Whetu Calls: Water Gate

 Whetu is an old friend of Fryday’s. Not that I think he knows that. He doesn’t have email or access to the internet. In fact, he is so far off the grid he thinks “the grid” is somewhere stockcars line up or steaks are cooked.

But, for all his isolation and frequency as a guest of His Majesty, he is a masterful observer of Man and, if his repeated success in finding me despite my efforts to avoid him are exempla, an astute detective.

I should know by now that if I get a knock on my door at a late hour, it will likely be Whetu. This happened to me yesterday, which I find doubly surprising and deeply worrying given that I now live in a gated community, and at that hour, the gates were locked. Nevertheless, I felt an obligation to respond. Here is how the correspondence went.

HE: Kia Ora, Bro.

ME: Whetu.

HE: You got new home?

ME: Yes.

HE: You didn’t tell me.

ME: It slipped my mind.

HE: But I found you.

ME: Despite those gates being locked.

HE: They is?

ME: Don’t take it personally.

HE: Been a long time.

ME: Yes.

HE: A lot of water has passed under the tree.

ME: Under the bridge.

HE: That, too.

ME: Yep.

HE: How much?

ME: How much water?

HE: How much money.

ME: What!

HE: How much money for that water? I come to collect. It’s called Three waters, not free waters. Auntie Mahuta told me that.

ME: She’s your Auntie?

HE: Yo, bro.

ME: But you are, what, twice her age?

HE: A distant auntie. Anyway, she made whanau in charge of three waters. I get water under the tree…

ME: Bridge.

HE: I throw that in for free. I get tree water, and

cussies get other twos.

ME: And what are those?

HE: What?

ME: What waters?

HE: Ah…. rain?

ME: And?

HE: Dirty.

ME: Dirty waters?

HE: Yo.

ME: There seems to be something a bit murky about this, too.

HE: No, that Four Waters. Hone handles murky.

ME: Hone Mahuta?

HE: Uncle.

ME: Well, whatever money you are asking for, I am not paying it.

HE: You’re not?

ME: No.

HE: No?

ME: No.

HE: Well, I tells you what.

ME: What?

HE: I’m thirsty. Give me a couple of bottles of Waikato instead.

ME: Waikato water?

HE: Waikato beer. I am not drinking that river water s**t.

 

Whetu Calls: The epidemiologist

 

I have known Whetu for a long time. Longer than anticipated and, on reflection, longer than desired. In the time I have known him I have moved house three times and on none of these have I given him my home address. Yet he crops up. He finds me. It is uncanny. The only times he has granted me a hiatus is when he is in prison, which are, admittedly, frequent. His crimes are petty, mostly involving the theft of cars, a couple of burglaries and shoplifting. As far as I know, he has never been convicted of a major crime involving violence or being a member of the Labour Party. I personally have nothing against Whetu. In fact, I admire him for being the entrepreneur he is. And the ruses he adopts and adapts to extort money from me are genuinely creative; but he is an intrusion, an unwelcome visitor, and a penetrator of my comfort zone—I do not like being penetrated. So, it was with some displeasure today that I opened my door to find Whetu on my doorstep. The exchange went like this:

HE: Kia Ora, Bro.

ME: Whetu.

HE: You gots new home?

ME: Yes.

HE: You didn’t tell me.

ME: It slipped my mind.

HE: But I found you.

ME: Obviously. Look, Whetu, what is it this time? And how much?

HE: How much?

ME: How much money do you want? Or, to put it more accurately, how much money are you NOT going to get from me?

HE: I don’t want no money from you.

ME: Really?

HE: I got plenty of money. I gotta new job.

ME: Really? With who…whom?

HE: Pacifica University.

ME: Never heard of it.

HE: It’s new. I am their epdi…epid…epri…bug doctor.

ME: Bug doctor.

HE: I tells them how much covid cases to expect. I models for them.

ME: And what does modelling mean?

HE: Standing around and looking good.

