El Walrus v El Teflon

At the beginning of the Kim Dotcom affair we were told implicitly that there was something dark and devious about Mr Dotcom and his operations. Whilst that may be the case and we are yet to hear any evidence to the contrary, recent revelations would suggest “dark and devious” better describes the behaviours of our own organisations and individuals. First it was the Police and the paucity of evidence upon which they based their search warrants, then was the alleged rorting and befuddled behaviour of John Banks. More recently there was the revelations about the role of our super-intelligence agency the Government Communications Security Bureau. And now, even our Prime Minister Teflon John is being hit, and it is starting to stick. Incidentally when Googling Kim Dotcom for Fryday, Google informed me that others who had made the same search had also searched for John Banks, John Key and Julian Assange; now that is a fast-developing unholy trinity if there was one. Strangely, the other search subject was Steve Wozniak, who is not even on the same planet as the others, let alone the same ilk. This affair has not ended here. A not always prescient Fryday invited you as far back as May 4 to watch this space; more was coming. More is coming. Sadly, we won’t have TVNZ's top investigative reporter around to investigate it. Just Kidding.

Hysteria: The Movie, the Man.

There is a movie out at the moment called Hysteria that is creating some hysteria. It purports to be the true-life story of the invention of the personal vibrator. It is not. Even a modicum of research reveals that the personal vibrator was an evolutionary development. But no matter, Hysteria has found its spot—so to speak—filling the void, so to speak—for a post Fifty Shades of Grey market. Among women, among whom Fryday occasionally enrols, vibrators are quite the talking point and one assumes that this is reflected in increased sales and households literally humming as a result. Which brings us to Piri Weepu. The batteries in even the best vibrator will in time run out through over use or lack of use. They will have exceeded their use-by date. That’s what’s happened with the All Blacks’ nuggerty halfback. Piri was unceremoniously dropped at half time at last weekend’s test match against South Africa. It was clear, at least to me, that he had to go: slow delivery, wrong decisions, hospital passes—all showed that Piri was past his best. The batteries had run out. Aaron Smith was creating the new hysteria. Steve Hansen made the right move. I feel sorry for Piri. After his undoubted success at the World Cup he had every right to feel he could continue to create the magic behind the scrum. But the warning signs—with The Blues—came quickly and culminated, dramatically and so sadly, at the test. We are unlikely, I think, to see him in an All Black jersey again. As ignominious as that half-time dropping is, we can and should remember and reflect on Piri Weepu at his best. New Zealand rugby is blessed with a history of great scrum-halves and Piri Weepu is among them. His high point must certainly be the 2011 Rugby World Cup where he galvanised the tournament and created thousands of Facebook postings. He was wonderful to watch, and the hysteria—then—was his. And ours. And for that, we should thank him, move on now and watch tests without him, and simply bask in the post-orgasmic glow that is Piri Awahou Tihou Weepu.

Ridge Line

I am not going to join those criticising and ridiculing The Ridges. I didn’t see the inaugural programme and have no intention of seeking out and seeing any in the series. I am simply not interested in a contrived insight into the self-perpetuating B-List celebrity ilk that ilkees and a largely slavering media are trying to foist upon us. I have seen bits of Keeping up with the Kardashians with the horribly disfigured Bruce Jenner and the KKK (note no African Americans) and that’s enough. This is not “reality” television, there is more reality in The Simpsons, this is Junk television and whilst I am no cultural snob, I have better things to do with my time. Or at least I thought I did until I realised what proportion of my evenings was spent on Facebook. Now, here again, I won’t join the critical mass. Facebook has its critics. I am not one of them; I see its uses and its benefits though I worry sometimes that it is now the preferred method of communication for many, supplanting the phone and even emails. It is also highly addictive and has all the intellectual majesty of Mitt Romney. Nevertheless it has presented me with some new “friends” and restored others and that is something no other medium could do. It has also, this week, informed me that Bob Dylan has a new studio album, The Tempest, and that it may be his best ever. I bought it. It is. Facebook tells me that all three of my sons are doing outstandingly well in their respective careers and there is an adhesive love within a geographically fractured family. Facebook delivers on the impossible, giving us Oscar Wilde’s opinion of Fifty Shades of Grey: “There is no such thing as a moral or immoral Book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” And such it is with Facebook. Facebook is not moral or immoral. It is what is: a service, to amuse and abuse. And if it is overly replete with teenagers making silly hand signals to the camera, and too many inspirational motifs, it is still a warmly embracive community and, like it or not, it is the modern reality. Whereas The Ridges…?

Whetu Calls: A House Nigger

ME: I knew it had to happen. HE: Heys. ME: Hey. HE: I heres to offer my services. ME: As? HE: As wots? ME: As what? What services? HE: As a house nigger. ME: You are a house nigger? HE: I’se a member of the Maori Party. Hone says we alls is house niggers. ME: What does a house nigger do? HE: He do’s all the jobs all the jobs around the house. He’s sub…sube…sub-servant. ME: Subservient. HE: That too. ME: A house nigger? HE: Yus. ME: Someone who do’s—does--all the jobs around the house and does what he’s told? HE: Yus. ME: Don’t need one. I am a married man. HE: Youse got a house nigger? ME: I am a house nigger.