, brother. Nothing good ever comes from playing with the nuts.

And my message to the Green Party is simple: If you want to save the planet, you have to first get on it.

 

Fryday versus AI

I have decided to restart Fryday. 

I’m doing it, in part, because yesterday I promised a very important man in my life that I would and, because he supplies my whiskey, I want to keep him happy.

If you don’t know what Fryday is or have forgotten it, it’s a blog I started anonymously in 1995 to “fry” a panel beater who gave me terrible service. I know it was not particularly laudable, but I wanted to prove the adage that the pen is mightier than the sword by writing a column that would drive him out of business. I failed—the panel beater is still in business, but so, too, is Fryday, which is now perhaps among the oldest blogs in New Zealand.

In the decades I have been writing Fryday, I have rarely been at a loss to find something to say about something. And when perception and situation have failed me, my readers and I have been gifted some wonderful characters such as Cecil S, Sackrider, Whetu, Yoseph Wankerstan, and even George W. Bush to find things to say for me.

Over 1,000 Fryday posts have been published, and responses have varied in number and viewpoint. The one that drew the most responses was one I wrote about my ill-fated foray into raising Sea Monkeys. For some obscure reason, Sea Monkeys resonated with readers more than other more frequent characters such as George Bush and Donald Trump.

I have lost many early posts, but you can read more recent posts here.

Another reason I have decided to bring back Fryday is to prove to myself that I can write it better than anybody or anything else.

I am not thinking about you when I make that comparison; I have the long-held belief that anybody can be a good writer, and there is no great mystique about it. Therefore, my issue is not with you—it is with Artificial Intelligence (AI). 

As a professional writer whose income is wholly dependent on my skill, I am often asked if I feel threatened by AI, which seems to be able, if not capable, to write anything. The answer is yes, I do. But I am damned if I will be beaten by it.

That is true, particularly of Fryday.

I plan to use Fryday as a tool to combat AI. While I acknowledge that AI can help improve writing, I refuse to rely on it to create a unique voice or humour, both of which are integral to Fryday and which, in my opinion, AI cannot deliver. However, I may be mistaken, and it remains to be seen whether this experiment with Fryday will prove to be a mistake.

But, I’ll take the risk.

My name is Mike Isle. Fryday is my creation—it’s back, and I hope you enjoy it.

Whetu Calls: Water Gate

 Whetu is an old friend of Fryday’s. Not that I think he knows that. He doesn’t have email or access to the internet. In fact, he is so far off the grid he thinks “the grid” is somewhere stockcars line up or steaks are cooked.

But, for all his isolation and frequency as a guest of His Majesty, he is a masterful observer of Man and, if his repeated success in finding me despite my efforts to avoid him are exempla, an astute detective.

I should know by now that if I get a knock on my door at a late hour, it will likely be Whetu. This happened to me yesterday, which I find doubly surprising and deeply worrying given that I now live in a gated community, and at that hour, the gates were locked. Nevertheless, I felt an obligation to respond. Here is how the correspondence went.

HE: Kia Ora, Bro.

ME: Whetu.

HE: You got new home?

ME: Yes.

HE: You didn’t tell me.

ME: It slipped my mind.

HE: But I found you.

ME: Despite those gates being locked.

HE: They is?

ME: Don’t take it personally.

HE: Been a long time.

ME: Yes.

HE: A lot of water has passed under the tree.

ME: Under the bridge.

HE: That, too.

ME: Yep.

HE: How much?

ME: How much water?

HE: How much money.

ME: What!

HE: How much money for that water? I come to collect. It’s called Three waters, not free waters. Auntie Mahuta told me that.

ME: She’s your Auntie?

HE: Yo, bro.

ME: But you are, what, twice her age?

HE: A distant auntie. Anyway, she made whanau in charge of three waters. I get water under the tree…

ME: Bridge.

HE: I throw that in for free. I get tree water, and

cussies get other twos.

ME: And what are those?

HE: What?

ME: What waters?

HE: Ah…. rain?

ME: And?

HE: Dirty.

ME: Dirty waters?

HE: Yo.

ME: There seems to be something a bit murky about this, too.

HE: No, that Four Waters. Hone handles murky.

ME: Hone Mahuta?

HE: Uncle.

ME: Well, whatever money you are asking for, I am not paying it.

HE: You’re not?

ME: No.

HE: No?

ME: No.

HE: Well, I tells you what.

ME: What?

HE: I’m thirsty. Give me a couple of bottles of Waikato instead.

ME: Waikato water?

HE: Waikato beer. I am not drinking that river water s**t.