Going for a Burton

Having never sat on a jury I am not sure I am qualified to write this fryday. Nevertheless, qualification has never stopped me before, so here goes. What was the jury thinking in the Burton case? Why did they take almost two days of deliberations to find this maniac guilty? Okay, Burton’s criminal history was denied them, and one can take issue with the propriety of that given that: Burton is serving a life sentence, with a minimum non-parole period of 26 years, for the murder of Lower Hutt man Karl Kuchenbecher in January 2007 while he was on parole, and he had served 14 years for the stabbing murder of Paul Anderson outside a Wellington night club. But here are the facts that were presented to the jury:
• Burton stabbed a fellow convict several times with a sharpened steel rod in a corridor outside the cells in Paremoremo.
• One of these stab wounds, to the heart, caused injuries that required emergency hospital surgery to save the convict’s life.
• Security camera footage shown to jurors during this week's trial showed Burton entering the convict’s cell. The victim was seen backing out of the cell shortly afterwards, pursued by Burton.
• Burton was seen pursuing the convict up and down the corridor three times, with an object in each hand.
• Burton’s victim was eventually pulled out of the corridor by security guards. He was escorted to the prison medical centre, where his eyes were seen to roll backwards and it was only the intervention of a guard that prevented him from falling to the floor.
Excuse me? I think that is fairly compelling evidence of Burton’s guilt. Yet, it takes almost two days to find this guy guilty? But the other question is, why should it tax me so? Good question, and well in keeping with the undoubted astuteness and intelligence of Fryday readers. Well, the answer is this; we are told that the courts are overloaded and that many cases never come to court because of it. Yet here we have a court case involving a man (Burton) already in gaol and clearly not going anywhere fast that goes two days over time because of the vagaries of a jury. I know that’s not the court’s fault and I don’t have an easy answer but common sense would surely suggest the jury system has done us a disservice here.

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Naked Opaque

You have no doubt heard someone described as having penetrating eyes. It seems a favourite phrase of trash novels and women’s magazines. I am yet to meet anyone with truly penetrating eyes. The closest is Helen Clark, whose eyes are so cold they have the penetrative effect of ice cream on sensitive teeth. But that’s not quite the same as the novelists’ declaratory intent. Some people are also, we are told, gifted with the ability to see right through us. We are on more sure ground here—I for one am easy to see through I am told. Anyone can do it, which makes it particularly difficult for me in my profession as a spin-doctor and is probably why I may occasionally go a little over the top on the enigmatic bit; which is all a facade—you see through that, don’t you? But there are some among us who are less penetrating than grating and the reason is: they are so superficial as to be transparent. One such is Rodney Hide—naked ambition without the brains to pull it off. Another is Hone Harawira—on the make and out for the take. “Bishop” Brian Tamaki is an obvious example and no amount of protestations to the contrary will convince me that he is anything but a two-bit opportunist. His henchman, Richard Lewis, is worse but somehow more honest in his deviousness. And it is that honesty that can, somewhat paradoxically, make someone more opaque. Take John Key—I think Mr Key is basically honest (still) so it is hard to work out why he is doing the job he is now doing and what his ambitions are. George W. Bush is another. Bush, despite all that was written about him, is basically honest—he doesn’t have the skill or the intellect to be anything but. The more we saw through him, the more we were forced to ask what the f**k is he all about? You get the point? Naked opaque. Perhaps it is the profession I am in but the honest among us make me uncomfortable. Go away.

Prawn to Bishop

I have no time for the self-anointed Bishop Tamaki. Even less time for him after Garth George’s revelations in yesterday’s NZ Herald and Tamaki’s performance on last night’s Close Up. Despite everything said to the contrary by Tamaki and his cohorts, Tamaki is nothing more than a self-delusional megalomaniac. Read this from Tamaki’s autobiography, and I repeat autobiography—Tamaki wrote it himself: “Never before have the forces of religious, political and social activism converged more powerfully than in the life of Bishop Brian Tamaki.” Has Tamaki not heard of Mohandas Ghandi? We are now told that any of “the 700” approaching The Bishop must kneel before him and those bringing gifts can approach closer than those who aren’t. I can only imagine that those bringing a Harley Davidson for the Bishop, as has happened in the past, can qualify to get right up his arse. Personally, I am just grateful to The Bishop for allowing me to be in the same city. Bishop Tamaki tells us that such protocols and covenants are simply manifestations of respect determined and dictated by members of his church, not by himself. Again he is being disingenuous. One gets the feeling that nothing happens in that church that is not initiated by Tamaki or, more likely these days, his chief henchman and head of the church’s “political arm”, Richard Lewis. Tamaki’s response to the various accusations swirling around and about the church hinge on two factors, that it is all a beat-up by the media and that his church is full of love and does good things. There may be some truth in the first, and Tamaki was essentially made in the media, and he has probably sound evidence for the second. But one is drawn to the conclusion that Tamaki is now out of control and that his church and ministry is less about loving God than loving Tamaki. Or does he now think they are one and the same?