ME: What on earth do you know about Covid?

HE: Nothing.

ME: Nothing.

HE: I makes it up. Television comes to me because I am at university, asks me how much covid cases there are going to be next week, and I tells them.

ME: And how do you know?

HE: I looks it up.

ME: Looks…Look it up, where?

HE: First three numbers of last week’s Lotto draw.

ME: That’s not very scientific.

HE: Well, if you want to get scie…scia…

ME: Scientific.

HE: Yeah, that. I sometimes gives them the first four numbers—scares the shits out of them.

ME: So, what have you come to see me for?

HE: Next week there are going to be 8,433 covid cases.

ME: So?

HE: Want to buy a mask?

 

Old friends and the art of Gonzo

Cecil C. Sackrider is taking me to task. So is Whetu.

They claim that Fryday has forgotten them. They accuse me of being Jann Wenner, though Reverend Sackrider thinks Mr Wenner is a pornographer and Whetu thinks he is a hamburger.

Mr Wenner is in fact the recently retired founder and executive editor of Rolling Stone magazine, a magazine that capitalized on brilliant columnists such as Hunter S. Thompson, P.J. O’Rourke, and Cameron Crowe, and for a variety of reasons let them go.

My correspondents feel I am doing the same. They consider me to be Jann Wenner: without the toke and the coke.

They are right. I need to have another belt of scotch and give them their space in the sun.

But, not yet.

Let me give this last lingering look at what Fryday conveys.

It conveys shit. At least in conventional journalist quarters.

You see, I finally read (in Rolling Stone) the accessible definition of Gonzo Journalism, a term coined by Hunter S. Thompson to describe his particular, peculiar and proficient form of journalism.

In a word, he described it as subjective.

Subjective means that the story is written from the writer’s point of view—his or her perception and perspective. If they wanted to report the facts, and only the facts, they would be objective.

Many readers would suggest that objective is better. And that is okay. I get that.

But, think about it. Are the facts really that interesting? And are they even facts? I interview someone and quote them. That’s their story. But is that the real story? If they are cutting a ribbon, is that interesting? Are their ceremonial and sanctimonious sentiments more interesting than the stories of the people who made the ribbon or the scissors?

Who wants to know? I do.

So where Gonzo comes in is that the writer injects themselves into the story. And you know what? In doing so, they are representing us—the reader. They are not asking us to agree with them, all they are saying is that if you were there, with them, this is what you may have felt.

There is a story behind a story.

And please do not tell me you think I am wrong in believing that is less interesting as a story.

So, we have editors who say let the subjects tell their own story. Okay. But as Cameron, P.J and in particular Hunter S. told their stories, they are a bloody-sight more interesting than the subjects themselves.

But, I succumb.
Next week, Cecil C. Sackrider has his subjective say. And after that…Whetu, if he is out by then.

-->

When Whetu calls: Trumpo! My man!

Trumpo! My man!
Kia ora Bro.
Awesome congrats on being elected President.
We fellas reckon youse got what it takes to be a bro, specially for a white fella
Youse sees whats wrong with Earth an youse sees ways to fix it.
That’s awesome.
So, me and the bros got an offer for you.
An offer that as that other fella said you can’t refuse…to.
We make you Paramount Chief of Ngati Parrie
That makes you the man!!!!
You get to lead all the stuff.
You get the first choice of kai.
You get the best toke.
Room of your own.
Everything you not get as President. ‘Cept maybe the toke.
All it takes is a bit of koha.
One million dollars sound alright to you?
Cash is good.
Let us know know when you can make it.
I’ll tell the man on the gate to watch out for you.

Kia ora,
Whetu Sullivan
Paremoremo.
https://www.facebook.com/thebreezebreakfast/videos/10153260851225025/

2016: The Year That Is.

