Welcome to the Fryday Blog

Friday 27 October 2017


Vodafone's decision to phase out its email service has got me thinking about Fryday. And I, too, have made a decision.

This is to be the last Fryday in an email format. Fryday as an e-letter has been going a long time. I started it in 1995, which was not long after the advent of the internet in New Zealand. It may even possibly be among the longest-lasting NZ e-letter still going.

But no more.

I am not going to take it over to a new domain, because of Vodafone’s decision. I have also this week lost a few names from the email distribution list and it is not now worth searching and retrieving them.

However, Fryday will continue. It has for some time been replicated as a blog and that will continue at this web address: https://frydaysblog.blogspot.co.nz/

If you want to “follow” Fryday, simply go to that site and click “follow by  email” at the base of the page. You will then be notified of all new postings.  Notifications are also made on various Facebook pages I run.

So, that’s it. No more e-letters. It’s generally been fun. It started as a vicious roast of a Glen Innes panel beater, but I hoped I have injected more humour than vitriol since. The single most popular post was on, of all things, sea monkeys. But you have also been very kind in telling me you like Whetu, George W. Bush’s Letters to God and the Dear Michelle series. I have moved on from the latter, as circumstances dictated. But Whetu will return and there is much more to come—just in a different format.

I am told that there is to be a scheduled power cut in 30 minutes, and no internet coverage.

Symbolic really—I have to go.

See you on the blog, I hope.

And, thanks.

Winston's Winter

I have my concerns and reservations about our new government. Most revolve around its stability and its impact on the economy.

However, I have neither the foresight nor the inclination to dwell on them now. What I have though is a distaste and a concern about the events of last night. And, no, I don’t mean the supposed brinkmanship, the “missed” deadlines or even the decision. I mean the way it was handled; it was a mess.

Let’s start with Winston’s speech. First, it had a Trump-like credibility as Winston unsuccessfully tried to deny that a party with just 9 out of 120 seats and 7.2% of the votes was deciding who would govern us for the next 3 years. Then, he, again unsuccessfully, tried to defend how long it took to arrive at that decision, comparing it spuriously to the German election result whilst conveniently not mentioning that our problem was not the length of the deliberations but the number of missed deadlines—read promises—that Winston made. Then there was the clincher: Winter is Coming. A supposed downturn in the global economy persuaded Winston and his caucus that our only protection from it lay with him turning to the Left, instead of to the Right who had so effectively protected us from the Global Financial Crisis of 2007—2008.

We would have been better off electing Jon Snow.

And then, there was the whole unfolding event being predicated on the supposition that The Greens would join the Labour/NZ First coalition. Yes, it seemed a foregone conclusion and there was a Memorandum of Understanding with Labour to that effect. But only with Labour. It didn’t include NZ First. If I had been Bill English I would have been on the phone to James Shaw immediately after Winston made his announcement and before Shaw made his conference call. In fact, I would have made my call to Shaw immediately after the election and offered The Greens the opportunity to make a real change by becoming the environmental wing of a strong stable government—and shutting Winston out altogether and forever.

But, no, it wouldn’t probably have worked. The Green Party has its head so far up its arse it has perpetual tunnel vision and it will take a colossal and polluting dump for them to come out and see the real world.

So, one final word on last night’s surreal events: two, really: Kelvin Davis. Did you see the look on his face as he stood behind Jacinda during her acceptance speech? It certainly wasn’t the face of a winner; it was the face of what it was—a loser. A deputy leader of the party who would form the government but would not be the deputy leader of that government. I could actually feel sorry for him had he not been such an arrogant prat leading up to the election. As it is, he will probably be further punished for his demeanour last night—it was not a good look.

In fact, nothing about last night was a good look for the parties involved, for the country, for MMP, or, dare I say it, for the future. You might be right, Winston: winter may be coming. It may already have arrived.

Winston Meets Weinstein

Winston Peters lost his Northland seat for four reasons.

First, it was never his in the first place. Second, National put up a strong candidate who worked hard—very hard—to regain the seat. Third, Winston’s heart was never in Northland; we hardly saw him here and he did nothing for us. Fourth, Northlanders were the first, on mass, to see Winston for what he is: a charlatan and a sham.

Now the rest of New Zealand are seeing it.

It’s not the negotiations; they are inevitable under MMP and a hung election. It is that once again they involve Winston Peters, for whom being important, or being perceived to be, is a pathological hunger. One that he will prolong as long as possible.

He is childish and pathetic, and so are his promises.

First, he told us all on election night that he would announce a coalition decision no later than October 12; that was yesterday. Now he tells us that it will be an indeterminate date in the future because it will be a New Zealand First Board decision and some of the board—and we don’t know who the board is—have to attend funerals.

This is farcical.

The only funeral they should be attending is that for a realistic, progressive and mature democracy in New Zealand. And if anybody really thinks that a coalition decision is a board decision rather than a Winston decision they are living in a different world.

For the rest of us, we are once again left with a shambolic mess, thanks to one man.

Winston is treating us like Harvey Weinstein treats his actresses.

We are being screwed.

In Praise of Hamilton

Mortality and moroseness are like co-joined twins, inextricably linked. I received the news a few minutes ago that someone for whom I have an immense amount of respect died last night. The man (his name need not concern us) enriched this world of ours in uncountable and incontestable ways. I am privileged, as many others are, to have known him. I think we were about the same age—which is where mortality and its co-joined twin come in. However apart for that announcement and imparting my private hurt, today remains Fryday and moroseness is hereby banished…to Hamilton. I was in Hamilton this week, where so many reside in exile and hope to be summoned back to Auckland. Or, at the very least, hope to move to Cambridge. It is not as if I have anything against Hamilton—the least physical contact I have with it the better. But when my GPS refuses to work and the town’s drivers seem oblivious to all other road-users, you immediately know where local-boy, Richard O’Brian, got his inspiration for The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Of course Mr O’Brian had to leave Hamilton and seek a more creative environment to write his show. I know that while down there I struggled to write even a Facebook post. And my reading was largely confined to a KFC menu, given that I found most Hamilton road signs and directions totally incomprehensible. And what is it about Hamilton’s propensity for roundabouts? They seem to love them down there. They build them everywhere. And that is the thing with Hamilton, you see: they love to build things. And they do it well. The reason I went to Hamilton was because of that. Most of my writing these days tends to specialisation in a certain sector, and Hamilton is the hub of that sector. Moreover, the Hamilton companies and the individuals involved in that sector are renowned and acknowledged for their innovation and creativity. They are in many respects an inspiration. But, they also seem to hide it away. And that, perhaps, is Hamilton’s problem. They seem to hide everything away, behind and below a veneer of too many Bunnings, too many Mitre 10s (Mega), far too many fast food joints and far too few restaurants. Hamilton, you should be loud and proud. Proclaim your prominence. If you don’t, I will: I’ll tell everybody that you are the BDSM capital of New Zealand, that you have more witches’ covens than any other New Zealand town, that you did produce Richard O’Brian and gave him inspiration, that you like cows, that you have one of the best motels I have ever stayed in. And, yes, you are home to some very very talented people. It just seems a pity that you seem too shy to tell anybody about it. So, I have. Say thank you Fryday.