A Bush in the Hand

Fryday has enjoyed a raft of new readers over the past two weeks. They are welcome, whether they be readers of the blog or the email. Those on the blog I do not know—at last count there are about 20,000 of you. The email e-letter is a little different—I know all of you, because it goes only to those whom I like. It has been that way from the start. Fryday started 20 years ago in 1995 as an email to 20 friends attempting in my vain and inglorious way to discredit a panelbeater. It was my first and I think only malicious Fryday email, though some of you may think my disparagement of George W. Bush, “Bishop” Tamaki, and particularly Hamilton, attests to the converse. Then again, most of you also know that much of Fryday is a piss-take, to use a revolting phrase. Nothing you read here should be taken to seriously. I mention all this, not only for the edification of  my new readers, but also because there is a very real prospect of Fryday finding a new outlet in the mainstream media. In other words, a publisher. This is of course exciting. But also worrying. I am concerned that a wider distribution may lead to an adverse—read legal—reaction from those whom I deride. Seemingly the common element  among those “victims”, including the hole of Hamilton, is that they lack humour. But my legal advisor, Whetu, who has over his years had much to do with the law, sees it differently. He opines that as I am simply “poking the borax”, though he admits to having no idea what borax is, and nor have I, there is no chance of legal action. The worst that could happen, in his view, is that I get invited to participate in a charity boxing match against Cameron Slater—and that is nothing. So, after 20 years it is onwards and upwards—literally and literarally, publish and be damned. And even if the halcyon days of George W. And God, Helen Clark and Michelle are gone, there remains the Hamilton Public Library, my old mate Whetu,  Handsome Sampson and 123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard to go on with and, yes Hardman, there is Jeb Bush just waiting in the wings. Bring it on.

We are Farrrrrmaleee!

A week ago I took the unusual step, for me, of commending the Australian cricket team for their sportsmanship. I highlighted their apparent concern for tailender Umesh Yadav after he was felled by a Mitchell Starc bouncer. In the light of subsequent and much reported Australian behaviour at the Cup Final I somewhat regret writing that post. It has also been pointed out to me that I should have questioned the temerity of bowling a bouncer to a tailender in the first place, particularly as it was tacitly countenanced by an Australian team captain who wears a black armband in memory of a team mate felled and killed by a bouncer.
However, I am adding nothing new here. All this has been written about before and even attempts by such writers as Chris Rattue to present a fresh perspective by playing Devil’s advocate, “They (New Zealand) surrendered in the final, and took this whole nice-guy business too far.”, lacks vigour and, some would say, credibility.
So, for my final word on the ICC Cricket World Cup I want to leave you with what it left me. Like much of the country I felt a real pride about the on and off field performance of this New Zealand cricket team. In terms of representing this country it was an almost flawless performance from beginning to end. The team was universally commended for the way and the spirit in which they played. It did not go unnoticed world-wide and in Australia it drew the inevitable comparison with their own team.
In sporting terms we were gifted with magical moments and memories. Some games were pure theatre that would defy scripting. Almost all games included examples of individual brilliance, and not always from the same individual. And then there was the way Brendon McCullum’s side went about their business—methodical, determined, skilled—getting the job done.
For themselves. For us.
And that is the point. It was us. I believe this team did something that no other New Zealand team has ever done. Yes, we have unified behind teams in the past—the America’s Cup team once or twice, the All Blacks often and the The Breakers repeatedly.
But somehow—and I cannot explain it—the New Zealand cricket team succeeded in making each and everyone of us feel that we were part of the team. Think back—did you not feel, as I did, that mix of dread, fear and anticipation every time Mitchell Starc stormed in at Eden Park? Did you not stand alongside Brendon McCullum for each and every ball wondering whether it was going to be an out or a six? We were there. Eden Park got crowded. Even the MCG got crowded. There were so many of us out there in the middle.
New Zealand’s participation and performance in this tournament had a family feel about it. So did the team itself. I felt that watching the NZ Cricket Awards last Thursday. There was a real sense of camaraderie in display there. This was a homogenous unit, unified on and off the field and remarkably free of any obvious ego. The speeches were heartfelt and eloquent—none more so than the perfectly crafted yet spontaneous and sincere speech by the team’s dying uncle Martin Crowe. That speech, even the gentle admonishment to Daniel Vettori to get a shave, was a perfect exempla of how this nation can handle itself when it sets out to be itself—without pretence.
Yes, it is just a game. A cricket game. A sport.
But you know what? It did something magical. It endeared ourselves to ourselves. During the course of this tournament we looked at ourselves.
And guess what?
    We liked what we saw.

