A Curmugeon's Christmas

On Christmas Eve I travelled to Auckland from the Bay of Islands. It takes just under four hours,  but I had one very good reason for making the trip. On the day after Boxing Day I returned to the Bay of Islands. It took just under six hours, but I had three very good reasons for making that trip.
Traffic was the reason it took so long to get back. I accept that; it is the holidays and the Bay of Islands is a popular holiday destination and if the circumstances had been different I would have avoided travelling at that time.
However, what I don't expect and what perplexed me most—even during the  holidays—was a throwback to a time when as a child I went on holidays with my family and had to endure the almost continual cursing of my father. The reason?
Caravans.
Yes, there were caravans on the road back. Three of them, seemingly in convoy, one after the other, from Whangarei to Kaiwaka. I am not talking campervans, nor even the fold-down-types that are streamlined to the point of being trailers. No, I am talking the old type: the classic bulbous egg-shape that these days are beloved only by the eggs who own them.
At no point on this long (61 kilometres) and often twisting drive did those eggs exceed 80 kilometres an hour. Nor at any point when safety permitted did they pull over to the left. Nor on the few passing straights did they reduce their speed to allow more cars to pass them—there are six vehicles to be passed, remember.
In other words, they were plain pains in the arse, and certainly deserving of the derision that was repeatedly directed at them. They were doing nothing illegal, of course—though the antiquated caravans they were towing were an affront to the senses—but the lack of courtesy by them and the possible danger posed by impatient drivers held up by them pushed an already near unbearable trip over the edge.
My advice to such caravan owners wishing to take them on holiday is…don't. If that is impractical, at least not go in convoy like the jolly campers you think you are. You are probably all ageing swingers anyway and in the final event are going to wind up in the same caravan, so you don't need three. If you do indeed need three (or even one) keep to the maximum allowable speed or, failing that, pull over when you can safely to allow others to pass. Above all, exhibit some courtesy and common sense.
On a somewhat higher plain, may I suggest you upgrade to a motel or a tent? Either would be easier on the traffic and the stress of an already stressful season. If even that is insufficient reason for you to consider others, consider: do you really want to look like you never lost the yearning to be in a Carry On movie?

Regrets? They have had a few.

The relentlessly positive among us will have found much of delight in 2017 and even more so to anticipate in 2018.
Regrettably, I am not among them. In fact, I am full of regrets. Just kidding; 2017 was admittedly rough; however, I have a much more positive outlook for 2018. But I know there are others who must look back over the past year and have a few regrets as well as perhaps some satisfactions. This is just conjecture, of course. But of (other’s) regrets I have a few:

Jacinda Ardern

Must regret winning the election. She probably would have preferred rolling Andrew Little after a (lost) election and serving an apprenticeship as Leader of the Opposition. Her one point of satisfaction may be the record profits made by Lumino Dentists’ parent company and the contribution she undoubtedly made to that.

Bill English

Has no regrets, least of all about losing the election. At most, he would have had only three more years before being tossed out by Jacinda. Now all he has to do is wait for this so-called coalition to collapse and he is back—probably for the long run.

Winston Peters

Also has no regrets. He got what he wanted and had fun doing it. He also got rid of that pesky Northland Electorate and having to deal with real people.

Matt King

The man who unseated Mr Peters in Northland. Obviously satisfied and as yet too young and too new to have any regrets.

Kelvin Davis

Has plenty of regrets. One is being passed over as Deputy Prime Minister because of the coalition deal. But the major one will be his time as “Acting” Prime Minister and being made mince-meat by Bill English. It has just about killed off any chance of him becoming a credible politician, let alone a political leader.

James Shaw

Leader of the Green Party, surprisingly has no regrets. In fact, he has the immense satisfaction of knowing he is the deputy prime minister when Mr Peters retires or accepts his appointment as High Commissioner to the United Kingdom.

Donald Trump

Plenty of regrets. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He wasn’t supposed to win. It was a game. An ego trip. All he can do now is play with his toys. And, no, we don’t mean Melania or even Ivanka—we mean the armed forces, as forewarned by Fryday months ago.

Hilary Clinton

Plenty of them, and they are festering.

Bill Clinton

Only one: Hilary’s home too much.

Kim Jong-Un

No regrets. Just insanely regrettable.

Have a great Christmas everyone.

Smell the Flowers

Last week I photographed a man—it need not concern us who.

Suffice to say he is a man of some renown in his field and he has what my good friend Phyllis Fenwick describes as an infectious smile. Phyllis would know: her late husband also had an infectious smile, that later turned out to be herpes.

However, this man (the one I photographed) came across as a sincere kind of bloke who most would instantly like. I did and that surprised me

Why?

Well, I’ll tell you.

 I met this man before, many years ago, and on that occasion, I found him unfriendly, arrogant and dismissive. You know the type—the type that women (and it is invariably women) excuse as being shy. We men know different: we know a prick when we see one. And based on my meeting with him years ago he was one.

He doesn’t appear to be one now. Quite the opposite: open, friendly accessible and—under the circumstances—patient. And the interesting point about that is he is doing the same job he was doing all those years ago. He has had different jobs in the interim, and that may have changed him, but right now, and back at his old job, he is missing one core and defining component of his earlier personality—bitterness.

