Wellywood Willy

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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Now playing: Mirella Freni , Herbert Von Karajan: Vienna Philahrmonic Orchestra - Puccini: Madama Butterfly - Un Bel Di Vedremo
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To Boldly go to...Hamilton

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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Now playing: The Band - Down South In New Orleans
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The World's a Stage

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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Now playing: Neil Diamond - Beautiful Noise
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Bin there, done that

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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