Game of groans

I am a recent and late convert to Game of Thrones. I missed it when it was first broadcast in New Zealand but have viewed all the repeat screenings from the beginning currently playing on one of Sky’s pop-up channels ahead of the new season in April.
In terms of grandeur and scale, Game of Thrones is probably without precedent in television. And it could sit comfortably on the big screen. It is right up there with feature films such as Kingdom of Heaven, Gladiator and the hey-day of epics such as Ben Hur and El Cid. It has  a cast of thousands—8000 I read—and the attention to costumes and sets is exquisite.
So too the scripts.
But you know all this. There is a legion of fans in New Zealand and world-wide. You may well be one of them, and I am preaching to the already converted.
So, let me focus on one small part of the programme. A very small part of the programme, that, conversely, proves size does not matter when taken out of and beyond context.
I am talking about Peter Dinklage.
Dinklage plays Lord Tyrion Lannister, a Machiavellian character of epic proportions. Yet he and by connotation the character he plays is only 1.3 metres tall. In the programme Tyrion Lannister is described variously as a dwarf, half-man and an imp. Under the guise of fiction and fantasy you can obviously and refreshingly get away from political correctness. Lannister’s size is crucial to his character. There is no getting away from that. The scriptwriters have capitalised on it to great effect. Lannister is derided, humiliated and ridiculed because of his size. And this is within his own family!
But, here is the thing. For the viewer, with Dinklage in charge and in his capable hands and care, Lannister’s size become secondary. Put simply, Dinklage takes this character and imparts within it such finesses that the 1.3 metre Tyrion Lannister dominates the screen whenever he is on it. The camera loves him and Dinklage/Lannister obviously reciprocates, treating the camera (and the viewer) with respect and affection. In a single scene Dinklage can deliver us a gamut of emotions and within that self-same scene we can respond in equal measure with sorrow, sympathy, disgust and fear. And often humour.
The only other actors who have been able to do that for me are Robert Downey Jr and, in earlier days, Jimmy Cagney—significantly both also small of stature.
So, is there is lesson to be learned from that last fact—small men, accomplished actors, who can through force of will and personality alone make us believe anything?
Only that Winston Peters may indeed after all win the Northland by-election.

Handsome Sampson

My Dearest Bev

I do so prefer calling you Bev. It is somehow more masculine, somehow less—well…gay, than calling you Bevan. You don’t mind, do you? Of course you don’t. You never minded anything I did, did you? That is one of the things I loved about you…when I knew you.

Sorry about that, I didn’t intend to be maudlin. It is just that I miss you so. I scan the social pages of the Herald, but you are not there. I am. But you are not. It is as if you have dropped off the face of the earth. Understandable, given what you/we went through. But I am a victim here, too. You can’t imagine how excruciating it was to go out in those first weeks after our story broke. I just wanted to stay home and in bed. But I wasn’t allowed there. I could have of course gone to the Sky City Grand and gone to bed. But that would have brought back memories—memories of you

So, I didn’t. I went to those functions instead. To be booed. I was even booed at the Auckland Nines. How unfair is that? After so long. Did you see me on the television? Do you see me, and still think of me as your Handsome Sampson? I am sure you do. I hope you do. I still think of you as my little Chinese Takeaway. Such laughs, we had.

Not many laughs these days. I find most of my councillors revolting—in both senses of the world. How you and I laughed about them! We could in those days, because it was hard to take this rag-tag bunch seriously—after all, they were elected by Aucklanders. To be fair (as the Mad Butcher says), they still can’t be taken seriously. What really hurts is that they don’t take ME seriously. To be fair (thanks Butch), they never did. Just because I came from South Auckland. But I showed them. Just let them open THEIR rates demands and then open mine. J

To get away from them, I could choose to do a round of visits to the CCOs. But very few of them know me or notice me. I went to Auckland Transport the other day, and reception asked for my name and gave me one of those stick-on ID labels. AND I was told that I would have to use Wilson Car Parks because all their spaces were reserved for AT executives! How humiliating is that? Wait until they get their rate demands!!!! AND they should be using pubic transport rather than their cars.

