Car Bollocks

The car I am now driving is ten years old and the price I bought it for, a little over a year ago, reflects that. But, when new, my BMW 5-Series was the specified model for the Government’s fleet of ministerial limousines. There is a certain irony, therefore, that my BMW has reverted to that function, at least in part. Occasionally it is used to chauffeur a local minister (of the church) to and from our shared quiz night at the pub. And no, there is no dichotomy of a minister and a pub; if you knew “our” minister you would know that. But that use got me thinking. Back in the 1970s I met the head of the Government’s limo service—the head chauffeur. He was visiting a former government minister whom he clearly liked and whom I was serving as communication advisor. I cannot recall the chauffeur’s name, but I do recall that he was a retired police officer and thus doubled as personal security. I also recollect that we took an immediate liking to each other; so much so that he gave me a standing invite to visit his fleet garage and have the use of a government limousine (and driver) whenever I was in Wellington. I never took up the invitation then, and I am damn sure I wouldn’t be allowed to now. But he was a nice bloke and clearly had a fund of juicy gossip to share about ministerial back-seat machinations, if discretion had allowed. It didn’t. So, my imagination partook of an unbridled journey. What he did tell me though is that there is an etiquette about being a passenger in a government limousine. For example, in earlier days—in the 60s and 70s—ministers and even prime ministers liked to sit up front with the driver in a vacuous attempt to show the common folk that they were ordinary blokes and blokettes. These days, that is not allowed; the minister sits in the back, often with his or her press secretary. And, if you are the prime minster, the front passenger seat is usually taken up by a Diplomatic Protection Squad officer. Furthermore, the minister, or VIP, is required to sit rear-left (curb-side) for ease of access, and proximity to the security guy in front. One New Zealand holdover to earlier times is that the male minister or prime minister is still likely to open his own door. If you are a woman—or even, like Helen Clark, a reluctant one—the implicit understanding is you wait for the door to be opened for you. I don’t know why this is the case, though I have been told that it is in part to shield you from embarrassing photographs as you alight from your vehicle wearing a short skirt. Helen Clark wearing a short skirt would be embarrassing enough, I would have thought. Of course, being chauffeur driven is one of the trappings of power. Nevertheless,  these days it is closely monitored in case of embarrassing abuse. Even so, there are many cases of ministers using their ministerial BMWs, and drivers, for journeys of less than a kilometre; conversely, the longest recorded trip was 734 kilometres by former National minister, Kate Wilkinson, in 2013. In the old and less monitored days, Crown limousines and their drivers were used for such disparate tasks as collecting the minister’s mail, laundry, TAB bets and, more often than rarely, mistress(es). Those days have gone—we hope, and the sleek silver BMWs of today, whilst still an awesome sight if they arrive en mass with the Prime Minister, are used more circumspectly. I don’t have to worry about that. I have a big black brute of a BMW I have called Bruce. I am proud of that. And if I have a minister who doesn’t give a toss whether she sits in the the front, the back or the boot? Well we is (sic) just common folk up here in Kerikeri. It is just the BMWs that are uncommon

The unenviable loneliness of the long distance sentinel

News this week that South Auckland Police had been “given the option” not to ticket unlicensed Maori drivers generated inevitable outrage from the public. So it should, the police spelling of “liscense” on the documentation was deplorable. And on that subject, we did think Fryday’s old friend Whetu would have a say on the matter of Maori allegedly getting preferential treatment. Never slow to come forward on such matters Whetu’s reticence on this issue seemed strange. “Not at all, bro,” he said when we contacted him. “Those police fellas giving the bros the choice of training instead of fines for driving witout a license is really choice. Really works, eh. I done it five times now.”
Elsewhere this week FIFA and New Zealand Football are proclaiming the U20 Tournament a success. Tomorrow’s final will pit Serbia against Brazil and whilst New Zealanders don’t have any special affinity with either team, the brand of football they play is apparently exciting, say those in the know, so it should be a fitting finale.
Pity it is at North Harbour Stadium, which was a sorry sight and site for Tuesday night’s semi between Serbia and Mali. The stadium was practically empty. Temporary stands at either end were empty. Much of the temporary south stand was in fact covered by a large Fifa banner, so one can surmise that the organisers already knew that this semi-final would be anything but a sell-out so rather than waste space they used it as advertising space. Only common sense, really. But why, if they had foresight in that matter, do we have the above photo?I am sorry it is so small—it is a screen grab—but look closely. See him? The loan security guard sitting behind the goal, scanning an empty stand? There was another security guard doing the same thing just to the right of this picture: sitting, their backs to the game, watching an empty stand. For ninety minute they did that and in the time I was watching them, not once did they turn and look at the game (maybe they are rugby fans). I find that laudable of them—their attention to duty—and I can accept any security provision proffered by Fifa as substantiation for their presence and positioning. But, really, was it necessary for them to be subjected to that? Would that not be the most boring ninety minutes you could possibly spend?
If you get a chance to watch tomorrow’s match have a look for him/them. I am sure they will there. I just hope that this time they will have something to look at. I bet they do, too.

