Dear John

President John Keys
Prime Minister New Zeland
Parliament House
Auckland
New Zeland

Dear John

To the exalted leader of the free peoples of Aotearoa New Zeland—greetings.

After 42 years as benign father to my peoples, God is telling me that the time has come for me to rest. But my peoples will not allow me this rest. They will not let me go. Even as I here write I hear their chants from the street. “Gaddafi must die as President,” they say. I am touched. I am much loved.

So, I must leave Libya so that I might rest. And soon. And in secret.

I am offering myself to a number of countries. Allah be praised that New Zeland is one of them. I have heard much of your country from the many Maories peoples who have trained here with my armed forces. I know that you have much sheep and the Maories peoples tell me that much of your peoples are like sheeps. This is much loved by me.

I know that in New Zeland the people will welcome me as they welcomed convicts from all lands so long ago.

So, John Keys, I offer to you myself. I bestow myself and my family and wives on the peoples of New Zeland. I shall comes next week.

Please have palace ready.

Your friend

Muammar.

1. I have today transferred into your bank accounts US$1 Billion. Please use it to buy me taxi license. I don’t wish to be a burden to your country.

2. Please let Hone know I am coming.

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He aint heavy...

My brother, who lives in Christchurch, phones me frequently these days. I say these days because for much of his fifty-odd years he rarely rang anyone, let alone made a toll call to me in Auckland. But now he does, and it is a joy to hear from him. He calls me not about the earthquakes or the continuing after-shocks; they do not faze him—and in that regard he is more fortunate than most in Christchurch. No, he rings to discuss the relative merits of our respective rugby league teams, and again he is fortunate; his, The Warriors, are on an upward swing; while mine, The Bulldogs, decidedly are on the downward slope. I should explain that my brother, Peter, is quite a character, and well known around Christchurch particularly in sporting circles through he plays no sport and is content to volunteer for any role that most helps those who do play. He is well liked for that. For that and for various idiosyncrasies such as calling his dog Sarah. The thing about Peter is that from force of circumstance he is the most honest and self-effacing person on this earth. Yet because of that he was for half a century protected by our parents. That protection is no longer there and, as is becoming increasingly obvious with each new day, nor is it needed. My brother is making his own way in the world. He and his dog Sarah. I am immensely proud of who he is and of what he has become.

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Hitting a Roar Nerve

I was saddened to see on last night’s news the beginning of the end for the venerable Press building in Cathedral Square Christchurch.
It was there in 1967 that I began my earlier career in newspapers. It was there in 1969 that I sat in the company of crusty journos and watched in mutual and ageless awe the first man to walk on the Moon. It was there, a year later, that I had my only knife fight, in the top right corner we saw being demolished last night. And it was in the opposite corner that I communed vicariously with the man of the moment Bob Dylan and shared a light bulb.
It was from there that I began a new life.
So the building is about to go. No doubt the decision to demolish it is justified (though there are those who will dispute that) and I have no issue with the decision—just an incredible sadness, and a baseless anger that Nature and Mortality has in the last 12 months wrought such havoc on my youthful years.
But I was somewhat brightened by the experiences and pontifications of another group for whom the Earth (apparently) moves in far more pleasurable terms. This was the Campbell Live item later in the night about The Obedient Wives Club. Now, that sounds like one of those movies from the 80s starring Dianne lane or Diane Keaton. But, no, this is a group of Islamic wives who believe in complete subjugation to their husbands’ wishes, including sexual. They even include a support group in which they share notes and experiences aimed at being a better “whore” in bed. That seems to me and my untutored but omnipresent voyeurism a totally new perception of Islam. Who thought? We all knew that treatment of Islamic woman, particularly wives, did not meet Western mores, but for Islamic wives to have a position on positions is mind-blowing (so to speak).
Do I condone it? I am Man!! Hear me roar.
After I get Maggie her coffee.

Swear it or wear it

I don’t trust Americans. This is the nation that voted in George W. Bush. Twice. And may well have done so a third time if the Constitution had allowed it. But I will say this for George W, he had belief. He believed in what God and that higher deity the American Arms Lobby told him, and he acted on that belief. Hone Harawira has only one belief—self, and none at all of belief’s bedmate scruples. But I am now pleased to note that in his grandstanding he may well have backed himself into the corner to which all other naughty juveniles are consigned. This is of course his refusing to swear fealty to the Queen. Oh yes, you are making a statement Hone—which is you are an idiot. Have you had a thought Hone as to where to next? You see, until you so swear you can’t sit in Parliament. And if you do now so swear you are backing down and showing the lack of scruples and beliefs you never had in the first place. The rather pleasurable, though tragically remote, irony is that through this action we may well have seen the last of you—and it will be of your own doing.