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Home Sweat Home

Last week someone said to me that moving from one home to another was the single biggest cause of suicide during the Victorian era. I find that hard to believe. Poverty surely would win, in that era and any other. But being in the midst of a move—which this person knew about so his statement was neither particularly helpful nor tactful—I can attest that it is pretty traumatic. It has an air of uncertainty that no amount of planning or organisation can completely vanquish. Indeed I can state from personal observation that the more organised you are the more stressful it is when things start to go wrong. My wife, whom I can state emphatically is the most organised person I know, planned this move almost on her own. She did a superb job. Not so those entrusted to implement her plans. Our so-called “professional movers” (three of them) can be best be characterised as The Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse on draught horses. They wreaked mayhem but at a pace more redolent of Helen Clark’s libido. As a consequence our move took longer than expected and was more expensive than anticipated. But…we are now ensconced. And this weekend, with that slow but still chilling clip-clop clip-clop receding into the distance we plan to enjoy every moment of our new home.

Samoan Shoes

Last night I dreamed that my wife left me, my new house fell down, and so did I…down a 600-metre cliff.
Dream interpreters will have a view on what that means. I would be interested in hearing from them. But what I think it means is that I need a holiday. Fortunately, next week I am getting one.
But the remarkable thing about that dream is that it didn’t include anything about my work. Given that work has figured relentlessly and remorseless in previous dreams, except when it’s inducing a sleepless night, I would think it would have figured in this one.
I have had a bad week. But others have had it worse, far worse. I think here most of the people of Samoa, American Samoa and Tonga and also the Philippines and Indonesia. Many had little to start with; now they have lost everything, including lives and loved ones.
Now we have the call to help: food, shelter, medicine, people, money.
And shoes.
I heard yesterday that one of the more pressing problems is that there are so few shoes in Samoa and so much glass on the ground. Cut feet are compounding the island’s medical problems. That’s something I didn’t think about and good on those who did—and created a specific charity: Shoes for Samoa. I don’t know how widespread that is, but here in my local town you can donate shoes through the supermarkets.
Today I’ll head down to the supermarket to hand over a few shoes, then I’ll take a break to move into a new home that is still standing with a wife who is still with me.
Life for me, though still not a dream, is not so bad after all.

Treeson

We New Zealanders have been criticised rightly for our Tall Poppy Syndrome—i.e. our propensity to criticise or otherwise ridicule those among us who succeed. And by the way I don’t believe we are alone in that or that it is necessarily a fault... I am sure that other nations do it. And those who don’t, such as Australia, are displaying an unwarranted arrogance and, in Australia’s case, a need to obviate the claim of once a convict always a convict. But we New Zealanders do knock down our achievers and it is not a good look. It’s for that reason I am reluctant to write about Sir Howard Morrison. Sir Howard died yesterday. That is sad. He will be missed. He achieved much. And was much loved. But not by me. I met him a couple of times and each time he was an arrogant son of a bitch. That’s my experience and my opinion. However, that is not important, nor is it what this Fryday is about. This Fryday is about how the media has treated Sir Howard’s death and Sir Howard’s death has been treated with an overkill bordering on the obscene. Both major television networks were live at Ohinemutu last night. Why? What did that add to the story, other than give Temuera Morrison an opportunity to grandstand? And why did the death of a man, who happens to be part Maori, give justification for Simon Dallow to deliver his introduction entirely in Maori? And as for “the great Totara has fallen” uttered by all and sundry—spare me. Even Radio New Zealand had erstwhile Howard Morrison Quartet member Wi Wharekura proclaiming that Sir Howard’s death made him (Wi) a superstar! I know that’s not Radio New Zealand’s fault, but perhaps they should have shut Wi up or not put him to air instead of him making a fool of himself. There was and no doubt will be more of this media orgy, but I have neither the time nor the space to list it, and frankly can’t be bothered. Sir Howard was a flamboyant character and, as he admitted on many occasions, an egotist. He would have loved all this media attention and considered it warranted. He was after all The Great Totara. Fair enough. But this little sapling finds it all a little sickening, that’s all.