Pitch Fever

It is easy to define the word great. Somewhat harder for greater and greatest; they require a point of comparison, and ‘greatest” in particular is subject to so many variable and subjective views that it is usually impossible and often irresponsible to term anything the greatest.
So, will victory against Australia in Sunday’s ICC World Cup be New Zealand’s greatest cricketing achievement, or even New Zealand’s best sporting achievement? Some will argue that we are already there, simply by succeeding through to the semis for the first time;  a finals win against the Aussies just extends that.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that it has galvanised the nation and we are almost united as a country behind our team. Yes, there are those who say, correctly, that it is only a game and there are more important things in the  world (the Northland by-election, anyone?)
But at this time, and particularly since last Tuesday’s semifinal win, they have been rather muted, stripped of their usual weapons: “it’s elitist” (America’s Cup) or “thuggery” (rugby and rugby league). Left, like the rest of us, with the simple fact that the Black Caps exemplify almost everything that is inherently good about this country—including and perhaps foremost the great spirit in which “we” have played the game—Grant Elliott and Dale Steyn an enduring memory.
Which brings us to the Australians.
You knew we would go there.
 I watched last night’s semi between Australia and India. I expected the worst in regard to on-field behaviour. These two teams have been never afraid to have a go at each other, often resulting in near physical confrontation and massive fines. Before this match an unnamed Australian player or official stated that the team was “pledged to sledge.”
So, it was going to be all on.
What happened?
What happened, I think, was in part Phillip Hughes.
The tragic death of Phillip Hughes, felled by a bouncer at this very ground, the Sydney Cricket Ground, last year, drew the cricketing world together like never before. The outreach of support for the Hughes family and for the Australian cricket team was unprecedented in the sport
I think it caught Michael Clarke and his team by surprise and they have not and will never forget it.
Yes, they will continue to sledge. Yes, they will continue to be aggressive. That is who they are. That is what they are.
But there has been a subtle change. For the better. Perhaps, think first, sledge second. And that, surely, is a legacy of Phillip Hughes.
There was another last night.
Last night in the dying stage of the game Indian tailender Umesh Yadav was hit—hard—by a blistering bouncer from Aussie quick Mitchell Starc. Yadav staggered for a moment and there was a sudden silence—terrible silence—that swept over the ground. Remember, it is the same ground that… .
Michael Clarke was the first to react, the first to Yadav’s side, the second was bowler Starc, six or seven other Aussie players soon followed.
None left his side until the Indian physio reached them.
That will be one of the enduring image of the tournament for me: a solitary Indian batsman surrounded by Australians, not sledging, not being separated by umpires—just sincere concern for a fellow cricketer.
Something happened here.
Something special.

The not so secret diary of Handsome Sampson

So, some of my so-called supporters left me a “blunt” message. What a joke! They say I will have no funding or volunteer support if I stand for re-election. What a joke! Joke! Joke! Joke! I should never have gone to the Left. They are so finicky (is that a word?) and will go with anyone they think will listen to them. For goodness sake, that’s how I got in in the first place! I should have gone to the right where my true heart has always been. They would have stuck by me. They stick by everyone. Doesn’t matter what they do. Bevan told me that. I miss Bevan. Couldn’t stand that Stephen Joyce though. But all is not lost yet. The Pennies haven’t dropped! Ha, ha. Penny H will stand by me, because she has no show against Goff and Penny W, well she will stand by me because I make her feel important. As for the rest of them? Who cares! What are they, 20 votes? What people don’t understand about me is that I am resilient. I can keep it up, as Bevan used to say. I am a survivor. The world can throw everything it likes at me. Who is Mike Hosking anyway? And come election time and my smile—people love that smile—starts appearing on the billboards people will say “Well, Len’s a good bloke. Done a lot for this city. Want him in again.” That’s what they will say. Anyway, I digress. This is a diary. What have I done today? Not a lot, to be honest—and I try not to be. Went to my therapist. And that reminds me, I need to look up the meaning of delusional.

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.