Poetry in Pantyhose

I may be delving into dark and dangerous territory here (you think?) but I believe I understand women. I have been one, once or twice. Yes—that is me over there. Now before I completely embarrass my sons and scare my wife, let me explain.
A few years ago I played the Fairy Godmother in a couple of children’s pantomimes. In doing so, I experienced the trials and tribulations of being a woman—some of them at least. I itched and scratched from bra rash (I was not, I think, properly fitted) and I holed pantyhose beyond count. I even exposed my derriere one notable night when my tutu dropped to the ground. Yes, sisters, I am one of you. I feel our pain.
However…
Whilst it can be said that we women don’t have to wear bras or pantyhose and such inflictions are affectation, we know that not to be true, don’t we darlings? Men do rather expect it of us. But, what about elective cosmetic surgery—facelifts et al? Is that really necessary, and, if not, is that a truly self-inflicted affectation? I think so. And, yes, I know men have cosmetic surgery too, but I am not going there—I am back to being a misogynist male. Okay?
I think some of the women around me today are among the most beautiful I have met—inside and out—and as far as I know none has had major cosmetic surgery—or need it. Yet, reading a story in the Herald today, I see that for some women such surgery is not only an affectation it is an addiction. I refer to the story on mother and daughter Georgina Clarke and Kayla Morris who have spent thousands of cosmetic surgery, with Kayla funding much of it as a stripper. You can read their story here. The story tells us that currently the pair spend £5,000 a year on tanning beds and have had lip injections, Botox, cheek fillers, semi-permanent make-up, tooth whitening and hair extensions. Despite having already spent more than £50,000, the pair plan to have a boob job apiece later this year, along with buttock implants, a nose job, further lip injections, and veneers.
Now, may I venture a suggestion here that perhaps successful surgery, whilst enhancing the face or body, is most successful if not immediately apparent that you had it. Such is not the case here. As you will see if you go to that story or google images of the couple, their body and face enhancements are so obvious they are bordering on the grotesque. Why would you do that to yourself?
But, then I am being judgemental.
Sorry.
I am such a bitch.
So, let me return to safer ground: writers, writing and words.
All writers dream of that magic (and not always attainable) moment when he or she comes up with so perfect a phrase that they are forevermore in debt to the Muse, yet saddened that never again will they have such a moment. If it happens at all, it happens once. And it must have happened to the Daily Mail (the original publisher) writer who, grabbing a gift from the gods, appended to the above list of upcoming surgery this:
“(and) a designer vagina for Georgina.”
Gold!

You have to hand it to them

Politics has shaped a lot of recent Frydays recently, so I thought I would take a break and tell you about an interesting experience I had this week. This week I went to hospital to correct a, for me, long-standing and, for many, surprisingly common deformity of the hand, called Dupuytren’s Contractures. It happens because some muscles (not the tendons) in the hand contract causing one or more fingers to permanently bend at right angles to the palm, giving the appearance of a “claw hand”. In my case, it was the little fingers on both hands, though I initially elected to have only one of my hands, the right, corrected.
Others who have had Dupuytren’s include, to my horror, Maggie Thatcher and Adolf Hitler. I must remember to take a close look at Donald Trump’s hands. On the positive side, I am told that those with the most propensity for this condition are descended from the Vikings. I am quite excited by that, having just finished watching the excellent History Channel drama series The Vikings on Netflix. I feel like going out and buying a sword.
Anyway, after a referral from my GP I was given one week’s notice to present myself at Whangarei Hospital for a corrective operation. I was told that I would be operated on in the afternoon and would need to stay overnight. I would also need to be driven home. Arrangements were duly made.
And I duly present myself at the assigned time having dutifully had “nil by mouth” since 6.00 that morning, but having substantially fortified myself with scotch the previous evening. My wife was able to accompany me through all stages of the process, except the actual operation, and she and I were treated by Whangarei Hospital staff with great courtesy and consideration. They are a friendly mob down there. And casual.
How casual though I was not to find out until the point I was wheeled into the anaesthetist's room next to the operating theatre.   There I met my surgeon for the first time. Down to earth and informative he told me at length about the operation after first examining my right hand. He then asked to look at my left hand—remember, I also have the condition on that hand, though not as pronounced. The subsequent conversation went like this:
He: How about we do that one, as well?
Me: When?
He: Now.
Me: At the same time?
He: Why not? I got time. And I guess you are not going anywhere for the next hour or so. We’ll fix that one up too. Take an extra five minutes, that’s all. Then we’ll send you home.
Me: Home? I thought I was staying overnight.
He: Nah. You’ll be good, as long as you are not driving.
At which point, and with a wide grin, he left me and I was wheeled into the theatre. Now the point about that theatre was it contained a cast of thousands—well, six people really. More than I expected. In my time as an actor I have performed before much smaller audiences—and I said so. Does everybody have a permanent grin at Whangarei Hospital? The grins faded though when they saw that the principal surgeon had marked the “wrong” hand.
“Thought we were doing the right hand,” a nurse said. “We are,” I said, “but he has told me he is now going to do both hands.”
“Oh,” said the nurse and threw a knowing and slightly ruffled glance at the rest of the team. “Well,” said one. “Two for the price of one. That’s Whangarei for you.”
The grins returned.
So I had both hands done. I did have to stay overnight, but that is another story. As I write this the operation was successful. My hands ache and I have difficulty typing (ironic, given this is the longest Fryday I have written) but my fingers have noticeably straightened and I am told they will stay that way—no more quizzical glances after shaking hands with men who are left wondering whether I am a Mason or coming on to them.
But the point I would like to make about the surgeon and indeed the rest of the team is this. First the surgeon. The two groups you want to see calm, informative and relaxed are pilots before you take off and surgeons before they put the knife in—am I right? And as for the team? Calm, reassuring, professional, laid-back and flexible. All the traits that I believe epitomise New Zealanders generally.
I never thought I would say this—It was good to be in Whangarei.
In fact, it was good to be a New Zealander.

