Letter From Somalia

Note to readers: Since receiving the following email earlier in the week we have made concerted and repeated attempts to contact Miss Fenwick. Unhappily they have been without success. We will keep trying, but these are worrying times for her supporters.


Dear Frydaygroup Friends

This is my first letter from Somalia. I have been here a week now and have much to tell you.

But first please allow me to again thank you for your kind and collective contribution to our cause. I know that there are some in the scientific community who still insist that my quest for the ancestral breeding grounds of the Devonport Guppy will be in vain. They have been wrong before and I believe they will be wrong again. They lack the vision and indeed the comprehension to know how important to the world a successful conclusion to this quest will be. But you know. You have the vision. And your contribution and faith come at no better time, given the exciting news from Somalia and the fact that my previous benefactor my son-in-law, Mr Jack Arbuckle of Jack Arbuckle’s Pre-Loved Car Emporium, is presently temporarily incarcerated and unable to continue his funding support.

So, what is happening here in Somalia? What adventures I have had! I have not yet been able to confirm those earlier reports that a Devonport Guppy has been seen in Somali waters. But it is early days yet and I remain in hope. In all other respects but one my stay here has been a delight. The one disappointment came with the arrival of our Air Garuda flight at Mogadishu. The pilot seemed in unseemly haste and the aircraft had not yet come to a full stop before we were unceremoniously bundled off and the aircraft took off again. Most disappointing and potentially dangerous, I am sure.

But in all other respects there is no disappointment with this country or my welcome to it. Indeed, I have been made to feel most welcome and am very much in demand. On no fewer than three occasions thus far I have been forcefully removed from the streets and whisked away to a room by heavily armed men who seem to be very reluctant to let me go. It is only after I have completed my five-hour dissertation on the breeding habits of the Devonport Guppy that they seem happy to allow me to leave; only for me to be then whisked away by the next group. Very flattering to an 86 year-old woman to have such attention.

Yesterday I started north from Mogadishu to the northern coastal town of Bosaso, flying Somali Airlines. We are yet to arrive and I believe we must be on a tourist flight because the plane lands every few miles so that we can have a comfort stop and see the sights. There is a lot of sand in Somalia. How refreshingly different this airline is from others I have flown! What other airline allows you to wind down the window for fresh air? What other airline allows you to take pets on board? I have counted several pigs, two goats and countless chickens. They are also a most convivial airline; they serve a strange and strangely delicious alcoholic beverage to passengers and even the cabin crew and pilots join in!  It is all very social. I also feel most secure. Almost everybody on board is heavily armed. So with that warmth, safety  and comfort I think I shall now retire for a short nap—I see the pilots have already nodded off.

I am awake. It is dark. And there is no sound in the plane.  Fortunately my trusty Dell which my son-in-law gave me after it fell off the back of a truck seems undamaged and is still working. But the silence here is worrying. We are on the ground.  I see lights in the distance and they are moving. What or who they are  I cannot tell. My new friend, whom I met on the flight—a lovely woman with her very own Kalashnikov—now tells me that the lights are those of bandits or pirates. How exciting! Imagine—pirates in this day and age! And in Somalia of all places! She says that we must remain silent for if we are captured we are destined to a life of decadence and debauchery. She does not of course know of my three years as nanny in the household of Mr Keith Richards and Miss Pallenberg and their lovely little boy Marlon. But I shall remain silent and post this e-mail now in case it is to be my last.

Bless you.
Yours truly,

Phyllis J. Fenwick (Miss).

Internet support kindly provided by Jack Arbuckle’s Pre-Loved Car Emporium (temporarily in hiatus).

The Last Time I was in Palmerston North

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The last time I was in Palmerston North it involved motel rooms, key swaps, seductive lingerie (black with little red flowers), garter belts (2), a whip, handcuffs and a Formula One driver. But, because you are probably not interested in any of that, I shall move on.