Harawira Hard to Wear

Let me tell you about this sinking feeling I am experiencing. Likely it is similar to yours, and for the same reason: Hone Harawira. I have the sinking feeling that he is going to win tomorrow. Too many with too little common sense consider him akin to the Messiah—the great brown hope of Maoridom. Tai Tokerau is his fiefdom. I don’t think in fact he offers anything to Maoridom and his pattern in Parliament has been a consistent one of self-interest. In any other field but politics he would defy belief, as a man with no belief except self. But let’s not be unkind, let’s just except that he is a cretin. Albeit a cunning one. So, why is Fryday giving him any space? Only because I could not let a remark by Harawira on this morning’s Radio Live programmes go unremarked. Harawira was on the programme with the ever-reasonable Labour candidate Kelvin Davis. During a tense exchange between the two, moderated by Marcus Lush, it was Harawira who invited Davis to “shut your fat mouth.” A small matter perhaps. But then again if that childish rejoinder is all Harawira can come up with he deserves neither his position in Parliament nor the support he will get tomorrow. I am tempted to say those who vote for him will get what they deserve. And I guess they will. But frankly nobody deserves Harawira—not Tai Tokerau, not Maoridom, not this country.

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The Hamilton Public Library Book of Lists

With the onset of winter (though it doesn’t feel like it) and the prospect of winter reading, it is time to announce this year’s Annual Hamilton Public Library Book of Lists:

§ Most Borrowed Book: Knot in my Lifetime—Best Bondage Knots by Master Spartacus.

§ Most Borrowed Autobiography: Buggered if I do, Buggered if I don’t—A Waikato Life by A Cow.

§ Most Stolen Book: How to Live Life on the Cheap in Hamilton.

§ Thinnest Book: The Wit and Wisdom of Hamilton Mayors.

§ Thickest Book: God Help Me—Religious Writings of Hamilton Mayors.

§ Best Council Publication: Doing it by The Book—The Bible and its Role in the District Plan.

§ Best Academic DVD: Country Calendar—The Classic Years.

§ Most Borrowed History DVD: The Best of Fred Dagg.

§ Most Borrowed Movie: Spartacus.

§ Best Academic Publication: Straight Furrow.

§ Most Borrowed Fiction: Hamilton, A Great Place to Live by Jacinta Shakk.

§ Most Borrowed Non-Fiction: Buggered if I do, Buggered if I don’t.

§ Least Borrowed (Equal First): A Life on the Edge—Living in the Shadow of Auckland and The Fryday Bound Edition.

§ Most Borrowed by Females: How to Become a Hairdresser.

§ Most Borrowed by Males: Buggered if I do, Buggered if I don’t.

§ Most Borrowed Music Book: Your Banjo—How to Play It, How to Duel With It.

§ Most Borrowed DIY: Clan-Derstine—How to build a Home Clan Lab.

§ Most Borrowed Gardening Book: Going to Pot by Anonymous.

§ Most Borrowed Self-Improvement Book: Auckland Street Maps.

§ Most Borrowed CD: Gotta Get Out of This Place—The Animals.

§ Most Borrowed Fashion Book: Fluff and Fiddle—Cross-Dressing on a Budget.

§ Most Borrowed Cookbook: Hamilton KFC Locations.

§ Best Feel Good Book: Leaving Ngaruawahia by Wally Stott.

§ Best Sequel: If a Sheep’s Your Thing by the author of Buggered if I do, Buggered if I don’t.

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At least I now know why I am here

In my view one of the silliest sayings in modern business parlance is “bring (something) to the table” or its variant “put it on the table.” Nevertheless I can live with it more than I can live or abide the vastly more ubiquitous “going forward.” So I was only mildly aggrieved at what that great philosopher of the modern age, Robbie Williams, brought to the table—or more accurately—my newspaper this week. Now, you’ll remember Robbie. He hasn’t had a hit for a while, but he had a string of them a while back. He also had a well-publicised fling in the Metropolis while here, which was by all accounts more satisfying to the flingee than the flinger. But I digress. No, the latest revelation about Mr Williams is that he injects himself with testosterone twice a week. He believes—and I quote him here—that it improves his skin, hair and memory. At least he can now remember when he last had a hit. Fair enough Robbie, testosterone is a welcome change from what some singers inject themselves with. But what I then found a little off-putting is his revelation/epiphany of the true meaning of life. At least his life. But he also implies that it covers all humanity. It appears that I have for all of my 60 years laboured under the misconception that I was born here only to make up the numbers and to slag off at Hamilton. Not so. If Mr Williams is correct, and I use his words here as published by the Herald today: “We are built to F***” Wow, and here I was dwelling on the superficiality of life, when Mr Williams finds, identifies and expounds its true complexity. Thanks Robbie. I feel enriched. I am taking my wife to the Metropolis tonight to celebrate.