So, Fryday enters 2016. In doing so, it welcomes 2016 as an auspicious year and hopefully a rewarding one. The passing of 2015 completes the second decade of Fryday in its original e-letter format and the beginning of its second on-line decade as a blog. Twenty years this thing has been going. However, as most of you already know of the rationale for its gestation and have been content to let it evolve I won’t bore you by further stroking Fryday’s ego or, now,  yours.
Suffice to say, I enjoy your company and your comments and I thank you for them.
I am going to enjoy 2016. Fryday has a verifiable treasure trove before it. Never before, since the heyday of George W. Bush and Helen Clark, has it had such riches of character and personalities to play with, tamper with.
There is of course its stable of writers and visitors: Cecil C. Sackrider, Minister Yoseph Wankerstan of Wogistan and the irrepressible Whetu (though my old mate seems to have gone AWOL of late); they will remain and this year, possibly, be joined at times by the escapades of the indefatigable Phyllis J. Fenwick. Of course anybody who takes any of those too seriously will not perhaps be disposed to have the sagaciousness or the humour that Fryday so highly prizes and depends upon.
But it is not the musty old stable on which Fryday intends to rely. What is more exciting is the “new” set of personalities that it has at hand. There are those whom Fryday has already visited and will again. Handsome Sampson will deservedly not escape scrutiny in 2016 (he will not be allowed to go gentle into that good night) and he of the coiffeur and the coffer Bishop Tamaki. They will remain targets.
However the body-politic is now replete with soft targets—those who cannot fail to attract ridicule and in one case perhaps even cultivate it. I speak of course of the American presidential election and in particular of Donald Trump—Humpity Dumpity—which I am sure will find favour with Fryday’s oldest friend, Hardman.
Of places, Wogistan remains a favourite. Hamilton, I will scarcely visit in 2016—there is always the danger that boring begets boring. Besides, the city seems to have matured of late. Australia seems a lovely place to live but I wouldn’t want to visit there; others do it better, satirically. There is a little town in Ohio called Freeport that is neither a port nor free but has interesting “folk”, so we may pay a visit or two there in the manner of Truman Capote. And finally a visit or three south to the little town of Te Whaitu and some barside political commentary from “me old mate” Tarragon.
So, 2016 should be an interesting year for Fryday.
For you, I also hope it will be a happy one, a prosperous one, even the best one. For some of you, I know it will also be a different one; with new horizons and locations—I know you will enjoy them and they will welcome you.
Thank you for enjoying Fryday through the years. May we continue to grow old together.

When Whetu Calls: Taking Note.

http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=11507595

I knew the call would come. The knock on the door.

ME: Good morning.
HE: Kia Ora, Bro.
ME: And what are we selling today?
HE: Me?
ME: You.
HE: Not me, Bro. I’se saving you stuff.
ME: Really?
HE: I’se saving you the stuff of having all that embarrassment stuff of offending my cultural identity…and stuff.
ME: And how am I doing that? And how are you going to do that?
HE: What?
ME: Save me the embarrassment of offending your cultural identity.
HE: I am going to take off your hands—free, like—all those $10.00 notes you got that got my Tauranga all over them.
ME: You mean taonga—treasure.
HE: Yeah, what you said.
ME: And why?
HE: Because it has got all that tukutuku design that you fellas don’t have permission to use from us fellas.
ME: So, you are from the Te Hau ki Turanga Trust then?
HE: The who?
ME The Te Hau ki Turanga Trust. The “fellas” who are saying that the Reserve Bank doesn’t have the right to use the tukutuku design panel on the new $10.00 note. That it infringes their cultural identity and that the wharenui in which the weaving patterns used on the note is owned by the Rongowhakaata Settlement Trust, which was confirmed in the Rongowhakaata Claims Settlement Act 2012.
HE: Yeah…what you said.
ME: I don’t have any.
HE: Any what?
ME: New $10.00 notes. They are not released until October.
HE: Oh.
ME: Yes, oh.
HE: No problem, Bro.
ME: No problem?
HE: No.
ME: No?
HE:We fellas in the Trust will trust you.
ME: I am delighted to hear it.
HE: A cheque’s okay.