I came close to Palmerston North last week; the sign said Palmerston North 50ks but one can never make up ones mind as to whether such signs are meant as a guide or a warning.

Regardless I ventured no farther. I was in a hurry to get to Taupo (for a beer), to Hamilton (for an interview) and home (for a…). It was all part of a three-day road-trip through Hawke’s Bay, Wairarapa and Manawatu, ending, as much does, in the Waikato.

On that trip I saw parts of New Zealand I had never seen, and parts of New Zealand that would count among the most beautiful I have ever seen. Southern Hawke’s Bay looked like something from a Steinbeck novel, without the sadness. Manawatu was simply gorgeous, stunning. The Desert Road pulled at the heart, ripped at it, demanding that you leave part of it there, and I fear I did a little.

Most joyous of all though, and remarkably for me, were the towns. The towns of central North Island and the Wairarapa are thriving. There is not an empty shop to be seen, the streets are bustling, and the people are cheerful and friendly. Even Masterton, which had experienced a 6.2 earthquake the week before my arrival, was buoyant; I saw no damage and experienced none of the much-vaunted aftershocks. It was probably the high point of the trip.

The only sour point—and here you may say I am being predictable, but I have evidence—was Hamilton.

The only near-miss (crash) I had after travelling 100s of miles in my rental car was in Hamilton. What obscene logic persists in Hamilton that says it makes good sense to have two lanes going fully around a roundabout and cars in the right (inner) lane can at will and without warning cross over the left (outer) lane to exit?

But the evidence I have that Hamilton has a malevolent redolence for me was that my rental car’s GPS simply gave up the ghost when it reached the environs of Hamilton. It  could not track me through (and more importantly out) of the city. It gave me a series of confusing though strident instructions and then went blank. It did show a somewhat hazy image of what I thought was a bull mounting a cow, but it may have been a farmer and a cow—I simply could not tell.

The GPS recovered only when I was on the Te Rapa Straight and on my way home. It was as if it had fled the car and was waiting for me outside the town. Normal service was resumed but by that time I knew where I was going, and where I was going was home—taking with me wonderful memories of this beautiful country of ours and confirmation—if confirmation was needed—that Hamilton is just not my kinda town.

Happy Birthday Fryday

What started as a simple and one-off exercise to test the theory that the pen is mightier than the sword turns 20 years-of-age this year.
I don’t know the actual date, but I do know I wrote my first Fryday in 1994, which may make it one of the oldest e-letters still going.
That first posting was written to “fry” a Glen Innes panel beater whom I described as Auckland’s worst.  It was I think the first and last Fryday with any real malice and was sent to a few friends as a warning.
Since then I have tried to keep it light-hearted and the distribution list has hovered around 100, though the more recent blog version has reached 12000 hits.
Many of you have shown kindness in responding to individual postings. The one that received the most response was my tale of inadvertently poisoning my Sea-Monkeys. That posting, like most from the first 10 years, is now lost, at least from my computer.
The series that received the most comments (mostly good) was George W’s Letters to God followed by H’s Letters to Michelle—both now dispensed with. Letters from Wogistan get commented on, but the king for comments is reserved for Whetu; you seem to like his quirky view of the world.
Some of you may have given up on Fryday and consign it automatically to the junk file. But in 20 years I have had only 2 requests to have names removed from the distribution list. I did so immediately though regrettably in the case of one and with some humour with the other considering he wasn’t even on the mailing list and for someone working in public relations was unnecessarily abusive.
But the rest of you have stuck around and I hope I have, most times, given you a bit of a laugh each Friday/Fryday. Some have even past on Fryday to others, and I am both pleased and flattered by that.
So, thank you for your kindness and readership over the last 20 years.  I have no immediate plans to close Fryday; not at least while there is still my beloved Hamilton, and I will later this year publish the archive as an e-anthology, and introduce a new columnist, whom I hope you will like.
Oh, and by the way: despite me, that panel beater is still in business, but then again so is Fryday, so let’s call it a draw.
Have a good weekend.