Greetings to you good folk in New Zealand

Greetings to you good folk in New Zealand
It is Chuck Mantell editor of the Freeport Bugle talking to you here again. Freeport is looking awesome at the moment. We are heading into spring and the crops are sprouting. Mindy Holsberger says her melons are going to be simply awesome this year. Mindy is well known these places for the size and juiciness of her melons. She never fails to display them to best effect, and folks come from miles around to see and touch them. Why I remember last year when I touched them that they were the firmest melons I had felt since way back in 1989 when I got to touch Mandy-Jo Bodkin’s that time she had them out on display.
I know you folk down there like your fishing, so you will be glad to know that the fish is aplenty in Freeport this year. Billy-Bob’s hole up there on Trumpet Creek is simply swimming in them. Why I have even heard that you can put your hand in Billy-Bob Haubraw’s hole and fish will just swim into your hand, that’s how willing they are to be caught. Billy-Bob’s wife, Billie-Jo, will even fry them up for you if you are of a mind. And if she takes a liking to you, Billie-Jo will even show you her secret hole out the back and let you try your hand at that.
Don’t get me wrong though—there is more to Freeport than melon squeezing and fishing. We have culture here too. The Freeport Little Theatre Repertory Society are putting on the annual musical this month. It’s a return to those times we all remember, the summer of love, when the Society presents their remake of Hair—50 years on. The society has managed to assemble much of the same cast as their 1967 season and the men especially say they reckon that despite some of them being in their 70s the singing and dancing will be just as good as it was back then and the nude scene don’t phase them at all. They say they will be up for it, excepting for the matinee—they reckon that these days they can only get it up once a day.
Not sure what you folk down there do for culture. I heard tell from a friend of mine who visited New Zealand a few years back that your men folk like to parade around in skirts made of grass while your women folk play with their balls. Now, I guess that would be a sight to see.
Of course you are probably like us, God-fearing folk. We don’t do anything on the sabbath, excepting go to church. Pastor Ron reckons he is going to have a right passionate sermon this Sunday. He says he doesn’t often get into politics but he says it is time for all righteous folk to do God’s willing and get behind Senator Ted Cruz from the great state of Texas. He says God has no time for Donald Trump. I don’t know about that and as an editor I reckon it is my responsibility to go straight down the line when it comes to politics, specially when God and politics come together. I reckon that is an awesome combination and I am thinking I don’t want to take that on.
Nope, your good mate (like that Kiwiism?) at the Freeport Bugle will be sticking to his knitting—reporting on Mindy Holsberger’s melons, delving into the Haubraw holes and reviewing Hair for my readers who don’t get the chance to see it for themselves. I wonder of Jenny-Mae Tolkin-Elliott looks the same. That would be awesome!
Yours truly
Chuck Mantell
Editor, Freeport Bugle.

No Small Talent

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Personal opinion this. Probably sounds—or maybe is— a little churlish and insensitive, but I rarely found the late Ronnie Corbett very funny. His interaction with Ronnie Barker on The Two Ronnies was always admired, but I felt that Barker was by far the funnier of the two and a much greater talent. By contrast Corbett’s prolonged solo monologue (forgive the tautology, I am making a point), was for me the low point of the show; it somehow seemed more a nod to ego than entertainment. You may disagree, and I know of at least one Fryday reader who has posted a moving tribute to Ronnie Corbett on Facebook, and may well ask why I am writing anything if it is so negative. Well, the reason I am doing it is that I am paying tribute, in my own way, to Ronnie Corbett—in much the same way I paid tribute to Ernie Wise—and for the same reason. They may not have been as funny as their comedy partners—Barker and Eric Morecambe, respectively— but nor would Morecambe and Barker be quite so funny as they were without the formidable and often self-depreciating skills of their “straight men.” I am sure Corbett never thought himself a straight man when he was performing with—and for—Barker. But maybe he did so later; there is a lovely, but slightly sad scene, in Ricky Gervais’s wonderful Extras. In it, supposedly at the Bafta Awards, Corbett unmercifully takes the mickey out of himself, playing himself as a cocaine-snorting washed up comedian found in a toilet cubicle by Gervais. When they, along with Steven Merchant, are discovered and confronted by security we have a classic putdown by the security chief: “Corbett—it’s always bloody Corbett.” You can view the scene here. Ironically, and skilfully, the scene is played by Corbett with a straight face and the far greater put-down is the one he self-inflicts—brilliantly.  That show, that scene, that face shows to me—in its own small way (pun intended)— what a giant talent Ronnie Corbett really was.