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.

When Whetu Calls: On Winston Peters

New Zealand First leader Winston Peters is the new MP for the Northland electorate, the electorate in which I now reside. I haven’t met him, I have no reason to. But my friend Whetu has, and he has a reason. Here is what transpired.

ME (Whetu): Kia Ora, Bro.
HE (Winnie): Good morning.
ME: Choice you sees me, ‘cause I wasn’t one of those fellas whose voted for youse.
HE: As the new Member of Parliament for Northland I see it as my job to represent all the people of Northland—Maori, Pakeha, Everybody. Northland has been neglected for too         long by this Government. The people of Northland have voted me in to send a clear message to John Key and his cronies in Wellington.
ME: So, we don’t have to use email then? Choice!
HE: What can I do for you? I have an important appointment.
ME: I want to knows what happened to the two miles.
HE: Two miles? What two miles?
ME: You knows Ninety Mile Beach?
HE: Yes.
ME: It isn’t.
HE: Isn’t what?
ME: Ninety miles.
HE: What on earth are you talking about? This is a waste of my time. I have a message to…
ME: I been on my mate’s computer and I looks it up on that Wiki thing and it says that Ninety Mile Beach is really eighty-eight miles.
HE: So?
ME: Sos, I want to know where the other two miles went.
HE: What???
ME: I think those Pakeha fellas took it and me and my mates wants compo…compaps…compon…money for it.
HE: Compensation.
ME: That’s it! Youse choice with words.
HE: Look, I haven’t time for this. My job is to send a clear message to Wellington. I have no time for you—or your mates. I have an important appointment.
ME: Whats more important than ours two miles?
HE: My hairdresser.

A Bush in the Hand

Fryday has enjoyed a raft of new readers over the past two weeks. They are welcome, whether they be readers of the blog or the email. Those on the blog I do not know—at last count there are about 20,000 of you. The email e-letter is a little different—I know all of you, because it goes only to those whom I like. It has been that way from the start. Fryday started 20 years ago in 1995 as an email to 20 friends attempting in my vain and inglorious way to discredit a panelbeater. It was my first and I think only malicious Fryday email, though some of you may think my disparagement of George W. Bush, “Bishop” Tamaki, and particularly Hamilton, attests to the converse. Then again, most of you also know that much of Fryday is a piss-take, to use a revolting phrase. Nothing you read here should be taken to seriously. I mention all this, not only for the edification of  my new readers, but also because there is a very real prospect of Fryday finding a new outlet in the mainstream media. In other words, a publisher. This is of course exciting. But also worrying. I am concerned that a wider distribution may lead to an adverse—read legal—reaction from those whom I deride. Seemingly the common element  among those “victims”, including the hole of Hamilton, is that they lack humour. But my legal advisor, Whetu, who has over his years had much to do with the law, sees it differently. He opines that as I am simply “poking the borax”, though he admits to having no idea what borax is, and nor have I, there is no chance of legal action. The worst that could happen, in his view, is that I get invited to participate in a charity boxing match against Cameron Slater—and that is nothing. So, after 20 years it is onwards and upwards—literally and literarally, publish and be damned. And even if the halcyon days of George W. And God, Helen Clark and Michelle are gone, there remains the Hamilton Public Library, my old mate Whetu,  Handsome Sampson and 123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard to go on with and, yes Hardman, there is Jeb Bush just waiting in the wings. Bring it on.