Cache in Hand

At my age, an unrestrained brain decides, with increasing frequency and in modern parlance, to clear the cache. It consigns to a metaphorical trashcan memories that, in its opinion, I no longer need and am unlikely to use. Sometimes it is a blessing; there are many things in my past that I would rather forget (we all have them). At other times, the brain’s unilateral and undiscriminating clearing of the cache obliterates some little treasures and pleasantries that, if left intact, would provide comfort through dotage.
Fortunately, the brain—like any computer—has a fail-safe mechanism, nothing is ever completely deleted.  There is always a way to retrieve information, or in this case a memory.  It happened to me the other day when I saw the above picture.
Of course, I knew what it was immediately. Nevertheless, I had completely forgotten them until someone posted the picture and the embedded question on Facebook. It is the floor dimmer switch used in most vehicles from 1927 through to about 1975 when they were placed on the steering wheel, where in fact they were before 1927. Now that you, like me, remember them, I wonder whether you, like me, are drawn to the question: which configuration is better? I am inclined to the floor mount because of the number of times I am late in dimming my lights while I fumble around in the darkness trying to find the stalk.
However much of everything above is a digression. The point I am trying to make is that it often takes one event to trigger another—one long forgotten. It took the Facebook posting to remind me of floor dimmers. It took the death of Christopher Lee today to remind me of Dennis Wheatley. We all know of Lee, though without his appearance in Lord of the Rings, he too may have been consigned to a trashcan. However, who remembers Dennis Wheatley?
I do.
Wheatley through a mammoth series of thriller and occult novels from the 30s right though to the 70s was one of the best selling authors of the era. Probably his best known was the Duke de Richelieu satanic series, which when turned into films by Hammer Studios stared Lee as the formidable and stately Duke. But Wheatley was a prolific author and he had an avid readership, I included, that spanned the world and sated many an adolescent thirst for adventure, fear and the prurient.
Yet, now he is forgotten.
Sir Christopher Lee, however, is not. For a modern generation he will be remembered most as Saruman, the wicked wizard from the Lord of Rings trilogy. For an earlier generation he will be remembered as the eponymous Man with the Golden Gun opposite Roger Moore. However, there is one role that eclipses both and is still remembered and revered by all generations:
Dracula.
Christopher Lee was the definitive Dracula in those Hammer horrors. No other actor could have brought that Stoker creation to life—literally—with so much majesty and malevolence and sheer vampiric horror than Lee. In these days of Twilight, that should not be forgotten.
Nor will it, I think. Sir Christopher Lee, like Dracula, the character he made his own, is immortal.
Rest in Peace Sir Christopher.
If you can.

Two Hundred Shades of Awful

News that EL James is to pen an additional book to the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy sends a shiver down my spine for several reasons. The first is that, in my view, the first three books are appallingly bad, both in the writing and in their representation of the BDSM world. Of course when it comes to the latter, each to his or her own, and Christian Grey and EL James are entitled to whatever “jollies” they like. But the books smack (pun intended) of little more than Goggle research, and I am prepared to bet that Ms James has never even been to Hamilton.
The second reason that I am all a tither is envy. I wish I had written those books. I wish I had a share of the US$95 million a year EL James purportedly earns these days—and, while I am at it, a share of the $540 million the film took in. I could have written them, I think. I thought about it and there are some these days who suggest I should do it. But, really, it is not my style. And if EL James lacks credibility I would be far worse. After all, how could you take seriously anything on the serious subject of subjugation of women from a man who a month ago was writing letters from Wogistan and last week  offered a learned pedagogy on the use of toilet seats.
No, it wouldn’t work. Not for me and not for you, dear reader.
But will it work for EL James? And here we come to my third reservation about the fourth book. We are told that Ms James will write it from Christian Grey’s (the man’s ) perspective.  My question is, is anyone interested in his perspective? And I am not asking this of my male readership. Men made up only 20% of FSOG purchasers. I want to know whether women (the other 80%) are in any way interested in in reliving the story from Christian Grey’s viewpoint? And certainly after previously subjecting themselves to the slightly dim-witted and certainly unnaturally naive Anastasia Steele and her “experiences”.
Do you expect to learn anything? I would be surprised if you do. We men are fairly superficial really. Generally speaking, what you see is what you get. And if EL James has created a complex character such as Christian Grey, don’t forget he is a work of fiction. Real men, in the real world, are simple souls, with simple prurient interests easily identified and exploited by women. That is why Hooters are coming to New Zealand.  If there is anything left to learn from and about us, you would probably learn it quicker talking to the man in your life rather than from the new book on your shelf.
Just saying.
And finally on the subject of complexity: toilet seats. Last week’s tome on such a (I thought) prosaic subject drew a wonderful response. It didn’t earn me US$95 million but the number of you who gave me your thoughts was gratifying. You will remember that we men were admonished to put the lid down for very good heath reasons. Well, one of my correspondents, a woman, has offered another compelling reason: feng shui. Apparently, and according to the tenets of feng shui, you can make some simple enhancements to uplift the energy in our bathrooms. The toilet is the most detrimental in reducing the energy. It has the largest opening and when flushed with the lid open  effectively sucks energy down and out of your home.
We men need to put the lid down. I just did not know why. I thought it was just women being fussy.
That’s why we simple men need you complex women to tell us such things.