People are so unkind to me. John Key won’t speak to me, Steven Joyce laughs at me, Iwi ignore me, and Cameron Slater has forgotten me.

I am so lonely.

Come home to me.

Room 406.

Your Handsome Sampson.

The Body Beautiful

As soon as I finish this, I am off to the gym. I try to go three times a week and on each occasion spend about an hour, divided evenly between cardio and weights. I am not a fitness freak. If I were I would probably be down there more often and for longer, and the results would be demonstrably (and visibly) better. Nevertheless, I do have the capacity to kid myself that I am doing some good to and for my body. In reality, I am likely doing more for my mind by imposing a little bit of discipline in my life.
That aside, there are other benefits to going to my particular gym. It is not large, yet it is never over-crowded. There is no waiting for any of the equipment and, mercifully and relative to my previous gym, nobody abusing the equipment by using it as a convenient seat on which to read and write texts or gossip.
Also, unlike my previous gym, the staff are young, knowledgeable and friendly. Apart from the young part, so are the patrons. Given the age of many of the patrons, including myself, it is comforting to see the defibrillator in the corner. I hope that there is also someone who knows how to use it.
Which brings me to Les Mills.
Yesterday at Les Mills’ Victoria Street (Auckland) gym a 28 year-old man collapsed during a BodyPump session. I do not know what BodyPump is but I understand from the Herald report that it is reasonably strenuous and involves medium to light weights.
The female instructor and three other staff from the gym immediately went to the man’s aid. An ambulance was called (by a patron). One staff member stayed with the man until the ambulance arrived 25 minutes later, and the instructor resumed her class/session.
Rider alert: I was not there, I do not know exactly what happened, and I am relying on the Herald report.
Two questions: should the instructor have immediately resumed the session? No practical reason why not, I guess, except I think the decent thing to do would have been to call off that session, or at least delay its resumption until emergency staff were on the scene and a proper assessment of the man’s condition had been made. I am not alone with that thought. The Herald reports that some at the scene also had that view, and a spokesperson for Les Mills admits the class should have been stopped and health and safety processes were not followed. Am I wrong in perhaps drawing the conclusion that this instructor and perhaps some of her Les Mills class are so self-obsessed that nothing, but nothing, gets in the way of their workout?
The second question is why it took an ambulance 25 minutes to get there. Their station is just up the road. Twenty-five minutes seems an inordinately long time. I would hope for better if I collapse at the gym—with or without the defibrillator.
Anyway, that is my gripe, it is at an end, and I have met my self-imposed challenge.
My challenge was that this week—of all weeks—I could write an entire Fryday without mentioning Fifty Shades of Grey…oops! Bugger!