The 2009 Hamilton List

Regular readers are aware that Fryday publishes the annual Hamilton Books List. This is a list of books currently in Hamilton public libraries, which, for the reasons specified, have drawn some distinction. Fryday is indebted to the Hamilton Public Libraries service for the 2009 list.

• Most Stolen Book: Oily Rag—Living for next to nothing in Hamilton.
• Most Despised Book: Next to Nothing—An Aucklander’s view of Hamilton.
• Most Popular Book: (still) The Cowma Sutra—Discourses on Bovine Love.
• Thinnest Book: Hamilton Alive!—The Colour & Vibrancy of Hamilton.
• Thickest Book: God’s Own—The Religious Influence in Hamilton Councils.
• Most Popular Art Book—The Da Vinci Code.
• Quickest Read: The Influencers—Hamiltonians Who Have Made a Difference.
• Most Requested Book: Field of Dreams—A Photographic Essay of Sheep in Their Natural Habitat.
• Least Requested Book: Banking on it—John Banks and the Greater Auckland.
• Most Acclaimed Reference Book: A Higher Standard--Aerial Top-Dressing in the Waikato.
• Most Popular Autobiography: (Equal First) Hard to Swallow by Bill Clinton and First Love—Only a Cattleman Understands by George W. Bush (as told to Bess T. Ality).
• Most Repeatedly Taken Out: The Compulsive Obsessive—A Manual.
• Most Acclaimed Sports Book: Knot in This Life—How to Tie Good Knots.
• How To Drive Books: (Tie) The New Zealand Road Code and Dukes of Hazard—The Early Years.
• Religious Doctrines: (Tie) The Bible and Straight Furrow.
• Most Popular DVD(s): None—no demand.
• Most Popular VHS Videos: Country Calendar.
• Most Popular Computer Book: About Your Amstrad.
• Most Popular in Library: (By Public Survey, and still!) Calendar Girls—Taking Stock, The Best of Country Calendar.

Laid...back again

Last week we looked at the 17 jobs that made us attractive to the opposite sex. This stemmed from the popular perception that actors and other show people can attract and bed salivating fans of the opposite and same sex at will and with gay abandon. They can’t. For example tonight I will perform (on stage) before 130 people. I doubt that any will exhibit the slightest inclination to have sex with me. And any that do will probably be attracted by my closet of tight yellow trousers, pink see-through shirt and mauve chiffon scarves, which will make them of only little interest to me. Nevertheless acting still rates “up there” as an attractor. So, let’s go down. What are the least successful jobs as sex-magnets? These were harder to find. Impossible, in fact, for me to find. There is none on the Internet. So, I made up my own. In doing so, I place myself at great risk of offending everybody in these categories. But the way I look at it, and the point of this exercise is, if nobody else finds you attractive why should I? My 17 jobs least likely to get you laid are:

1. Bus drivers: have a long one but too quick to pull out and difficult to make a pass at.
2. Car salesmen: those gold chains are so abrasive.
3. Council workers: cynical view of the world and can never be quite convinced you would be remotely interested in them.
4. Gynecologist: just how many can he handle?
5. Hamiltonians: cows have to rest some time.
6. High court judges: no longer able to sit around in robes and wigs so have lost interest.
7. Masochists: attractive only to sadists—sex-deprivation is part of the game.
8. Politicians: despised by all and sundry, only a sadist would apply (see masochist above).
9. Radio jocks: honey voices but still hankering after those far off pirate days of being out on a boat with 20 other men.
10. Real Estate salesperson: we all know they over-sell.
11. Rodney Hide: suffers from premature ejaculation and the need to put it all together before he can get a big one.
12. Rugby league players: generally hunt in packs and hard to get alone.
13. Sex Therapist: Knows the theory, can’t put it into practice.
14. Solitaire Players: prefer to play with themselves.
15. Suicide bombers: their perverted ideas of what a blowjob entails repulses.
16. Teacher: who wants to lay there while they explain it to you?
17. TV Newsreader: so, I should be interested in YOU why?

Laid Back

If you have ever wondered about your acting ability, and you probably haven’t, try playing a gay guy. I am doing that at the moment. I thought it would be a measure of the credibility of my performance, and therefore my acting, to see whether I am attractive to men in that role or even indeed I am propositioned. I wasn’t. Moreover, I wasn’t propositioned by women either! That’s unusual for an actor.
Or is it? Common belief is that an actor, by virtue of their profession alone, is attractive to a person of the opposite sex—and to the same sex for that matter. We all believe that, don’t we? Well, in my boredom and with no real prospect of being propositioned in the near future, I decided to research that. My simple question? Will being an actor get me laid? Failing that, should I try something else? The answer is…try something else. It seems, according to one credible research foundation that published their research on the Internet, acting is not among the top 17 professions guaranteed to get you laid. Nor is road-building Barry. Instead the top 17 in order are:

