Nieces and other niceties

I am surrounded by negativity. It’s my choice; it’s part of the job I do and enjoy. And if I am the whipping boy taking the hits for others, that is my lot and life and I accept their generous payment for that. I also think I am helping the moaners, the groaners, the malevolent and the malcontent. They have as much right to be listened to as anyone and I do have the ability to shut up and listen, even if my mind is wandering back to Rarotonga or forward to the single-malt I shall relish tonight. So, surrounded I am. But like the 1900 Foreign Quarter that for 55 days in Peking was surrounded by the lethal Boxers, relief is at hand. It comes in the form of lasting friendships—personal friendships—formed, often in adversity, with those with whom I work. You know who you are. It also comes from a relatively new quarter for me—kids: nieces, nephews and goddaughters. I seem to have a plethora of them now, and they are all delightful. Before knowing them, I thought of them as foreign objects and God knows what they thought of me. But not now. Now they enrich my life and provide it with a new perspective. Two of them are staying with me now, and another is corresponding with me. It’s making for a special Labour Weekend. So, getting back to my malevolent malcontents. Yeah, I’m still there for you, I’ll still listen to you. But I have noticed a common element for many of you: no kids. So, whereas in the past I might have been tempted to say to you “get a life” my revised suggestion is “get a kid” borrow one, if necessary. They do help you stop acting like one.

An Old Fryday

Derived from the French "chevalier" for horseman, chivalry was originally linked to the code of behaviour associated with knighthood. These days we have restored Knighthoods but chivalry seems a dying art. An art form it is—or was—there are certain techniques and protocols and there is a skill in pulling it off without seeming patronising or, increasingly and sadly in these PC days, sexist. Personally I don’t give a shit how it or I look when I practice it. I will continue to open doors for women regardless of age—of the woman not the door; I recently did it for a 10 year-old. I know to walk on the outside of a footpath and I will stand to greet a woman. That’s what my parents taught me and something I hope I have taught my own boys. But what I am wondering is why even writing about chivalry makes me feel so old.

El Walrus v El Teflon

At the beginning of the Kim Dotcom affair we were told implicitly that there was something dark and devious about Mr Dotcom and his operations. Whilst that may be the case and we are yet to hear any evidence to the contrary, recent revelations would suggest “dark and devious” better describes the behaviours of our own organisations and individuals. First it was the Police and the paucity of evidence upon which they based their search warrants, then was the alleged rorting and befuddled behaviour of John Banks. More recently there was the revelations about the role of our super-intelligence agency the Government Communications Security Bureau. And now, even our Prime Minister Teflon John is being hit, and it is starting to stick. Incidentally when Googling Kim Dotcom for Fryday, Google informed me that others who had made the same search had also searched for John Banks, John Key and Julian Assange; now that is a fast-developing unholy trinity if there was one. Strangely, the other search subject was Steve Wozniak, who is not even on the same planet as the others, let alone the same ilk. This affair has not ended here. A not always prescient Fryday invited you as far back as May 4 to watch this space; more was coming. More is coming. Sadly, we won’t have TVNZ's top investigative reporter around to investigate it. Just Kidding.

Hysteria: The Movie, the Man.

There is a movie out at the moment called Hysteria that is creating some hysteria. It purports to be the true-life story of the invention of the personal vibrator. It is not. Even a modicum of research reveals that the personal vibrator was an evolutionary development. But no matter, Hysteria has found its spot—so to speak—filling the void, so to speak—for a post Fifty Shades of Grey market. Among women, among whom Fryday occasionally enrols, vibrators are quite the talking point and one assumes that this is reflected in increased sales and households literally humming as a result. Which brings us to Piri Weepu. The batteries in even the best vibrator will in time run out through over use or lack of use. They will have exceeded their use-by date. That’s what’s happened with the All Blacks’ nuggerty halfback. Piri was unceremoniously dropped at half time at last weekend’s test match against South Africa. It was clear, at least to me, that he had to go: slow delivery, wrong decisions, hospital passes—all showed that Piri was past his best. The batteries had run out. Aaron Smith was creating the new hysteria. Steve Hansen made the right move. I feel sorry for Piri. After his undoubted success at the World Cup he had every right to feel he could continue to create the magic behind the scrum. But the warning signs—with The Blues—came quickly and culminated, dramatically and so sadly, at the test. We are unlikely, I think, to see him in an All Black jersey again. As ignominious as that half-time dropping is, we can and should remember and reflect on Piri Weepu at his best. New Zealand rugby is blessed with a history of great scrum-halves and Piri Weepu is among them. His high point must certainly be the 2011 Rugby World Cup where he galvanised the tournament and created thousands of Facebook postings. He was wonderful to watch, and the hysteria—then—was his. And ours. And for that, we should thank him, move on now and watch tests without him, and simply bask in the post-orgasmic glow that is Piri Awahou Tihou Weepu.