It's Just Not Cricket

Did you see it? A surprisingly large number of sports commentators apparently didn’t. Or perhaps they did see it, but won’t admit to seeing it, so that they don’t have to talk about it.
I am talking about the ICC Cricket World Cup Opening Ceremony miss-performed in Christchurch last night. In my view, and in retrospect God knows why I viewed it, it was New Zealand’s most cringe-inducing television travesty since Ernie Leonard’s and Glyn Tucker’s Club Show in 1979.  The two-hour plus show was amateurish, patronising, ill conceived and, largely, irrelevant. Okay, so why does this upset me? Does it matter that I am upset. Probably not. Except that if it was, as hyped, seen by one billion viewers world-wide (which I seriously doubt) it was unacceptable as a representation of this country. And, long after I thought we as a people had got long beyond this, we were dumbed-down, patronised and presented with an immaturity not seen on television since the hideous days of the 80s. Some specific points:
·      The pre-show opened with a Sri Lankan dance troupe, hardly representative of this country and about as visually striking as Gerry Brownlie performing the Time Warp.
·      The next “act” was a Bollywood dance troupe featuring front and centre an overweight New Zealand blonde woman whose midriff was the only thing wobbling in time with the music.
·      We were then treated to some nondescript female singer, and a song that’s sole raison d'être appeared to be that it was written in Christchurch and sung originally by Christine Aquilera. Who cares?
·      All of the presenters read off hand-held cue cards. Very head-boy’s speech from our secondary school days of the 80s. Couldn’t they have learnt their lines, or at least been cued through their earpieces. Where was the technology?
·      Jeremy Wells? Really?
·      The interminable references to the Christchurch earthquakes. Can we have nothing in Christchurch these days that does not mention them? Sorry, but—please—let’s move on and stop patronising that city.
·      Tall towers like some medieval siege machines, each representing one of the New Zealand playing venues and each having a New Zealand sporting “celebrity” on top of it. The Hawkes Bay celebrity: “Not a lot of people know that Napier has the National Aquarium where you can see lots of fish” and Canterbury cricket legend Chris Harris on top of the Eden Park tower? WTF?
·      Bringing out our Prime Minister as the extra man to play backyard cricket. He looked uncomfortable. We were uncomfortable. And this from a country that has a seat on the Security Council. Seriously?
·      Sir Richard Hadlee trying to look good-humoured and fun-filled, rather than the grumpy old curmudgeon he really is.
·      The Richie McCaw, Stephen Fleming high five fail. All over the news this morning.
I could go on. But won’t. Let’s just get on with the cricket.
And let’s leave it with a positive. Two positives. Just to prove that I am not too a grumpy old curmudgeon. Sole Mio was great (predictably) and Australia’s ceremony was worse. Way worse.

Shine a Light

I like to leave my office light on when I am having sex. I am not in the office, but it is deeply comforting to know that I can reach my computer safely if, as often happens in the midst of coitus, I have an idea for a new book or article. Therefore, I can understand the Christchurch couple leaving the light on while they had unbridled sex in their employers’ office (sex with a bridle is also—well—quite interesting). Theirs was a pragmatic view. As well as a voyeuristic one for pub patrons across the road, many of whom apparently qualify as cellphone Spielbergs. The couple should be applauded, as they no doubt were by said patrons. They provided a public service, not only in showing a commendable attention to safety commensurate with an OSH award, but also demonstrating that sex in the office has returned after a corporate foray into  “work hard, play…not all” and, in this case, providing a visible manifestation that yes indeed insurance does have a passionate side. Who knew? Of course, there is a rider. There is a downside to this. One of the two was married. Our tolerance of such behaviour does have boundaries. Moreover, Fryday says to that couple from Christchurch that you too should have boundaries and keep within them. Because, beyond those boundaries, lay despair, depravity and decadence, or, as some call it, Hamilton.

If I were a carpenter

I miss George W. Bush.
I miss Helen Clark.
I miss Hone.
The heart has been ripped out of Fryday by their departure from the political scene. Elsewhere, writing about Hamilton has become almost as boring as the city itself. Len Brown remains a cheap shot but is already shot, everybody knows it. Whetu, I think, has gone back to prison.
Fryday has nothing to write about.
Except our Canadian-born ambassador for New Zealand Eleanor Catton.
I know it is opportunistic. And I know her remarks are largely a media beat up.  But that doesn’t make those remarks any less offensive to me, or any less spurious. Let’s look at the facts (as I seem them, and does that mean they are less fact than conjecture?):
1.     She feels uncomfortable about being an ambassador for New Zealand. Setting aside that she isn’t, at least in a formal sense, all I can say is don’t be. An ambassador, that is. Nobody asked you to be. And, if you are uncomfortable being one, don’t pretentiously say you are one.  Leave that accolade to those who are genuinely and outspokenly proud of our nation.
2.     She complains of New Zealand’s tall-poppy syndrome. Well, I can’t recall anyone in New Zealand, when she won the Man-Booker or since, who didn’t celebrate with her that distinction. As a nation, we applauded her. None criticised her. And the fact was, the sub-text for Man Booker, “books you are guaranteed to start reading but not to finish”, was quickly swept under the carpet by a laudatory nation. It seems Ms Catton has also done some sweeping herself lately; this tall poppy has “carpeted “her New Zealand Order of Merit (2013), Doctorate of Literature (Victoria University, 2014) and Governor General’s Award for English Language Fiction (2013)—all fine fertiliser for a tall poppy.
3.     She criticises the Government for being neo-liberal, profit-obsessed. Well, it is that same government (and by direct association its profit obsession and tax-payers) who subsidises her position and salary at Manukau Institute of Technology and even the publication of her books by Victoria University Press. If I were a carpenter—or any other tradesperson—I wouldn’t get Government support. I am not sure why Ms Catton, or any other writer, thinks they warrant it. Or why the Government does, for that matter.
I think I had a thing about Eleanor Catton. An emerging thing. I thought there was a new Fryday thread—a new Hone. But now that I have vented. I don’t think there is much more to be said of her. But I do thank her. It is years since I heard the word hua.
For that, and for her and for Mr Plunket, I am a grateful hua.