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Wellywood Willy

I am not going to enter into the Wellywood debate. Well I would, but I am so over it. Shakespeare may well have had it in mind when he penned Much Ado About Nothing. But then he knew nothing of Wellywood, Hollywood or, I imagine, any other wood other than that growing on trees. He was therefore as he says elsewhere “thrice blessed.”
But in observing the debate I cannot but reflect upon the smugness exhibited by the media, most of which is located outside of Wellington. It is almost as if they see here a heaven-sent opportunity to cast aspirations in Wellington’s direction. To imply that Wellington is ripping itself apart over this issue is surely an overstatement, yet this is exactly what the, mainly Auckland based, media would have us believe.
Why? To venture an opinion, many Aucklanders consider Wellington a yoke and Wellingtonians consider Auckland a joke. In a word or five: they don’t like each other.
Admittedly, Wellington possesses a holier than thou attitude to most things, which gets up the nose of Aucklanders who would rather just go about sailing, and funding the rest of New Zealand. So to see Wellington turn on itself is apparently worthy of extravagant coverage.
Not that we in Auckland are strangers to vigorous debate—but our debates are about deeply-seated, emotion-laden issues such as whether the Warriors should play at Mt Smart or Eden Park. The sheer silliness that is the Wellywood debate is breathtakingly trite by comparison. So much so that I am lead to opine that it is nothing more than a media beat-up worthy of the worst of Mark Sainsbury.
Wellingtons don’t hate each other over this issue—they hate Aucklanders, yes, for everything—but they are fiercely and rightly proud of their city. If a few want to protect that city from the triteness that is the Wellywood sign—good on them. But it is hardly open warfare on the street.
So, let’s hear no more of the silly Wellywood debate. Willy would not have had a bar of it.

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To Boldly go to...Hamilton

It comes as no surprise that the Discovery astronauts visited Hamilton. There is a synergy there; both crew and city have been off the planet at various times. Nor was I surprised to hear mission commander Colonel Eric Boe waxing eloquently about the New Zealand countryside on his way from Auckland to Hamilton—Americans are prone to say nice (read right) things when in another’s country. But, please, the Waikato? Outside of Canada there is a no more boring landscape in the world, and clearly Colonel Boe has seen more of the world than most. But what embarrassed me most was the meagre turnout that turned out to greet them in Hamilton. These astronauts had taken the Hamilton flag all the way into space—God knows why, there is enough debris up there already—and were now returning it to Hamilton. So, who turned up to say thank you? Well there was the interestingly named mayor, Julie Hardaker, but that was about it. I can imagine the low turnout if the ceremony was at night in Hamilton—one doesn’t want to interrupt one’s witches coven or BDSM munch, but this was in broad daylight! It is not as if living in Hamilton you have anything else to do. So, where were you Hamilton? And why did you embarrass the rest of New Zealand? Oh, sorry, I forgot, that’s what you do best.

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The World's a Stage

Last night I watched a performance by a comedian with his mouth taped. The humour, and there was much of it, was largely visual and involved a high level of audience interaction and—at times—humiliation. If one felt uncomfortable at the prospect of being singled out to go up on stage, one could at least surreptitiously look at one’s watch knowing that the show was only an hour long and time was ticking by. What is it with the terror of being dragged up on stage? It’s known that public speaking is the number one fear for many people. And even those of us who appear on stage regularly don’t relish the prospect of doing so without recourse to scripts or scotch. But I digress. The comedian I saw last night—The Boy With Tape on his Face (real name Sam Wills)—is a very funny and clever man. Very resourceful as well, given that he has only props, music and an audience to work with. Of course he also has a gimmick—a mouth taped shut. And as I sat watching him last night I couldn’t help thinking New Zealand would at present be well disposed to another comedian sharing that gimmick. But I can’t see Hone doing that.

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Bin there, done that

Are you sick of Hone yet? I am and I see no benefit in inflicting upon you another Fryday on him. Nor on Hone’s hero the great “freedom fighter” Osama Bin Laden. So we move on to someone of equal intelligence to them: the Helensville Lizard. Now, I am not freaked out by lizards or indeed any other so-called creepy-crawlies. Admittedly I don’t drool over them but I do admit a sneaking affections for the multitude of lizards that share my property in Helensville. One, and I can only assume it is the same one because all lizards (and Harawiras) look alike to me, even visits me regularly in my office. Imagine therefore my chagrin when yesterday, while doing a job for my charming wife (who looks nothing like a lizard), I inadvertently sucked one up in my Leaf vac. I saw it go and was momentarily conflicted as to whether I continue my task or set it aside to try and rescue the lil’ critter. I decided on the latter. I am delighted to state that I succeeded. My friend the lizard was recovered from the vacuum bag unhurt, and somewhat ungratefully I thought scuttled off into the protective foliage. But was it ungrateful? I have just seen a lizard come to my door and deposit a dead fly. A gift of gratitude perhaps? Unusual I would say from something that crawled out from under a rock. Perhaps I should ask Hone—he’d know.

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