The Last Time I was in Palmerston North

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The last time I was in Palmerston North it involved motel rooms, key swaps, seductive lingerie (black with little red flowers), garter belts (2), a whip, handcuffs and a Formula One driver. But, because you are probably not interested in any of that, I shall move on.

I came close to Palmerston North last week; the sign said Palmerston North 50ks but one can never make up ones mind as to whether such signs are meant as a guide or a warning.

Regardless I ventured no farther. I was in a hurry to get to Taupo (for a beer), to Hamilton (for an interview) and home (for a…). It was all part of a three-day road-trip through Hawke’s Bay, Wairarapa and Manawatu, ending, as much does, in the Waikato.

On that trip I saw parts of New Zealand I had never seen, and parts of New Zealand that would count among the most beautiful I have ever seen. Southern Hawke’s Bay looked like something from a Steinbeck novel, without the sadness. Manawatu was simply gorgeous, stunning. The Desert Road pulled at the heart, ripped at it, demanding that you leave part of it there, and I fear I did a little.

Most joyous of all though, and remarkably for me, were the towns. The towns of central North Island and the Wairarapa are thriving. There is not an empty shop to be seen, the streets are bustling, and the people are cheerful and friendly. Even Masterton, which had experienced a 6.2 earthquake the week before my arrival, was buoyant; I saw no damage and experienced none of the much-vaunted aftershocks. It was probably the high point of the trip.

The only sour point—and here you may say I am being predictable, but I have evidence—was Hamilton.

The only near-miss (crash) I had after travelling 100s of miles in my rental car was in Hamilton. What obscene logic persists in Hamilton that says it makes good sense to have two lanes going fully around a roundabout and cars in the right (inner) lane can at will and without warning cross over the left (outer) lane to exit?

But the evidence I have that Hamilton has a malevolent redolence for me was that my rental car’s GPS simply gave up the ghost when it reached the environs of Hamilton. It  could not track me through (and more importantly out) of the city. It gave me a series of confusing though strident instructions and then went blank. It did show a somewhat hazy image of what I thought was a bull mounting a cow, but it may have been a farmer and a cow—I simply could not tell.

The GPS recovered only when I was on the Te Rapa Straight and on my way home. It was as if it had fled the car and was waiting for me outside the town. Normal service was resumed but by that time I knew where I was going, and where I was going was home—taking with me wonderful memories of this beautiful country of ours and confirmation—if confirmation was needed—that Hamilton is just not my kinda town.

Happy Birthday Fryday

What started as a simple and one-off exercise to test the theory that the pen is mightier than the sword turns 20 years-of-age this year.
I don’t know the actual date, but I do know I wrote my first Fryday in 1994, which may make it one of the oldest e-letters still going.
That first posting was written to “fry” a Glen Innes panel beater whom I described as Auckland’s worst.  It was I think the first and last Fryday with any real malice and was sent to a few friends as a warning.
Since then I have tried to keep it light-hearted and the distribution list has hovered around 100, though the more recent blog version has reached 12000 hits.
Many of you have shown kindness in responding to individual postings. The one that received the most response was my tale of inadvertently poisoning my Sea-Monkeys. That posting, like most from the first 10 years, is now lost, at least from my computer.
The series that received the most comments (mostly good) was George W’s Letters to God followed by H’s Letters to Michelle—both now dispensed with. Letters from Wogistan get commented on, but the king for comments is reserved for Whetu; you seem to like his quirky view of the world.
Some of you may have given up on Fryday and consign it automatically to the junk file. But in 20 years I have had only 2 requests to have names removed from the distribution list. I did so immediately though regrettably in the case of one and with some humour with the other considering he wasn’t even on the mailing list and for someone working in public relations was unnecessarily abusive.
But the rest of you have stuck around and I hope I have, most times, given you a bit of a laugh each Friday/Fryday. Some have even past on Fryday to others, and I am both pleased and flattered by that.
So, thank you for your kindness and readership over the last 20 years.  I have no immediate plans to close Fryday; not at least while there is still my beloved Hamilton, and I will later this year publish the archive as an e-anthology, and introduce a new columnist, whom I hope you will like.
Oh, and by the way: despite me, that panel beater is still in business, but then again so is Fryday, so let’s call it a draw.
Have a good weekend.

I Feel Like Salman Rushdie

I feel like Salman Rushdie.
This is written from a remote, very secluded and extremely secretive location. It has to be. It appears that the fashionistas of Auckland have returned from their summer sojourn in Bali, Thailand or whatever the destination de jour is these days and have read and taken umbrage at my comments regarding the superficiality of participating in Fashion in the Field. They have told me in no uncertain terms that they are not superficial, just sooper!!! The jihad has begun. What started as light-hearted comments about my parentage has escalated to outright physical violence. I have been attacked! And there seems to be method to this violence. First I am blinded the light-emitting garish ties of the men (often matching their suits for even more effect) and, in this vulnerable state, I am then targeted by those so-called hats of the women that look less like hats and more like multi-coloured porcupines perching uncertainly atop a cascading waterfall of bleach. Fortunately I have a respite as most of the attackers have taken time off to appear before the cameras at the Heineken Men’s Open. But I fear they will be back, and I shall remain in hiding until such time as I can reach Hamilton, the last true bastion against the advent of the fashionista, and the ancestral home of the walk-short and the safari suit. Hamilton: my haven, my home.

The Sweet Sweet Smell of Success

I believe I came close to attaining sainthood.
I resolved over the season of goodwill to become newly compassionate, to harbour no animosity toward man or entity, and to not dwell on any disappointment of anyone or anything.
In other words, not pick on Hamilton
However, like many New Year resolutions mine lasted only a matter of days, and for this I blame Fairfax Media’s Stuff news-site. Today Stuff published a story that Hamilton is being beset by a foul but as yet unidentified stench wafting over the suburbs. The stench has been variously described as smelling like rotten eggs, a pile of dead cows, wet chicken manure and a dead cat. Or all of the above and all of which would be eminently practical in Hamilton.
Waikato Regional Council officers have followed their noses but have not found the source. So, Hamilton—a city whose previous sole claim to fame was its proximity to Matamata—has a new if unwanted distinction.
The only resolution to the problem I can suggest to Hamiltonians is that if they cannot banish the stench they should at least try and replace it. Get another; one that is perhaps just as foreign to them, but far more appetising: the sweet, sweet smell of success, of foresight and purpose, of vibrancy and vitality, of religious tolerance.
We can send it down from Auckland if you want.