I Feel Like Salman Rushdie

I feel like Salman Rushdie.
This is written from a remote, very secluded and extremely secretive location. It has to be. It appears that the fashionistas of Auckland have returned from their summer sojourn in Bali, Thailand or whatever the destination de jour is these days and have read and taken umbrage at my comments regarding the superficiality of participating in Fashion in the Field. They have told me in no uncertain terms that they are not superficial, just sooper!!! The jihad has begun. What started as light-hearted comments about my parentage has escalated to outright physical violence. I have been attacked! And there seems to be method to this violence. First I am blinded the light-emitting garish ties of the men (often matching their suits for even more effect) and, in this vulnerable state, I am then targeted by those so-called hats of the women that look less like hats and more like multi-coloured porcupines perching uncertainly atop a cascading waterfall of bleach. Fortunately I have a respite as most of the attackers have taken time off to appear before the cameras at the Heineken Men’s Open. But I fear they will be back, and I shall remain in hiding until such time as I can reach Hamilton, the last true bastion against the advent of the fashionista, and the ancestral home of the walk-short and the safari suit. Hamilton: my haven, my home.

The Sweet Sweet Smell of Success

I believe I came close to attaining sainthood.
I resolved over the season of goodwill to become newly compassionate, to harbour no animosity toward man or entity, and to not dwell on any disappointment of anyone or anything.
In other words, not pick on Hamilton
However, like many New Year resolutions mine lasted only a matter of days, and for this I blame Fairfax Media’s Stuff news-site. Today Stuff published a story that Hamilton is being beset by a foul but as yet unidentified stench wafting over the suburbs. The stench has been variously described as smelling like rotten eggs, a pile of dead cows, wet chicken manure and a dead cat. Or all of the above and all of which would be eminently practical in Hamilton.
Waikato Regional Council officers have followed their noses but have not found the source. So, Hamilton—a city whose previous sole claim to fame was its proximity to Matamata—has a new if unwanted distinction.
The only resolution to the problem I can suggest to Hamiltonians is that if they cannot banish the stench they should at least try and replace it. Get another; one that is perhaps just as foreign to them, but far more appetising: the sweet, sweet smell of success, of foresight and purpose, of vibrancy and vitality, of religious tolerance.
We can send it down from Auckland if you want.

Soul Searching

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There are those of whom it is said (they) have lost their soul. This is of course impossible. Everybody has a soul for it is a universal diktat of all known religions. What people really mean is that a person who has lost their soul has a disinterest bordering on disdain for what said people believe to be important. For example, I have little time for cats—therefore a cat-lover may think I have no soul.  Hamiltonians go further: not only do they not think I have a soul, they think (and hope) I shall rot in hell.  Another case in point—the annual Fashionistas in the Field at Ellerslie Races. I acknowledge some may be interested in the parade of pretty young ladies and equally pretty young men vying with each other for the attention of the media and each other, but I am afraid it leaves me cold—even if, as is the case this year, an acquaintance of mine won it, and, whatever else I may feel, it is churlish not to share in her deserved delight.

But, beyond that, I have no interest in style and therefore no soul.

What I am interested in though are those who in a heightened way at this time of year attempt to save souls. That is very commendable, though less so of those churches placing a bounty on each soul saved, by way of tithing or through infomercials. 

But there are other, less mercenary, organisations for which soul saving is very much a secondary consideration. They are the most commendable because they  have a belief in the intrinsic sanctity of the soul and can therefore concentrate on doing good work without tying or tithing it to soul-searching: City Missions is one, Salvation Army is another. Both do wonderful work all year round, but particularly at this time of the year. For them there is no tangible reward—no year’s supply of sunglasses or night at Sofitel; there is just another mouth and family to be fed and another tomorrow to face.

