The Olympics: Questions Have to be Asked.

Fryday is a little late this week because, like you, I have been riveted and preoccupied by the Olympics. Unlike you, it is not the events themselves that have caught my attention. It is what happens immediately after, an entirely different competition. It is a competition among television commentators and interviewers to ask the most inane ridiculous question they can of an athlete. The competition is fierce and as almost as old as television and the Olympics. And indeed most of the answers given are as old and as hoary as well. But what if the athletes answered honestly and treated the questions and the questioners with the contempt they deserve? Would we hear something like this? Q: Andre, what was the first thing that came into your mind when you crossed first over that winning line? A: I hope they don’t drug-test me. Q: Rafael, you are one of the greatest tennis players of all time. Yet you are here playing in the Olympics. What makes the Olympics so special for you? A; That cute little blonde Ukranian playing in the doubles. Q: Mark, that must go down in history as one of the greatest rides of all time. You have been written into Olympic history as the greatest of all time. An Olympic legend. What’s the driving force that’s lead you to the top and kept you there? A: Usually a horse. Q: Barry? An Olympic Silver Medal? You must be very proud. What do you say to all those back home who supported you? A: If you had supported me a little more it would have been freakin’ gold. Q: Joachim, you have defeated your great friend and rival Johannes in the shot-put final. Your great happiness must be tinged with a little sadness for your friend? A: You are joking…right? Q: Lydia, a proud New Zealander, and a good race, but you must be a little disappointed in your 15th place finish? A: Who came 16th? Q: An Australian. A: Awesome! Q: Robyn, one of the greatest races in history surely? What can I say? A: Nothing. I have just run a bloody marathon. I just want to climb into the jacuzzi. Q: We have with us Toni Dempster’s mother Trish Dempster. Trish, just pipped at the post coming fourth. You must be very proud of her. What are your thoughts? A: That her father and I have just blown 40 thousand quid and countless hours getting here. And the gold medal for the worst, yet weirdly most common, question? Q: John, did you ever think you would be standing here, an Olympic Gold Medal around your neck? A: No I spent two thirds of my life training 60 hours a week so I could be a dairy farmer.

Grey Matter

On a recent flight to Rarotonga I couldn’t help noticing that of the six passengers in my row of seats, two were reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Apart from that commonality they had little in common; one was male and elderly, the other young and female; they seemed to be complete strangers to each other before, during and after the trip, and oblivious to the fact that they were reading the same book, so immersed were they. That’s in my row, I wonder how many Fifty Shades of Grey were on that flight, and how many were left behind on the island. Rarotonga is a bit like the book in that it has a lot of grey in and over it. The sky was grey for three of the six days I was there; grey is also the predominant colour of many of the buildings. But most striking is the greyness of the population. They are virtually indistinguishable from their background, almost as if they were in hiding. They exhibit a friendly face but also a detachment from the passing tourist trade, so different from the in-your-face manner of the Fijians. I found that a positive about Rarotonga. It was almost as if we were being told we were welcome on the island, but with very little to offer except the sun (and there was precious little of that) the island and islanders best offer was to leave us alone, to give us the chance to relax. So they did. I did. And I am grateful to the wonderful people of the Cook Islands—as grey as they may be—for allowing the space, their space, to do that. Would I go there again? Yes. There is far far more chance of me doing that than ever ever getting through all three books in the Grey trilogy. Thanks Cooks.