As Cecil C. Sackrider Sees It: A Brush with Bush

The prospect of another Bush in the White House may not be universally welcome. However, George W. Bush’s younger brother, John Ellis (Jeb) Bush, has announced that he will “actively explore” a bid for the White house in 2016; and, as Fryday’s Alabama correspondent, Reverend Cecil C. Sackrider, sees it, you can never brush off a Bush bid. Reverend Sackrider:

Opinions on the presidency of George W. Bush are divided, even today. Some, such as myself and the great majority of enlightened Americans, consider him one of the greatest Presidents of our time, and a great American. Others, such as my ministry’s former finance director, and my former head of television broadcasts, believe we could have done better. To that group, I say you are wrong—for in questioning George W. Bush’s contribution to the Presidency, to our great nation and to the world, you are questioning God’s. President Bush was and is a man who walks shoulder to shoulder with God, and who has the ear of God—there are only a few of us who can say that. As much as God learned from President Bush (the President’s Letters to God are a revelation, in fact a book of revelations), President Bush would readily admit I believe that he learned from God, and was the instrument of God’s plan and will for the world. It is through misty and moist eyes that we of the True Faith remember those receding halcyon days when our great nation was ruled by God and a Bush in the White House. The days before the darkness. Many of us—most of us—pray for a return to those days. Our prayers may be answered. We have the welcome news, God be praised, that George’s younger brother Jeb is contemplating putting his name forward for the 2016 Presidential Election. The Bush name is not without power and influence among the enlightened, and in this news and in His name we have further evidence God is set to return to the White House. Pray, my fellow Americans, that it comes to fruition. It is God’s will and God’s way that we be blest with a Bush.

For an exact replica of God’s Plan for This World, as delivered personally by God to Cecil C. Sackrider (handwriting verified), send a check or money order (minimum US$99.99) to the Cecil C. Sackrider Ministry 1069E West 35 Street Montgomery Alabama United States of America, Zip Code 666.  All donations over US$50,000 go into the draw to win a three-day family pass to the Cecil C. Sackrider Theme Park. Offer available only to American Christians.

The Cross we Bear

“Kia Ora.”
“Hi. G’day.”
I did not mind. Kia Ora is standard fare these days. Used by Pakehas to indicate they are fair minded, in a patronising way; used by Maori to assert their independent spirit, in a patronising way; and used by this young man because he is Maori and proud of it, in a non-patronising way.
We meet him at Wainui Bay in the Far North. He is one of a group of about 20 Year 12 and 13 students from Papakura High School. It will be for many of them their last year at High School. For this group, all members of the school’s military academy, the next move will likely be the armed forces. For this young man it will be a certainty: he wants to be in the army, the infantry. He cannot wait, he tells us.
He is a little shorter than I am. And slim. Very slim. Athletic, I guess. His face is open and friendly. His demeanour is courteous and confident. He approaches us. And, if there is a just a touch of bro-talk, it is not enough to be demeaning—to him or to us.
His teacher, one of them, is currently serving with the SAS in Afghanistan.  It is boring, the teacher has told the student.
“Are you taught anything about the Napoleonic Wars?” I ask him, hoping to bring up my relationship with Marshal Ney.
“No,” he says. “Only when we are taught about great leaders and leadership.”
I examine this young man closely. He is meditative, attentive, and probably selective. He has moved away from his group; he does not need support. He can confidently talk to anyone—even this much older Pakeha couple with their two dogs, whom he has never met before, on a secluded beach where he has never been before.
Leaders and leadership.  He has been taught well. This young man has very little left to learn.
I think I have just met the next Willie Apiata.

