Unreliable Rodney

I don’t know whether it is the economy or the emergence of reality TV and docudramas such as Border Patrol but we are in danger of losing sight of one of life’s staples—humour. There doesn’t seem to be much of it around at the moment, certainly in New Zealand. We are taking ourselves far too seriously.
I knew last night we were below par when I saw Rodney Hide on TV, devoid of his incessant and ingratiating grin. Of course he was meeting Auckland’s mayors and that would swipe the smile off anyone’s face—but, still, Rodney Hide? The dancer par excellence, the workout king, the judicator of jovial, the Yellow Peril? Yes, we are in parlous state when Rodney starts to take himself seriously. We have to fall back on Keith Locke.
I blame Billy T. James.
The late great Billy T. James gave us the apex of New Zealand humour, taking up that mantle from the earlier John Clarke. There has been nothing of their kind since. In them we set the bar too high. I doubt we will ever attain that level of humour, at least from our entertainment sector, again. And these days “comedies” such as Diplomatic Immunity inflicted upon us are less of a laugh than laughable. If Billy T. James was the apex of New Zealand comedy, Diplomatic Immunity is the nadir, akin to the long-forgotten (thankfully) Melody Rules.
TV, through this and other comedic attempts, fails us.
So do politicians. Because if we have now to resort to relying on politicians to give us a good laugh we are well and truly in trouble—Keith is silent, Winston is gone and Rodney is, clearly and sadly, no longer reliable.


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Helen Back

It is hard not to seem churlish and graceless when one writes disparagingly of a politician when she leaves office. But hypocrisy is worse and there is a fair bit of that going on now at the resignation from office of Helen Clark. Of course there are people who regret her leaving—many like her, admire her and some even idolise her. But even they will agree that Helen Clark is far from everyone’s cup of tea and the near universal plaudits she is now getting are, in many cases, disingenuous. And that is why I am delivering one final Fryday on Helen Clark; I have a perspective. I doubt that there has been any New Zealand Prime Minister who reigned (sic) for so long for so short a legacy. Yes, she did achieve a few things, but in my view most were ideologically driven and of limited benefit whilst others, such as her incessant apologies to all and sundry, were simply vacuous. Yet it is exactly these “achievements” in which she claims most pride in her valedictory speech. She cites the Civil Union bill, recompense for Waikato-Tainui, the dissolution of titular honours. Yet all this is not leadership, not visionary, perhaps not even productive. It is tinkering. And that is all Helen Clark did—tinker. She says at the end if her speech that she came into the House hoping that she would leave it having contributed to making New Zealand a better place to live in. She says she has. I cannot find any evidence of that.

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Dear Michelle VII: The Good Doctor

1 April 2009


Dear Michelle

I never thought I would find myself attracted to a man
I know you know this. We have discussed it. You and I are of like mind on this. It is a fundamental of the synergy and homogeny (interesting word) of our relationship. Peter knows it. Dear, sweet, practical Peter. As he said to me, as I remember, when we discussed my needs, “It doesn’t really apply to me, does it?”
But I find myself attracted to this man. I find it a strange sensation, as if I am embarking on a new life-stage. I am, of course, with my new posting and heading to New York. Some things remain the same: I still stride the world stage; I still tell people what to do and what is best for them, without actually achieving anything (there is not much difference there between the NZ Government and the United Nations Ha! Ha!) and I am comfortable in my cervix, as you put it.
But what of him? Why is he going? Yes, it has a certain inevitability—the job is tailor-made for him and he has long harboured a desire for it. But that is the point—I thought it was his ONLY desire. I didn’t think he had any other. But now…
Is it me?
Does he desire me or the World Bank? Is it me or the bank that takes him to New York? And close to me? Nobody yet knows he is going of course. That’s our secret. And, even there, there is the certain sensuality in shared intimacies. At the moment it is between me and my doctor. Ha! Ha! But people will know soon, when his posting is announced. Will they talk? Will they speculate? Will they know?
Do I?
These things will no doubt tax me in the future—as he taxed me in the past (Ha! Ha!). But, for the moment, please be assured that there will always be more Michelles in my life than…Michaels.
Find room for me on your couch next week.

Yours forever,
H.