If I were a carpenter

I miss George W. Bush.
I miss Helen Clark.
I miss Hone.
The heart has been ripped out of Fryday by their departure from the political scene. Elsewhere, writing about Hamilton has become almost as boring as the city itself. Len Brown remains a cheap shot but is already shot, everybody knows it. Whetu, I think, has gone back to prison.
Fryday has nothing to write about.
Except our Canadian-born ambassador for New Zealand Eleanor Catton.
I know it is opportunistic. And I know her remarks are largely a media beat up.  But that doesn’t make those remarks any less offensive to me, or any less spurious. Let’s look at the facts (as I seem them, and does that mean they are less fact than conjecture?):
1.     She feels uncomfortable about being an ambassador for New Zealand. Setting aside that she isn’t, at least in a formal sense, all I can say is don’t be. An ambassador, that is. Nobody asked you to be. And, if you are uncomfortable being one, don’t pretentiously say you are one.  Leave that accolade to those who are genuinely and outspokenly proud of our nation.
2.     She complains of New Zealand’s tall-poppy syndrome. Well, I can’t recall anyone in New Zealand, when she won the Man-Booker or since, who didn’t celebrate with her that distinction. As a nation, we applauded her. None criticised her. And the fact was, the sub-text for Man Booker, “books you are guaranteed to start reading but not to finish”, was quickly swept under the carpet by a laudatory nation. It seems Ms Catton has also done some sweeping herself lately; this tall poppy has “carpeted “her New Zealand Order of Merit (2013), Doctorate of Literature (Victoria University, 2014) and Governor General’s Award for English Language Fiction (2013)—all fine fertiliser for a tall poppy.
3.     She criticises the Government for being neo-liberal, profit-obsessed. Well, it is that same government (and by direct association its profit obsession and tax-payers) who subsidises her position and salary at Manukau Institute of Technology and even the publication of her books by Victoria University Press. If I were a carpenter—or any other tradesperson—I wouldn’t get Government support. I am not sure why Ms Catton, or any other writer, thinks they warrant it. Or why the Government does, for that matter.
I think I had a thing about Eleanor Catton. An emerging thing. I thought there was a new Fryday thread—a new Hone. But now that I have vented. I don’t think there is much more to be said of her. But I do thank her. It is years since I heard the word hua.
For that, and for her and for Mr Plunket, I am a grateful hua.

Whetu Calls: The Political Party

-->From time to time one reaches a watershed in one’s life. Each day is different, but some contain events so momentous they change your life and set it off in a new direction. Such a watershed happened to me recently and as a result I see new vistas opening before me and much that is fading into darkness and memory behind me. Of the latter there will be few regrets. There is much I wish to consign to the darkness from whence it came. Whetu may well be one of those. However, it is not to be…

ME: My god! How did you find me?

HE:  Kia ora bro.

ME: You are the last person I expected to see up here. How did you know I was here?

HE: I got cuzzies up here. They told me youse arrived. Choice place youse got here. Cost you a lot?

ME: What do you want Whetu?

HE: I is on the campaign trail.

ME: Campaign? What campaign?

HE: Political campaign, bro. Me an a few cuzzies joined a new party and we’s putting up some can…candy…canner…peoples in the next election.

ME: You? What on earth could you offer the country?

HE: Wells, as that Kennedy fella said ask not what you can do for your country, instead ask what your country can do for you.

ME: Other way around.

HE: Not for us bro.

ME: So, I suppose you want a campaign contribution? Is that what you are here for?

HE: Youse mean money?

ME: I’s…I mean money.

HE: Nah: we got all the money we’s need.

ME: How on earth did you get that?

HE: Cusin Hone got us to join the Kim Dotcom party. Said he was rich bro and we could fleece—borrow—alls we like from him. Sweet bro.

ME: You have joined the Internet Party?

HE: Yus bro. The in-to-the-net party. That’s us. All the moneys and all the fishing we wants. Sweet as.

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.

The Kindness of Strangers

-->

I am not sure where Whetu lives. He seems to be a person of, as they say, no fixed abode. I know he “goes bush” sometimes, but whether that is literally or figuratively I do not know. I do know he has never asked to stay at my place, and I am sure that he and I can both interpret that as an act of kindness. Whetu is strange like that; he can be incredibly mercenary, yet equally generous, thoughtful and at times even introspective—as I found him yesterday when my cellphone rang:

ME: Hello.

HE: Kia Ora Bro.

ME: Whetu. Long time?