Yes, I know it is indeed specious to some to link the glitz and glamour of Ellerslie Races with what goes on under Grafton Bridge—and possibly unfair as well. Fair enough; comparisons are odious. But when I read the Herald and watch the news with pictures of all the pretty young things in their finery at Ellerslie I cannot help but cogitate upon true beauty—beauty with depth and soul— being elsewhere.

Christmas Greetings from Wogistan

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The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard (third door on right). Telephone: 125.

Greetings and fellations

The peoples of Democratic Republic of Wogistan sends Christmas greetings to peoples of Democratic Republic of New Zealand, specially Prime Minister Aron Gilmore.

We not celebrate Christmas because it not birthday of our exalted leader Presidente Yoseph Flagrantlie (God give him long life and much children)  but we put special showing of much admired film of New Zealand seenery Lord of Rings on countries cinema if projector fixed. This replace Australian film Crocodile Dundee which has finished its showings.

I also make special offer of no extra for extras at my bathouse for all New Zealand persons who wants Christmas treat not named Colin Craig.

I now go to see film.

With sincere facilitations,

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Wankerstan

Foreign Secretary The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor Spartacus Male Gym and Bathouse.

The Irony before Christmas

Now that was the week that was. A remarkable week in which:

• Len Brown was told to pull his pants up (literally) or else. Or else he’d be told to… pull his pants up, again
• A man is taken in custody from a Northern Motorway overhead gantry and ties up CBD traffic for hours
• Police sue their own commissioner
• The bikini-clad road rager is identified and charged
• A paedophile who pleaded guilty to 60 charges of indecencies, including with an 18-month-old baby, has his sentence reduced on appeal
• A new survey reveals that a dog possesses the ability to recognise its owner
• A week in which Hamilton is described as the city of the future
• And more…

It is truly a weird and fascinating world in which we live and whilst it could be said that any or all of the above may happen at any time of the year, the fact is that they all happened the week before Christmas. Is it coincidence, or irony? The two are not interchangeable. Because these incidents and Christmas have no direct relation it is coincidence. Irony is defined as “the expression of one's meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite, typically for humorous or emphatic effect.” This week—the week before Christmas—when I am  forced to reluctantly scan the jobs section for communication positions the only one advertised is
                          Communications Manager Hamilton City Council.
Now, that’s irony. Have a very Merry Christmas folks. Be kind, be patient and, if you are going to be weird, be prepared to wind up here.

He's over there; I have called the police

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This week I appeared on Shortland Street, and life for many in New Zealand was enriched. The gravitas of my appearance, evocative as it was of Britain’s wonderful repertory knights, will long remain in the annals of great moments in New Zealand television.

At least in my mind.

The reality is though that if you blinked you missed it. Even my wife failed to see me after repeated viewing, asking once if I were the body. I wasn’t. I had a speaking part, but that part consisted of one line: “He’s over there; I have called the police.” I added a special touch by actually pointing to the body when I said my line, plus displayed appropriate panic in my voice and my face—nuances that somehow escaped the notice of the director and, thus far, Hollywood producers.

There is a wonderful scene in Tootsie when Dustin Hoffman, playing a struggling young actor, asks the director what the motivation is for the role he is playing. He asks, plaintively “what is the back-story?” The role he is playing is, I seem to recall, in a Campbell’s canned soup commercial—as the can!

As silly as that situation is, it exists and is something all actors, amateur and professional, relate to.  We want to inject something into the roles we play, no matter how small.

So whilst my time on screen and Shortland Street may have lasted less than two seconds I spent fully a week composing my character and my delivery. What would I be like if I had actually discovered a body (the story-line)? What would my reaction be? What and to whom would I be communicating? What insight and guidance if any from the director would I be given? What indeed would be the state of the body and what influence would that have on my reaction?

So, loins suitably girded I arrived on set to suddenly feel my loins ungirding and panic setting in as my “big moment” approached.

“And, action!”

“He’s over there; I have called the police.”