As Rev. Cecil C. Sackrider Sees It: God's Gifts.

Our American religious correspondent, Cecil C. Sackrider, and his new wife, Pastor Bobby-Jo Sackrider, have just returned from an evangelic tour of the Sub-Continent. Tired, but clearly happy, Reverend Sackrider has found time to tell us of his new wife and the blessings he believes God has bestowed upon him, and upon her.

Last night my wife, Bobby-Jo, came in to my bedroom for our nightly prayer. We finished. I blessed her. She started to return to her room but paused at the door. I saw she was troubled and in need of God’s wisdom.

“What is wrong Bobby-Jo,” I asked, kindly.

“Reverend Cecil,” said my wife, “may I ask you a question?”

“Are you in need of God’s wisdom, child?” I asked.

“No, my husband,” she said. “I am in need of yours.”

“I speak for God,” I said, benignly.

“Then, why is it, my Husband, that God, who creates such wondrous beauty as the Magnolia, creates such evil as ISIS?”

I looked upon my wife, with love. So young. Barely 16 years of blessed age. So much to learn. So much for me to mould.

Quietly, encouragingly, I reached out for her tiny hands. Taking them in mine, I looked into her eyes. She lowered hers. “It is simple child. God created the magnolia; satan created ISIS.”

Bobby-Joe looked at me, perplexed. “But surely Reverend Cecil, God created everything.”

“Everything that is good, child.”

“And what is good, Husband? What am I to love God for?”

“First and foremost, Section 501(C) of the Internal Revenue Code.”

“Tax exemption for churches?” she said.

“Exactly,” I said.  I had taught her well. “But God is truly generous. He has given us more.”

“Please tell me,” I could sense her excitement.

“Well,  He gave us:

• Fox News,
• The Republican Party
• Pat Buchanan
• Weapons of Mass Destruction
•  Infomercials –sorry, television preaching
• Gullibility (a great gift)
• BMW
• Former President George W. Bush (a greater gift)…”

“And President Barrack Obama?” she opined.

“No. Sometimes He leaves it to His apprentices. They don’t always get it right.  And yet God has given Me the greatest gift of all…”

“Yes, my husband? What?”

I paused, reflectively.

 “You,” I said, smilingly.

Her eyes glistened. Her little hands tightened in mine.

“Reverend Cecil,” she said, quietly.

“Yes,”  I replied, knowingly.

“May we pray again?”

“Yes,” I replied, lovingly.

“The same way again?”

“Yes,” I replied.

And we did.

For a list of God’s Gifts, as delivered personally by God to Cecil C. Sackrider (handwriting verified), send a check or money order (minimum US$99.99) to the Cecil C. Sackrider Ministry 1069E West 35 Street Montgomery Alabama United States of America, Zip Code 666.  Checks should be made out to CASH (Congregation Against Satan’s Handiwork). All donations over US$50,000 go into the draw to win a three-day family pass to the Cecil C. Sackrider Theme Park. Offer available only to American Christians.