HE: Been down visiting the cuzzies.

ME: Oh? Where?

HE: Paremoremo.

ME: Day visit?

HE: Nah. Stayed a few nights…weeks. Give me time.

ME: The judge did?

HE: Nah. Me. Give me time to do some thinking. Examining my conscious.

ME: You have one then?

HE: Except when I have a few beers, then I loses it.

ME: So, what did all this self-examination produce?

HE: I has a dream bro.

ME: You has…have a dream?

HE: Yus. Just like that King fella that was on TV todays with those fellas from the Destiny Church. He had a dream.

ME: He did. A great one. And what did your dream tell you?

HE: That I won Lotto and I travels the world.

ME: Well, that would be right up there with Martin Luther King.

HE: But it come true Bro!

ME: You won Lotto?

HE: Nah. Not that part. But I gonna travels the world for all my days from now on. Stay all the choice places. Have some beers.

ME: That’s your destiny?

HE: You knows?

ME: We all have one. Destiny.

HE: Youse joining too? Ise just joining their haka party. Want nothing to do with the rest of them fellas. Theys strange bro.

Whetu Calls: Gangnam Style

News this week that ads by online electricity store Powershop featuring Mao Zedong dancing Gangnam style were pulled by Auckland Transport because they might offend New Zealand’s 120,000 Chinese immigrants set me thinking. Would that move not pose a greater risk of offending the 50 million South Koreans from whom Gangnam style originated? And what of our old friends of the Democratic Republic of Wogistan (123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard-3rd door on the right) who have adopted Gangnam style as their national dance? I believe they are writing to Auckland Transport. But there are some of blissful ignorance for whom this move passed unnoticed. Those not easily offended. Maori for one; Whetu for one. It had to happen. The knock: ME: Hello. HE: Bro. ME: What do you want, and how much will it cost? HE: Me? ME: He…You! HE: Me? Nothin’. Just come to say me and the bros in morning. ME: Morning? HE: Ten Guitars dead, Man. ME: Dead? Mourning. HE: Whatever. Gone. Got new song. ME: What? HE: Haka. ME: The Haka is not new. HE: Gangnam style. Want to see it? ME: Okay. HE: Two bucks. ME: Of course. Here you go. HE: Ready? ME: Ready. HE: Ka mate, ka mate! ka ora! ka ora! Ka mate! ka mate! ka ora! ka ora! Tēnei te tangata pūhuruhuru Nāna nei i tiki mai whakawhiti te rā Ā, upane! ka upane! Ā, upane, ka upane, whiti te ra! Seeeexxxxyyyy Lady. Gangnam style! Well of course you had to see it to believe it.

Whetu Calls: It's in the water

MEDIA RELEASE Watercare Names New Chief Executive Watercare Services Limited has announced its replacement for outgoing chief executive Mark Ford. He is Whetu TeWhetu, a 56 year-old analyst from the brewing industry. Mr TeWhetu says he is excited about the challenges of stepping into the sweeping shoes of the versatile, if sometimes volatile, Mark Ford. "That's if he leaves his shoes, eh. I got to look under the desk. That's if those fellas gives me a desk 'cause I not had one of those before, eh," says Mr TeWhetu. Industry analysts say Mr TeWhetu should have little difficulty fitting into his new role, pointing to his substantial experience in the brewing industry. Commentators attribute the growth of that industry to Mr TeWhetu, and he is seen by some to be even its saviour. Mr TeWhetu is more modest but does agree that he, along with "colleagues and associates", may have been a contributor to increased beer consumption patterns, particularly during the league season. "What wes got here (with Watercare) is just another drink, eh? And we knows all about drinking, so Ise the right fella for this job." The Maori Party and Mana Party have both endorsed the appointment of Mr TeWhetu. Mana Party leader Hone Harawira says the appointment sends a clear signal to "whities" that Maori own water, and the Government should be "afraid, very afraid." Mr TeWhetu was previously Hone Harawira's travel agent. However, Mr TeWhetu himself is a little more self-effacing and circumspect. He acknowledges in his first media interview since the appointment that he is not quite sure what either term means, but happily confirms that he was "circumspected" at birth. Elsewhere in the political spectrum, opinions are divided. When asked what he thought of Mr TeWhetu, Prime Minister John Key was suitably succinct: "Who?". Opposition leader David Shearer was even more scathing, saying you cannot trust anyone from "that Cunliffe bunch." Mr TeWhetu denied any personal knowledge of Cunliffe. "Me and the missus don't do that sort of thing," he says. "But I do knows a few shearers in my time down King Country. Good fellas." When asked what his first decision will be when he takes the reins from Mr Ford on January 1st, Mr TeWhetu was characteristically blunt and decisive. "My first ting eh, is to change the name. Ise gonna change the name to Wai Care, eh? 'Cause that's what the fellas and the fellesses tink around here, eh. Wai Care. And for white fellas, they good Maori fellas." Mayor Len Brown says Mr TeWhetu will bring a new dimension to Wai Care. ENDS. For further information: you media fellas look me up on Googles or buys me a drink at the Kaipara Tavern on Satday.