1. Architect: Build me something as good-looking as you.
2. Glassblower: Really any job with blow in the title will do.
3. Firefighter: Drool over their calendars with us.
4. Doctor: Everyone wants some sexual healing ... especially if you’re a freelance blogger without health insurance.
5. Celebrity: Pick a groupie, any groupie.
6. Librarian: But you only stack up if you’re hot.
7. High-Ranking Soldier: Lookin’ so fine in that tight, fancy uniform.
8. Porn Star: Your job is to get laid.
9. Model (Preferably Underwear Or Bikini): You’re a professional hottie who can make us buy whatever you’re selling.
10. Hotel Concierge: You’ve got the keys to everybody’s room/heart.
11. Photographer: You can compliment and direct your subject til they take off their all clothes. Yes, yes, make love to the camera!
12. Bartender: You’re surrounded by drunk singles looking to mingle.
13. Musician/DJ: You can play peeps like you do tunes.
14. Personal Trainer: Let’s get physical.
15. Delivery Boy: Or girl, they come to you. This sadly does not apply to stanky messengers who run around all day.
16. Pilot/Flight Attendant: That jaunty cap, the mile-high club, man, there are just so many reasons we want to fly the extra-friendly skies.
17. Furniture Craftsman: They’ll give you more than one thing to sit on.

A good actor may be a celebrity (5) but that is as close as we come. Or don’t. So it appears that I fail both as an actor and as a lover. What is even more dispiriting in my quest to get laid is that “writer” doesn’t appear on the list either, which makes writing Fryday each Friday something of a pointless exercise, doesn’t it? But I won’t stop—in my next Fryday I’ll reveal the top 17 jobs guaranteed not to get you laid. I have an awful feeling council worker may be among them. Are you ready for that Barry?

A Word for the Wise

Many years ago I had the good fortune to meet Ernie Wise, the then erstwhile partner of the vastly funnier Eric Morecombe. Mr. Wise was out here to help launch the New Zealand chapter of Variety Club. I recall him as pleasant, and courteous but distant. Distracted. Like other celebrities here for the Variety launch he had been shouted a trip and a holiday in New Zealand. And I think that was why he was here. He certainly showed little enthusiasm for the event and none at all for performing. I was drawn to the conclusion then, and am certain of it now, that he was a shadow of the performer he was as straight man for Eric, while Eric’s much larger shadow continued to knock Ernie’s confidence and self-esteem. And performers are those most insecure of individuals. Eric’s gone. Ernie’s gone. But, we were talking about them last night midway through our opening-night performance when, as inevitably happens in dressing rooms, talk turns to performances, and performers. Younger members of our cast had little idea of whom Morecombe & Wise were. The oldest performer they recall is Ricky Gervais, and comedy begins and ends with Flight of the Conchords. You have to think that these young and theatrically-literate people are missing out, if that is the sum total. Conchords may someday become legends and Gervais is probably almost there but Morecombe & Wise in their hey-day and together will in history remain unassailable, for all who are “wise” in such matters anyway.

Hooked on it.

It is hard to feel passion for hookers. These days anyway. In my view they themselves are less passionate than they were when I first started. They are less committed to their craft, and certainly offer none of the stimulation and challenge that were so part of the enjoyment of playing with them. And I should know: I played with many, used and abused them. Some were good at what they did, others were not. But all, without exception when I was with them, were glad they were there and happy to play with me. In the eyes of some I was the best and it was a privilege to face me, grip me and try to pull me off. And that extended over many years, until I tired of it and settled for a more sedate existence. But I still watch them at work when I can and what I see today is vastly different from what I experienced then. Today's hookers don’t really care. They exhibit no finesse, no skill and, most different of all from my days, no willingness to go down, lie there and be abused incessantly. That is why perhaps, when one analyses “the game” today, anybody can be a hooker. In my days, it was definite skill. And I am still proud, even now, that I was one. Fond memories are all I have now. That and abject despair that those who followed me no longer experience that or the respect that ensued from taking...it all. Watch any NRL game this weekend and you will see what I mean. Being a rugby league hooker is no longer a proud profession. A hooker in that code, today, is sport’s equivalent of erectile dysfunction. So, if you are a masochist by all means watch hookers at play. But, as for me, I’ll be concentrating on hookers of the other variety this weekend. I have three of them at the moment. Together. And they are vastly more skilled, forthcoming, committed and...entertaining. Much more pleasurable in fact. But that is another story, for another time.