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The Bain of my life

Being the target of not infrequent attacks in the media, most recently this week, I am well aware of the danger of uninformed comment. In my case, as in most cases, those making such comments believe they are dealing with facts and certainties. Fact is they are not. Certainties exist, of course: we know, for example and for certain, that anybody who says they are acting in your best interests are not, that rugby league is a better game than rugby, that Hamilton is New Zealand’s placenta. But much else is speculation, opinion and perception. Such is the case with the David Bain case. I could voice an opinion as to guilt and innocence, many do, but it would be just that—opinion. Uninformed opinion. I wasn’t there on the day of the murders, nor have I spent a day at any of the trials. So, I am sitting on the sidelines and, despite some very good media coverage, I am nowhere near in a position to enter a verdict on this one. Ultimately, though, there will have to be one, and that will come from a jury. I don’t envy them, or anyone directly involved in this case. It will be okay if they find David Bain innocent, but a guilty verdict? What will happen then? The ramifications of that don’t bear thinking of and I can’t but help wonder whether that very “fact” won’t have some bearing on how this trial is conducted and its eventual verdict. But that is only speculation, opinion and perception. Right now, ahead of a leisurely weekend, I prefer the comfort of certainties like a Bulldogs win and one for the Warriors. Have a good one.


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Coming out in the Walsh

So, Tauranga has lost Winston Peters and the 2011 Rugby World Cup? What is it doing right to deserve that? Hamilton wants to know. Rugby has also been in the news this week with the expulsion from the game of erstwhile leading referee Steve Walsh. Apparently there is a drinking issue. Strange, I thought there was always a drinking issue with those in charge of rugby. Maybe it is just because Steve is from the Southern Hemisphere that he stands out and is being penalised. He probably doesn’t like gin either. But Walsh’s troubles are insignificant to another facing rugby this week; that’s the commencement of the NRL season. Now, as everybody knows, and none will dispute, rugby league is the superior game. Indeed followers of all sporting codes will welcome tonight’s first game of the 2009/10 NRL season. Those who are particularly starved of good sport—i.e. Super 14 followers and golfers everywhere—will be salivating at the prospect. Unless they are of course masochists and living in Hamilton and therefore self-delusional and luxuriating in lives of misery. For the rest of us, with actual lives, rugby league is 26 weeks’ of sheer panacea akin, but not exceeding, our enjoyment and relief last year at the departure in one year of both Helen Clark and George W. Bush. It is the best of times…the worst of times can now be forgotten.

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Bruce Almighty

It was an ugly scene, with that cigarette. If Robert hadn’t been in agony before, he certainly was now. The woman had stubbed it out on his back—no, not stubbed it; ruthlessly ground it in—while Robert lay prone on the floor. Of course, he deserved it. He was the bad guy, she was incensed by Robert’s treatment of her hero; and when the hero had finally got the upper-hand and had thrown Robert from the ring into the crowd she had exacted revenge.
Those were the days when you could smoke in the Auckland Town Hall while watching the wrestling (or just about anything else). It was also the days when Robert Bruce reigned supreme as the predominant bad guy of Steve Rickard’s professional touring troupe. Robert was the man wrestling fans loved to hate. He was also one of the nicest guys I ever met.
I never met him back then, but I did later when Robert started his Ugly talent agency for “real” people and I was looking for such people for television commercials I was producing. The first time I met him, in his dusty photo-laden office in K Road, I was in awe of him, slightly frightened and respectful. But I liked him. I wasn’t alone. Everybody liked him. Unusually for his businesses—both as a wrestler and as a talent agent—everybody trusted him. He was honest.
Robert died this week at the age of 65. I am told about 100 or so friends turned up at his funeral. And about as many cats and dogs (Robert was vice-patron of the SPCA). I wasn’t there; Robert and I lost touch years ago but he was here in my thoughts for much of this week. The big man had taken his final fall. And this time there would be nobody stubbing out cigarettes, just genuine warmth for a hard man with a soft side.