Whetu Calls: A House Nigger

ME: I knew it had to happen. HE: Heys. ME: Hey. HE: I heres to offer my services. ME: As? HE: As wots? ME: As what? What services? HE: As a house nigger. ME: You are a house nigger? HE: I’se a member of the Maori Party. Hone says we alls is house niggers. ME: What does a house nigger do? HE: He do’s all the jobs all the jobs around the house. He’s sub…sube…sub-servant. ME: Subservient. HE: That too. ME: A house nigger? HE: Yus. ME: Someone who do’s—does--all the jobs around the house and does what he’s told? HE: Yus. ME: Don’t need one. I am a married man. HE: Youse got a house nigger? ME: I am a house nigger.

Whetu Solves the World's Problems

I hope I am not courting fate when I proffer the hope that New Zealand is in for a happier year in 2012 than it experienced for much of 2010 and 2011. Touch wood that the only residual dark cloud is nothing new and indeed is so prevalent and perpetual to be almost non-existent: the performance of the NZ national cricket team. It won’t get any easier for them, coming off an Australian tour and then having the South Africans here.
But elsewhere I detect that despite electing a government the majority of us wanted and winning a world cup that we needed—and note there the relative priorities—its still been a hard year. I think the government should make it mandatory that we all take a two-week break after Christmas to recoup and recover and marshal our ravished recourses.
The country can run itself for a while can’t it? Alternatively we could just give it to the Maori Party to run for a couple of weeks—by the time they had finished with the consultative hui etc nothing will have happened, a fortnight will have gone by, and the power base will have been restored. Or maybe we should just let Phil Goff have a go for a couple of weeks—bit like giving the retiring front row prop a kick at goal when the game is already won (or lost)—fun, a nice gesture but ultimately meaningless. Hone would be good except that he would probably be on the first plane to Paris for a fortnight. Then there is Winston—ah, Winston—what would Winston do if given power for a couple of weeks? Well, you couldn’t of course. He would never take it. Two weeks? Two terms more like it, that would be his negotiating position, and then he would be so contrary he would also demand the post of Leader of the Opposition, in opposition to himself.
So, if we did have an enforced break as a nation who should we put in charge? My mate Whetu says it should be him. He says he has the perfect panacea for our ills. He says he wouldn’t need to be prime minister for a fortnight. He would just take us all down to the pub on the first day, Treasury would shout a few Lion Reds, we would collectively solve all the world’s problems in one afternoon and then his government would send us all on hols for a couple of weeks—at their cost. Which is kinda where we started, eh? Go Whetu!