Taking the Sub Way

Fifty Shades of Grey and its two sequels are publishing phenomena, second only in modern times to the Harry Potter series. E.L. James’ trilogy has topped the best-seller lists in the U.K., the U.S.A., Australia and here in New Zealand. It’s sold 20 million copies worldwide and has in fact surpassed the Harry Potter series for paperback sales. All because of the subject matter, and a shared susceptibility to immerse ourselves—safely—in a world foreign to most of us. If you haven’t read them, the premise of the books, at least the first of them, is the attempt by a young but filthy rich businessman to turn a young but beautiful virgin (at 22, pleeeeassse!) into his submissive (sub). Problem is—and, sorry to say, Fryday is going to act as a spoiler here—that world exists, but not in the manner portrayed in these books. The world of heavily regimented and governed bondage and discipline portrayed in Fifty Shades of Grey smacks (intended) more of the fantasy of a slightly over-weight, middle-aged woman using Google and a trawl through on-line sex shops for her research rather than personal experience. E.L. James is indeed slightly overweight and middle-aged. No problem there. Except perhaps that is why—along with the lack of valid research— these books are so badly written. There is no synergy, no empathy between her and her main characters: the young, vivacious beautiful, gorgeous Christian Grey, and the only slightly less so Anastasia Steele. I’ll give you just one of many examples: in Ms James’ less than deft hands, Anastasia is “beguiled” by Christian and he by her. Beguiled? When did you last hear that word used, particularly by a 22 year-old? The books are littered with such archaic terms, and whilst the email threads that form such a large part of the books are moderately amusing the overall impression is that whatever world E.L. James is coming from she has never been there and thus she becomes an unreliable and tortuous guide. These are just bad books, and not in a good way. Anyone wanting to experience the real thing, even vicariously, should avoid them. There are better books on the subject elsewhere. And there is always Hamilton.

Taking The Mickey

I have been wondering where the phrase “It’s Mickey Mouse…” comes from. Its dictionary definition is something that can be described as trivial, unimportant and uncoordinated. But that still doesn’t tell me where the phrase originates and who or was Mickey? Well, apparently the phrase refers to the Disney character Mickey Mouse (as you would expect). But that still remains a mystery to me because whilst Mickey may be the first “gay” mouse and certainly had a bestial relationship with a dog named Goofy, I am not sure you can describe him as unimportant. And while I am on the subject: how come Goofy could talk but Pluto couldn’t? But, my trusty dictionary says that all of the above characteristics can be attributed to the character of Mickey Mouse. So I must accept that: anything that is trivial, unimportant and uncoordinated, as in the Maori Party, Peter Dunne and the Hamilton City Council, is indeed Mickey Mouse. And, no, I am not taking the Mickey.

The 2012 Hamilton Public Library Book of Lists

Chilly nights and clear days again signal the advent of winter, and with it the Hamilton Public Library’s annual book of lists—those books, periodicals and other media that captured the interest of the good folk of Hamilton over the past 12 months. As always Fryday is indebted to the librarians of Hamilton for whom a book is both a passion and a blessed escape. • Best Academic Publication: An Idiot’s Guide to the Amstrad. • Most Popular Reference: A guide to proper speling to grammer. • Best History: Coronation Street--The Early Years. • Best Historical Romance: My time with Ena—a fan’s remembrance of Ena Sharples. • Best Biography: Fogs, Fags and Frigates—A History of Hamiltonians in the New Zealand Navy. • Most Popular Calendar: The PGG Bevy of Bovine Beauties. • Best Fitness Book: Calisthenics in the Cow Shed. • Public Vote for the Saddest Book: My Life as a Farmer’s Wife by Una Rutt. • Public Vote for Most Uplifting Book: At least we are not Palmerston North, published by the Hamilton City Council Communications Unit. • Best Relationship Book: Your Wife and Your Cow—an Introduction, by A Farmer. • Most Inspirational: God’s Plan for Hamilton when He gets back from Auckland. • Best Council Publication: Waiting for God—The Long Term Council Community Plan. • Most Personal Religious Testimony: God Help Me, an Aucklander’s Life in Hamilton. • Best Magazine or Periodical: Straight Furrow (for the fourth straight year) and equalled this year for the first time by Straight Fellow—Hamilton’s New Magazine for Closet Gays. • Most Popular DIY: Bound for Glory—A Life in Bondage, and How to Achieve it. • Most Popular DVD (Series): Best of A Dog Show from the 80s. • Most Popular DVD (Single): Hamilton KFCs—A Visual Feast. • Most Popular CD: Barry Manilow—The Golden Years. • Most Popular Cassette Tape: Barry Manilow—The Golden Years. • Most Stolen Book: How to set up a Neighbourhood Watch Group. • Best Waikato University Academic Thesis: Harry Potter and the Lessons for Hamilton. • Best University Publication: Auckland University Application Form. • Best Hamilton Book: Next to Matamata—A Guide to Hamilton. • Least Borrowed Book: (again) Fryday, The Bound Edition. • Most Borrowed Book: (Tie) A Submissive’s Life, The Bound Edition (and) Flat Out, the New Evidence, by the Hamilton Flat Earth Society. • Most Eagerly Anticipated Sequel: More Time with Ena—A Follow Up to My Time With Ena Sharples.