“Great. Thanks Mike. Let’s set up for the next shot.”

That was it. One take and it was done. I was done.

But I stand ready to go again, Mr Producer. The door is open and I am sufficiently confident in my skill to deliver perhaps two lines next time and let’s not forget my ability to point while talking.

And while I am at it, may I also remind you that indeed I did not play the body. Now, that would be a dead-end job. There is still life left in this old actor yet.

Right, Mr DeMille, I’m ready for my close up.

Old men should not eat toffee

Old men should not eat toffee. I came to that conclusion yesterday, painfully, when eating a toffee resulted in a broken tooth. I am now up for unforeseen and expensive remedial work. Clearly, a lifetime of fluoridation is no match for age and the inevitable deterioration and ultimate destruction of the human body.

That is of course not Fluoride’s fault.  It could be said that my teeth would have been in a lot worse state without it. In fact, if Hamilton is anything to go by—and that is something most of us prefer to do, go by rather than to it—support for fluoridation is a majority view.

In a recent referendum held in conjunction with the local body election, 70% of those participating favoured fluoridation. Oddly, that is at odds with the 89% of direct submissions to the council that wanted fluoridation scrapped. Not so oddly perhaps, if you accept the view that this is a prime case of a strident minority holding sway with their submissions while the majority has its latent say when offered a referendum. It will be interesting to see the result of the national referendum on asset sales.

Anyway, a clear majority of Hamiltonians want fluoridation, and have said so.  The Waikato District Health Board also wants fluoridation. Yet, the newly elected Hamilton City Council—elected at the same time as the referendum was held—has deferred a decision on the issue. Mayor Julie Hardaker says it should be a central government issue. Really? Is Mayor Hardaker saying that as well as having to put up with having Hamilton in the first place we now have to make its decisions for it?

Yes, the referendum was non-binding, but the result was pretty convincing and claims by the council that it needs to wait on a High Court judicial review do not hold water (fluoridated or not) and have been refuted by the council’s own legal advice.

It is a decision, or a non-decision, by a council that clearly lacks teeth.

Something that could soon be the fate of the rest of Hamilton.

Hide the toffees.

The Pythons of Ashburton

Over the last ten years or so I have had much to do with local government. Initially it came by way of invitation. But then, like many council workers, I just hung around until someone noticed me. Recently someone did. I no longer work for council.

In all those years of working for local government I came no closer to working out how it works, or indeed if it works at all.  I am sure it must at some level but sadly for those who work diligently within that environment it remains rare for anyone to have a positive experience dealing with local bureaucracy.

It is also rare that a council or any other local authority will display innovation or even common sense. Entrenched would be a more common descriptor and operational philosophy, and that is hard for the community to overcome or comprehend.

I had a case years ago when I was rung by a young and earnest reporter from a weekend newspaper inviting me to respond to claims that (my) council had refused a resource consent for the building of chemical-free toilets on the basis that “making” worms swim in human excrement would have a traumatizing effect on the worms. I responded that she (the reporter) must be joking. She wasn’t. The claim was true; just not my council, thank God.

And so we arrive at the case of Ashburton and the magpies. It goes like this:

Local magpies are repeatedly attacking Ashburton posties.  It sounds laughable but this is a serious situation—there may be only two or three birds involved but they are attacking year-round, not just during, and typically, the nesting season.

They, the posties (already under the trauma of possible job losses in their sunset industry), have laid 30 complaints with the Ashburton District Council about the birds. The council’s response? Not our problem; it’s Environment Canterbury’s problem. Environment Canterbury’s response? Not our problem; the birds are flying from council land; it’s their problem. Besides (and here come the clincher), “we would only step in if the (magpies) were attacking other birds, not humans.”

My God! Attacking birds. Local bureaucracy gone mad. Duck (or is it magpie) shoving. Ministry of Silly Talks.

It is an affair less resonant of Alfred Hitchcock and more , I am afraid, of Monty Python.