Whetu Calls: The Wider View

The country is in a sombre mood. The litany of disasters, none of our making (though culpability for Pike River is still to be determined), is evoking questions such as why us and how much can one small country be expected to take.
Even that barometer—some say adjudicator—of popular culture, The Zuckerberger, is uncharacteristically quiet: some are trying jokes on it but the Facebook firmament, already hit by Steven Jobs, is simply not in the mood at the moment. Nor am I. When a guy said to me yesterday, “All this and Dan Carter!” I bit my lip and said nothing. I was funnier in the midst of my recent melanoma operation.
So it was something of a surprise when the knock on the Ranchslider came.
Then again, perhaps it wasn’t…

ME:Good morning.
HE:Bro.
ME:What are you selling this time? Mt Maunganui Brylcream?
HE:Funny.
ME:Not really.
HE:Not selling nothin’
ME:Nothin’?
HE:Nah. Giving something away. Koha for youse because youse been so good to me.
ME:What is it?
HE:Wells, you knows that new waka wot the Prime Minister opened yesterday?
ME:Did you go to that?
HE:No.
ME:Why not? You’re Maori.
HE:Wrong tribe.
ME:Me too. Anyway…
HE:Anyways that new waka wot you paid for…
ME:Yes.
HE:Me and the bros want to present you with a small token of our thanks for forking out that two and half million bucks.
ME:Well it wasn’t me only.
HE:Yeah. I knows. But it was all youse white fellas, with wide-screens.
ME:I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. But, anyway, I appreciate the recognition.
HE:The wot?
ME:Forget it. Do you want to make that presentation now, or later?
HE:Later.
ME:When?
HE:Saturday night. We’ll come to you.
ME:What time?
HE:Dunno. What time’s the game on?

Get over it and get on with it

My friend Whetu was not among the 600 kaihoe or waka paddlers who were such a large part of the RWC opening celebrations. He tells me that paddling a waka up the Waitemata sounded like too much hard work, best left to “the young fellas.” Instead he parked himself in front of the TV, opened a beer, lit a joint and sat back fully prepared to be entertained. With the possible exception of the joint, Whetu was much like any other New Zealander last Friday; either at one of the live events or glued to the TV to watch one of the most hyped events in New Zealand’s history. If transport and other issues tarnished the downtown event, people like Whetu didn’t care. By his fifth joint and twelfth beer, all fetched by the fellesse, he was fully into the swing of things. And if the two teams on the field were barely distinguishable at that point and he was left wondering why Benji Marshall wasn’t playing, it somehow didn’t matter. He was in party mood. We can learn a lot from Whetu, I think. Get over it and get on with it. We have had a week of fallout from Friday. Yes, things went wrong, and, yes, things had to be fixed and hopefully have been. But does what happened (or not happen) warrant the prolonged media beat-up it is (still) getting? I can only think that our overseas guests are probably bewildered at our propensity for self-flagellation. Except maybe the Brits, who are used to that kind of thing. For my part, I am going to take my cue from Whetu. I am going to sit back and enjoy this thing, and all that other stuff can simply ruck off. Fetch my beer fellesse.

Whetu: Travelling Easy

HE: Ki ora Bro.
ME: Ki ora Whetu. What’s it this time?
HE: What’s what, Bro?
ME: What do you want this time?
HE: Me?
ME: You.
HE: Want?
ME: Yes.
HE: Want nothin’ Bro.
ME: Nothin’? Nothing?
HE: just comin’ to say good bye or as you PC honkies say Haere ra.
ME: You going somewhere?
HE: Leaving Helensville mate.
ME: Oh?
HE: Move out next week. Moving to Parnell. Choice place. Pool. Backyard for hangi. Take the missus…maybe.
ME: How can you afford that?
HE: The missus?
ME: The place.
HE: Rolling in it mate. Heaps of it.
ME: So the crop came in?
HE: What?
ME: Nothing. Forget it. How did you get all this money?
HE: Gotta job.
ME: You haven’t had a job in years.
HE: Gotta job six months ago. Earning heaps.
ME: What job?
HE: Good job.
ME: I guess it must be. But doing what?
HE: Hone’s travel agent.


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