Boardtalk Empire

We heard the news yesterday that Auckland Council’s powerful Strategy and Finance Committee is to recommend that the council’s Independent Maori Statutory Board receive $3.1 million in funding next year, $150,000 less than last year. Some will no doubt comment on the propriety of that level of funding for a nine-person, part-time board and even the need for such a board. I invite them to go for it. But what I want to comment on is the reaction of the board’s chair David Taipari, who told Radio New Zealand that the new funding was “adequate” and his board could act within it. I bet they can. But it is what Mr Taipari is reported to have said next that astounded me. He is apparently unperturbed about the funding reduction because “it could be made up in other ways.” He didn’t specify what ways but indicated a reallocation of funding sources. What sources? Presumably they are also from within council, whose statutory board this is. If so haven’t we as ratepayers the right to know what is the full and honest extent and sources of appropriations to these boards? For Mr Taipari to hint at some secret (my term) funding to make up the shortfall is at least honest but it is also arrogant and stupefying in that arrogance. It says to me that he is saying to us that it doesn’t matter how much (the council) votes to give the board, the board will get what it wants anyway. Incidentally, when I goggled the Maori Statutory Board I was directed to the council’s website where I was told, “The page you are looking for is not here. We’ve been tidying up our content so it may have been moved.” Well is that something they can spend the $3.1 million on for a start? Just saying.

Clash with Cash

Yesterday Minister of Finance, Bill English, was asked how he felt delivering a budget when “he” had no money. Much like the rest of us I suppose; there are degrees of wealth and poverty but the thing they mostly have in common this that discretionary money finds its own level and there are few among us who have much cash to spare. In my case my BMW with a rapacious taste for petrol and an owner with an equally rapacious taste for single-malts have seen to that. But the cashless society, using the term in another context, was borne home to me in two other ways this week. One was when I cashed in some loose coinage collected over a three-month period. The total collected, as calculated by a helpful ANZ teller (almost as rare as cash today), was $204. Much more than I expected and, at that level, quite a nice savings mechanism had I not then promptly spent it with my second clash with cash. I made a $150 purchase at a shop paying for it with the newly garnered, freshly minted, and still teller-perfumed notes. The retail assistant—formerly known as the kid behind the counter—was fleetingly confused. Cash? I am not sure she quite knew how to handle that, or at least the part that required giving me change. She asked if I had a credit card instead.

Groser and Grosser

Claire Trevett’s article in Wednesday’s Herald about MPs’ spending overseas gained the attention it deserved, which was almost nil. The subject has been hashed over incessantly, usually to cover a slow news period. Initially it was of prurient interest, but it is a sign of increasing maturity, I think, that it now solicits no interest, other than from a junior reporter. We have better things to do than monitor the laundry requirements of our ministers. What matter that Trade Minister Tim Groser’s staff spent $490 having their underwear laundered. I would suggest that it would be a lot grosser having Groser wear his underwear over two days or, grosser still, reversed. Murray McCully spent $473 over dinner at Trader Jacks entertaining Cook Island government ministers. So? I have had a bottle of wine that cost more than that. The point is that in questioning these expenses we start to demean ourselves. We diminish New Zealand. Would we want our prime minister, for example, to be seen flying economy class? As a country, could we not afford anything better? Or are we that small-minded? As someone who has worked closely with politicians, I know they work hard, at least unless they are a List MP, and I wouldn’t have their jobs for quids. I don’t see a $490 laundry bill as a reward, it’s hardly that, but if it makes life easier for them I have no problem with ministers airing their dirty laundry—and I would thank Claire Trevett not to thrust it in my face.

Banks for Nothing

Friday usually starts for Fryday with the donning of tracksuit pants, the push-button immediacy of the coffee machine and overnight email correspondence. This morning the tracksuit pants were put on backwards, the push-button immediacy was forestalled by an empty reservoir and my only email was a promise that I could “get it on all night” if I purchased some pills. I have re-clothed myself and refilled the reservoir, but after two very late nights (which I think contributed to the pants), I despair of a present inability to get it on all night, pills or no pills. It’s been a busy time and whilst that can affect all things, including relationships, I am emboldened by a strong relationship and a will to win—with or without the whiskey. I am a bit like Banks in that regard. John Banks is the antithesis of the Teflon politician; every piece of mud thrown at him sticks. He attracts it. Yet he disregards it, seemingly with aplomb and superiority. As an experienced politician he might be relying on the much held belief that it will all blow over. Banks might be right in that, but I think not. This thing is already as big as Kim Dotcom and will get bigger. My understanding is that too many people know too much about this affair, and Mr Dotcom controls them, what they know and the timing of delivery. Watch this space—or any space—it's coming. Banks on it.