Moaners on the Money

Yesterday the Reserve Bank revealed New Zealand’s new bank notes, which will begin circulation in October 2015. I like them. They are colourful, vibrant  and, in their design, an astute blend of tradition and modernism. That is my opinion, anyway. Others will and do disagree. I knew they would. I said to someone yesterday they would. There is no special prescience in that; all it takes is a knowledge of New Zealanders.  In New Zealand there will always be some—many—who will disagree with something, particularly something subjective such as design. Of course they are entitled to express their opinions, as I am entitled to do about the bank notes and about them. But I can’t help thinking that many of these people do not start and stop with bank notes, or flags for that matter. We seem to have in this country a disproportionate number of perpetual wingers, and that is both disappointing and discouraging. In a past life I was required to deal with some of them—negative thinkers who generally had a raft of eclectic complaints. To be confronted day after day with such complainers was both tiring and tiresome. But I had to do it. For pay. Today, I don’t. So, allow me to vent, from experience: all you glass half empty people, life on my side of the fence that divides us is good. Life is not perfect, but it is a joy. Even in our waking moments we can always find something to look forward to in the day ahead. It is not hard and it will, literally, make our day. Try it. You will like it. And you, in turn, will become more likeable. That said (and vented) let me return to the bank notes and reiterate that—in my world—you are allowed to dislike them. But surely you should do so for the right reasons, and by that I mean realistic and reasonable reasons. Here are some of the reasons, expressed on Twitter, Facebook and the Herald website, given for not liking the bank notes. In quoting, I rest my case on negative thinkers.

• A change in a pay rise would be better.
• Will they print enough to feed all the kids in poverty?
• A country in debt and where (sic) wasting money on money hahaa
• Not that safe to have bright cash …. pretty much saying look what I have, now come and rob me
• How many million did it cost to do that?
• Does the govt have this excess funds? What about our nurses, teachers etc?
• I don't think the colours need to be any brighter? What's the point of that? Won't the ink make it more expensive?

But in this there is humour (Thank God). I like these two comments, both from Facebook:

• Don’t have money long enough to look at it....
• Do we get to have a free sample?

As Cecil C. Sackrider Sees It

The trouncing of the Democratic Party in America’s mid-term election is seen as a resounding blow for President Barrack Obama. But as Fryday’s Alabama based correspondent, Reverend Cecil C. Sackrider, sees it, it is the advent of a re-emerging America.

There is no doubt that the presidency of our great nation’s first black American President has been dealt a telling blow, as have, I suggest, the presidential aspirations of many black Americans. At least those we used to term “uppity”. But it should come as no surprise. If it does, I have news for those folk: it is not called The White House for nothing. I had serious misgivings when Mr. Obama put his name forward and I was horrified (though not surprised) that the Democratic Party selected him. But I was absolutely appalled when the American People voted him in. We are living in strange times. We recall that these were the same people who put Clinton in power, and the same people who decided that perhaps the greatest American President of all time, George W. Bush, was deemed the most disliked President of all time. The devil clouds the judgement of many, whilst The Almighty enlightens. And here in this election we see The Almighty in action. It is His work and His will that sees the return of His party, the Republican Party, to power, and with it the advent of enlightenment.  Never again, it is to be hoped, will we return to the dark times of a black President. God allowed us that experiment so that in failure we could see Light. Do not get me wrong, God is not a racist. He after all created black folk. But I cannot comprehend that He intended them to be anything more in The White House than butlers. Nor was this election lost for the Democrats because Mr Obama is a black man, or because of his lack of performance (something even Mr Obama’s wife Michelle has acknowledged). No, it was lost because it is God’s will. And God’s will is that we should be punished for our treatment of President George W. Bush. Thus, He gave us President Barrack Obama.  Now, in mercy, He removes him. A lesson learned I am sure by all who think that we will again have a black or a future woman President. Neither is in God’s plan for our world, and all free-thinking and righteous folk should thank God for that.

• For an exact replica of God’s Plan for This World, as delivered personally by God to Cecil C. Sackrider (handwriting verified), send a cheque or money order (minimum US$99.99) to the Cecil C. Sackrider Ministry 1069E West 35 Street Montgomery Alabama United States of America, Zip Code 666.  All donations over US$50,000 will go into the draw to win a three-day family pass to the Cecil C. Sackrider Theme Park. Offer available only to American Christians.