Ridge Line

I am not going to join those criticising and ridiculing The Ridges. I didn’t see the inaugural programme and have no intention of seeking out and seeing any in the series. I am simply not interested in a contrived insight into the self-perpetuating B-List celebrity ilk that ilkees and a largely slavering media are trying to foist upon us. I have seen bits of Keeping up with the Kardashians with the horribly disfigured Bruce Jenner and the KKK (note no African Americans) and that’s enough. This is not “reality” television, there is more reality in The Simpsons, this is Junk television and whilst I am no cultural snob, I have better things to do with my time. Or at least I thought I did until I realised what proportion of my evenings was spent on Facebook. Now, here again, I won’t join the critical mass. Facebook has its critics. I am not one of them; I see its uses and its benefits though I worry sometimes that it is now the preferred method of communication for many, supplanting the phone and even emails. It is also highly addictive and has all the intellectual majesty of Mitt Romney. Nevertheless it has presented me with some new “friends” and restored others and that is something no other medium could do. It has also, this week, informed me that Bob Dylan has a new studio album, The Tempest, and that it may be his best ever. I bought it. It is. Facebook tells me that all three of my sons are doing outstandingly well in their respective careers and there is an adhesive love within a geographically fractured family. Facebook delivers on the impossible, giving us Oscar Wilde’s opinion of Fifty Shades of Grey: “There is no such thing as a moral or immoral Book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” And such it is with Facebook. Facebook is not moral or immoral. It is what is: a service, to amuse and abuse. And if it is overly replete with teenagers making silly hand signals to the camera, and too many inspirational motifs, it is still a warmly embracive community and, like it or not, it is the modern reality. Whereas The Ridges…?

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.

Just Sayin...

Most of us are now aware that some of the quotes attributed to artists and others are fictitious. They simply weren’t said. For example Humphrey Bogart never said “Play it again Sam” in Casablanca; he said “Play it” that is all. My favourite actor Jimmy Cagney never said “You dirty rat” in White Heat or any other of his wonderful films. As Oscar Wilde said of something James Whistler said, “I wish I had said that.” They may wish they said it, but they didn’t. But what interests me is what was not said or at least reported after famous quotes. Winston Churchill after his famous “We shall fight ‘em on the beaches” speech is reputed to have turned to his BBC sound technician and said, “But I don’t know with what, we don’t have any bloody weapons.” Topically Neil Armstrong was reputed to have said of his “One small step …” “Well, actually it wasn’t that small a step. It was quite a distance down to the surface.” So, the world has lost the last of its great exploratory heroes of the 20th Century; the only one I think to match Armstrong was our own Sir Edmund and it is perhaps no coincidence that both men were among the most self-effacing one could meet. Perhaps it is that very fact that added to the reverence in which they are held. They are much revered for their famous acts and famous words. But here is something that you may not know. Neil Armstrong’s words were written for him by a NASA speech-writer. Nothing wrong with that and I wouldn’t want to diminish their effect for that. But Sir Edmund Hillary’s almost as famous statement of fact after his Everest climb “We knocked the bugger off” was all his. Simple, succinct, accurate. Very Hillary, but also very Kiwi. That one statement, by Sir Edmund, did a lot of summing up and it still resonates today. Just sayin… If you are at all interested, James Whistler’s riposte to that great plagiarist Oscar Wilde’s “I wish I had said that” was “You will Oscar, you will.” I wish I had said that.

I won't drink to that

Tonight I am having drinks with a couple of friends. As is the New Zealand way with such a small group, each of us will likely shout at least one round. We are unlikely to worry about the cost—the cost of the round and the cost of the individual drinks. The cost of alcohol is something we rarely worry about and rarely comes to mind. Which is why the proposition of raising the minimum price for alcohol is unlikely to have any effect on what some see as an out of control drinking culture, particularly among the young. I say this because of two personal observations: most of the young I know who drink to excess can afford it and don’t, in any case, spend their money on much else—they live to drink with their mates--that’s it. They are not going to movies or restaurants; they’re going to bars and parks and beaches and their only expense apart from petrol is alcohol. The second reason that price will have little effect on the young is that it simply doesn’t take that much alcohol to make them drunk. It’s not going to break the bank before they are paralytic. Price therefore, on two counts, is not a factor. Proponents, however, will point to the success raising the price of cigarettes has had on reducing smoking. Different case. Price certainly had an effect but the increase in the cost of cigarettes has been astronomical and nobody is seriously suggesting increases on that scale for alcohol; secondly, various lobby groups, including the health sector, have been successful in making smoking socially unacceptable, and that’s probably a bigger factor than anything in making people quit. Drinking, for all its perceived faults, is not socially unacceptable and in fact is a social adhesive. Finally who in all seriousness came up with the perverse logic that because some, mostly young, have a problem with drink, the rest of us should be made to pay more? I don’t have an answer to the youth drinking problem. But I know that alcohol costing a few dollars more will be ineffectual as well as unfair. Raising the drinking age also seems, these days, unenforceable. Greater parental control may be helpful. Maybe the answer is that which worked with cigarettes and, to some extent, drink driving: make it socially unacceptable. God knows we see enough drunks acting as complete idiots—if there was only some way of turning less of a spotlight on them, and more of a mirror.

Time for a little sex

Last week I was asked by a fellow blogger to contribute to an article she was writing in support of same sex marriages. I said I was reluctant to do that. I told her I had no objection to having sex with the same person in a marriage, but I had an aversion to it being the same sex. Diversity is the key to a happy marriage, I said, diversity such as positions, role-playing, devices, whips, etc. All those things you read about. I took her silence to be amazement at my profound insight. But then she said I was an idiot, didn’t know why she had asked me, and hung up. I don’t know why she asked me either, if she wasn’t going to accept my view. But I hope I may have piqued her interest and that she may even now be halfway through Fifty Shades of Grey and on her way to Hamilton. Miriam's published article and my contribution to it are here: http://www.lifethroughablondeseyes.com/1/post/2012/08/gay-is-ok.html

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.