Recent events surrounding him could have subjugated him. They could have made him bitter. They did last time. Not, it appears, this time. Instead he looks relaxed and rested with no rancour about him. His smile is sincere. He seems genuinely interested in what people need to say to him, and he comes across as down to earth and honest. Which is unusual for someone of his occupation, which I again choose not to name.

I thought about this I thought about me. And I thought about Fryday. Mainly about Fryday.

Fryday over its past 26 years has tried to be like this man—though, until now, I would not have recognised that.

Sure, Fryday has taken the odd-swipe; but never without the quietude of humour. Only once has it shown bitterness, and that was its first posting when it attempted to drive a panel beater out of business. It didn’t and I learnt my lesson.

That lesson was that I have no mandate—let alone faculty—to educate you; only, if I can, entertain you. And the lesson I learnt from observing the individual I photographed is that there is little point in bitterness, and every point in a smile.

I am not suggesting blind acceptance. We all have our concerns. And those who exhibited them most intensely changed the world: Martin Luther King, Mahatma Ghandi, Adolf Hitler and my personal hero Mikhail Gorbachev were some.

But, I am not talking the big picture here. I am talking one picture. One picture I took last week of one person. It didn’t change the world; It simply changed my opinion of him.

And to a certain extent it justified 26 years of doing this bloody Fryday. If Fryday gives you a smile today, then I guess it has achieved its only achievable and modest expectation.

For all else to make our day great, look not to Fryday; rather look to the venerable Ferdinand the Bull and do as he did: simply smell the flowers.

To all the children of America

 Trump Annex

Office of The President of the United States of America.

1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW, Washington, DC 20500, USA

Telephone: You’re Crazy, right? Twitter: #millionsofpeopleloveme.

AN OPEN LETTER TO

ALL AMERICAN CHILDREN

FROM

THE PRESIDENT

I can imagine you are as excited as I am knowing the great American, Santa Claus, is so busy right now making great presents for me and you. He will have his little elves—or, as I like to call them, Mini Me’s—hard at work at their little desks making such great toys.

And you know what, children? What is best about that? Santa is giving those jobs to Americans. Yes he is. They may be little people. But they are still Americans. If you visited his workshop today you wouldn’t see Mexicans and other drug dealers, rapists and swimming pool cleaners. No, you would only see Americans. Real Americans. Americans like you and me.

And that is what is good about Christmas. It’s American. It’s ours. None of those folks from the Meddle East get to share it. No Christmas gifts for them. But Christmas is a time for love. So we show love, don’t we? If you have a Meddle Eastern kid in your class (they are usually the darker ones with names like Mustapha or Fatima or something), you go up to them and say how sorry you are that they weren’t born an American.
You tell them it not their fault.  It’s their parents.

On a sad note. Did you read where all Santa’s reindeer are getting killed on Alaskan roads? Runover and squashed. I was sad too when I read that. So I am going to do something about it. I am immediately authorising more oil and gas pipelines all across Alaska so we won’t need as many roads to cart oil and kill reindeers. That will allow us to do more drilling for oil too.

Won’t that be good? And, you know what? You can help! Go right through to your mom and Dad right now and tell them that President Donald J. Trump is saving Santa’s reindeer and they need to get right behind congressmen on the More-Drilling-Platform. Do that, and there could even be an extra present for you in Santa’s sack.

But let’s not forget the true meaning of Christmas—Family. I love my family. I have a great family. But let’s also not forget that other family of long long ago who gave birth to a  son. A special son. Thiers was the true gift of Christmas. A son destined one day to be President of your United States.

Merry Christmas one and all. God bless America.

Donald J. Trump

President of the United States of America.

The Ultimate Comfort

I have been thinking a lot about God lately.
I have a dear friend who is likely to meet Him soon.
But the god I am thinking of is not the god Brian Tamaki and Cecil C. Sackrider see—a cash cow; not the god Dave Dobbin and the rest of AA see—a crutch; not the god Donald Trump and George W. Bush see—a correspondent; and certainly not the god the mainstream churches see—a justification.
No, the god I see is different. The God I see is Reality.
Reality is what I am confronting at the moment. I have always known Reality was there, but often chose to ignore it and sometimes avoid it. I can’t now. I have to face it. So, soon, will my friend, though she doesn’t know it.
I see Reality as God because it is the only thing that brings certainty to our lives. That can be confronting, but it can also be comforting. Either way, we need to acknowledge it and embrace it. We need not, however, worship it. The God I am talking about is a compassionate god who, whilst omnipresent, does not require us to prostrate ourselves or even acknowledge his or her existence. All Reality requires is acceptance. And that is the comfort Reality gives us: the understanding that we cannot change it, and whatever it now is, it is not our fault.
Poverty is real. Death is real. Terrorism is real. Cancer is real. All things that blight us are real. But then so too are those who love us and whom we in turn love. So are the people who work to relieve that poverty and fight that terrorism, and to cure  cancer. They are real. The good things in our life are all gifts of Reality.
Reality has told me that I will lose my friend. I cannot change that. It is God’s will; it is Reality and it requires only my acceptance.