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Key Performance Indicators

There is such a thing in employment as a purported measure of an employee’s performance. It is called a Key Performance Indicator (KPI). There are usually a number of them and like most “new” things in this area they are unwieldy and the product of discredited American theories and bored New Zealand human resource departments. But there is one KPI that does have some merit and it has woken me with a shuddering thought. John Key has completed his much-vaunted 100 days in office and Fryday is yet to find anything for which to criticise him. This is despite our criticism of his election night speech and our consequent misgivings. However, this doesn’t mean he gets 10 out of 10. He still portrays the wide-eyed wonderment and hint of panic of a boy in his first brothel. That doesn’t inspire confidence. Hor are his speeches particularly inspiring, either in content or delivery, and we are yet to see him tested by an Opposition still to rally its fractured confidence. But Key is not boring; I cannot even accuse him of that. He has set a cracking pace completing all his promises and pledges for the first 100 days in office. When ruthlessness was required, such as forcing the repeal of the Electoral Finance Act, he has displayed it. He has even experienced that leading, and uniquely New Zealand, barometer of a strong leader—being jostled at Waitangi; Barack Obama should be so lucky. No, one has to give it to Key. He is yet to do anything wrong and has done much as that is right. If Fryday were to display anything other than guarded respect for him we would rightly condemn it as the indecorous chronicles of a curmudgeon. I wouldn’t want that. We’ll give Key and his KPIs another 100 days and hope for some better news then.

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P

The vicious bashing of 85 year-old World War II veteran Eric Brady is a hideous occurrence. Mr Brady has broken left and right jawbones, cracked cheekbones, bruising and swelling to his face and chest, a cut elbow, and a possible fractured eye socket. He was attacked after leaving the Papatoetoe RSA last night.

Such attacks are all too common these days. But the brutality of this one, together with the age and innocence of the victim has lead not to the usual question of “who did this?” but rather of “who could do this?” It’s a fair question; this attack, unprovoked as it was and on a man almost defenceless, defies belief. Nobody of right mind could do it—would do it. But then of course he clearly wasn’t of right mind.

Police are looking for a Maori or Pacific Island man of skinny or athletic build, who was wearing a black or dark coloured top, white trainers and black shorts. It is pure conjecture what he was on, though the mind immediate flies to pure methamphetamine. Very little else leads to such senseless violence. I speak from experience, having on two occasions been in threatening situations due, I am certain, to the presence of P. Neither lead to much, but then again I am not 85 years-old nor, clearly, defenceless.

But is it not the case that P is now so prevalent that all of us have been affected by it—directly or indirectly? I believe so. I also believe that we are long overdue in having an aggressive campaign against it. The government has to step up and stamp out P, with all the resources it can find. And immediately. Otherwise, there is a very real danger of this thing getting out of hand, if it hasn’t already done so.

Mr Brady was in a stable condition in Middlemore Hospital awaiting surgery last night.


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The Heat is On

So, yesterday Auckland recorded its hottest day since temperatures were first taken in 1868. The highest is now 32.4c. The NZ Herald report is a bit ambiguous about the previous high, but it does cite 28.2c recorded earlier this month as being the highest this year. Hot it was, but I would have thought that we had higher temperatures than that in 141 years, and I know that Christchurch and other lesser New Zealand cities can boast of much higher temperatures quite often. But we have to believe what the Met Office tells us; short of their actual forecasts, that is. So, it was 32.4c and unless we managed to escape to the beach or have the facility of air-conditioning to waft the kind of chill down our spine more commonly associated with a tax audit, then we would have had a decidedly uncomfortable day. Indeed I heard many people complain about it, but as I work for a local council and live in a country that contemplates allowing Maori to charge for the haka I am no stranger to complainers. Indeed, I have one or two complaints of my own, one of which I hope to have operated on next month. But I digress. The proponents of climate change will claim that we can expect more of this. And worse. They may well have a point, evidenced by the fact that one of their most visible (and least audible) spokesmen, Keith Locke, has the capacity to raise my temperature at the very mention of his name. But I cannot subscribe to their view. I prefer the Met Office’s explanation that yesterday’s temperature was due to the sudden clearance of cloud along with a gusty northwest wind. The Met Office does however agree with the Greens in their prediction that there will be more of these temperatures. Whilst there will be some who will greet that prospect with delight I think they will diminish in number as the incessant heat takes its toll with a great deal more rapidity than the NZ Transport Agency currently exhibits taking theirs. I myself will have to contemplate going to colder climes. Hamilton is a prospect; for some reason I always feel a chill in the air when I go there. I could probably encounter a chilly reception in Crawford Texas where George W. Bush now resides. If I want real frigidity I most certainly would get it by turning to my wife and suggesting a channel change in the middle of the Australian Tennis Open. She would derive a similar benefit were she to suggest to me that Sex Vixens From Outer Space is any less than the greatest movie of all time. But I am willing and able to bide my time and sit out these high temperatures in the hope that whomever governs our temperatures will soon decide to be a little less playful and impose upon Himself a more pragmatic and compassionate discipline. Otherwise I might be drawn to the terrible thought that Keith may have a point. Hmmmm. I think I’ll turn on Sex Vixens again before its too late. Now they really are HOT!