Waltz With Me

Today we note the death of legendary singer-drummer Levon Helm. He died in his adopted state of New York, aged 71, after a decade-long battle with throat cancer.
Levon Helm is little known these days and even in his hey-day few outside of a hard-core group of fans knew him, but they knew his band—The Band.
Levon Helm was the group’s drummer and founding member. The Band started as The Hawks backing the hard-drinking-hard-living Rockabilly artist Ronnie Hawkins. Ronnie is purported to have promised Levon and the other Hawks—Robbie Robertson (yes, him), Garth Hudson, Rick Danko and Richard Manuel—no money but “all the pussy you can eat.”
But it was not with Ronnie that they found their fame or even their infamy. It was with Dylan. They became Bob Dylan’s backing band when he went electric. Like him, they were the target of a sustained and vitriolic campaign by aggrieved folkies. Dylan didn’t care. Levon didn’t care. The Band didn’t care. They didn’t even have a name to that point, and wouldn’t have one until they launched their first album, the magnificent Music From Big Pink where Levon and the others were listed in the liner notes under the prosaic heading The Band. The name stuck. At least it did until The Band dissolved in a bitter battle between Levon and Robbie. Their swan song was the live concert movie The Last Waltz—generally believed to be the best movie of its type.
Levon was the only American in The Band. He came from Arkansas; the others were Canadians. He had every appearance of a hokey hillbilly, and probably that influenced the distinctive folk-rock sound of The Band, though it was Robbie Robertson who wrote most of The Band’s Songs, such The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down and The Weight. Levon did lead vocals on most of them, one of the few drummers to take the lead—Phil Collins of Genesis was another.
The Band has always been my favourite group—I narrowly missed (by one week) seeing them when they toured Australia. That was post-Robbie and they were shadows of their former selves. But Levon was there, Garth was there, Rick (my favourite) was there and Richard was yet to hang himself—that would happen a month later. Only Garth and Robbie survive today.
So Levon is gone. And with him that ten-year cancer battle. There is mercy in that, I suppose. But for those of us with long memories, those of us who know the tragedy of the barely coherent Garth Hudson and the show-pony antics of the much despised Robbie Robertson we know that with Levon’s passing passed The Band.
This was our Last Waltz.



----------------
Now playing: The Band - Across The Great Divide
via FoxyTunes

The Magic of Mangawhai

As we all know we had a short summer this year. It seems to have spanned Easter and that was it. It truly was a good Friday, and the days that followed, followed a pattern of similar piety. Spirits were lifted.
Fryday’s Easter was spent quietly. I didn’t go anywhere. I spent this longest of all weekends at home apart from a brief and vicarious sojourn in India courtesy of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel—worth seeing, but nothing more.
What I find remarkable though and perhaps in need of some explanation, should someone wish to proffer it, is why so many people spent their Easter at Mangawhai.
Even the most cursory observation of Facebook suggests that the place was packed. I have never been there so I am somewhat of a loss. What is the attraction? Is it the beach—there are closer beaches, surely. Is it the facilities—for I understand Managawhai has none, though that itself may be the attraction. Is it the culture—bikinis and binges are undoubtedly attractive to many. Mangawhai is not Hamilton, that may be it, but nor is anywhere else. All I know is that had I been at Mangawhai over Easter weekend I would likely have met someone I know on virtually every caravan corner—and that may well have detroyed my purpose for being there--getting away from it all does not usually mean taking the “all” with you.
So, whilst I find myself drawn to Managwhai to see for myself what it has to offer, it will not, I think, be during the holidays—bikinis or no bikinis. In my sixth decade, thongs remain an attraction; throngs, however, are not.

----------------
Now playing: Bruce Springsteen & The Sessions Band - This Little Light of Mine (Live)
via FoxyTunes