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Getting a Complex

There used to be only two great mysteries in life, Graham Henry’s rotation policy, and the mind of a woman. Now there is only one. Someone repeated an old joke to me the other day. It goes like this: A scientist has invented a new bra for women. It holds breasts securely, prevents wobble and jiggle and allows no nipple show-through. His male colleagues beat him to death. I fear that were I to invent a mechanism whereby men were able to understand women I would suffer a similar fate at the hands (or is it the fists?) of women. Of course, and fortunately, there is no chance of that. Hamilton has more chance of being taken seriously than I, or anyone, has of inventing anything that could even start to explain the inner complexities of a woman. Man is incapable of such complexity. It is for them an unreachable and unfathomable concept. It cannot even be conceived as a goal. It is no coincidence that those men who have come closest, the world’s great artists, have either become alcoholics of suicides or both. Men simply cannot cope. Men are simple creatures. That’s why we have rugby. Women are not. That’s why they have knitting. So, if a woman’s complexity defies explanation does it necessarily follow that it is denied celebration? No. We men should celebrate everything that is woman and all that she provides and all that she asks. They are what they are. That is what makes them so beautiful to live with.

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Bess and the bunnies

Bess, the border collie, lives in a world of her own. Admittedly, it is a world within a world. But she zealously protects hers from ours behind a veil of charm, simplicity and innocence. She is in short a border collie boasting impenetrable borders.
But there is one incongruity in her character that belies her passive demeanour and wide-eyed innocence. And that is her propensity, long-ingrained I am sure, to make mincemeat of rabbits. Give Bess a sniff of a rabbit, or even more chilling, a sight of one, and Bess turns into the doggie equivalent of a homicidal maniac. I have no doubt that if we were to have the misfortune of all the infamous maniacs who putrefy history gathered watching Bess and the bunnies, they would say with one voice, “Now, that’s class!”
One event, more than any other, exemplifies this. It happened when Bess was in the charge of my then partner, now husband, Mike. Mike, too, often dwells in a world of his own, so it was some time before he discovered the dog he was supposed to be taking for a walk was no longer walking. Instead, Bess was digging frantically 100 metres back in their shared paddock. Despite calls to resume the walk, the normally subservient Bess refused such demands and proceeded about her self-imposed task with ferocious intent.
Mike approached, only to recoil in horror as Bess extracted from the burrow she was excavating the first of many baby bunnies. The killing, for such seemed an inevitable consequence given Bess’s passion and commitment to task, was mercifully quick. But that didn’t stop Mike getting on the cellphone to me in a panic.
I gave a deep sigh and for the moment set aside the politics of Paramount for the events of the paddock. I had been there before. Many a bunny had taken the train to Bunny Heaven with Bess as their enthusiastic conductor.
“There’s another one,” said Mike down the phone, his voice displaying his anguish. “And another.”
“How many’s that?” I asked calmly.
“Three, I think. No, four. Five.”
By the time Bess finished her killing-spree the number was eight, maybe nine, despatched with gay abandon and, mercifully for the bunnies, now inhabiting a Bess-free world. Bess, in return, happily returned to her own.
That night we three sat quietly. Mike was clearly in shock. I thought to myself “welcome to the farming world Mike” but said nothing. Bess just lay there with a quiet smile enlivening her normally passive face. But then she lifted her head.
And sniffed.
“Oh God, not again,” I heard Mike cry.
“You deal with it. I’m going to bed.”
MFI