Heroes

This is not the Fryday I intended to write. This is not the tone I intended to take. I intended levity for my first Fryday of 2016. It is intended, I am sure—still sure, to be a good year. But at this time, this morning, the only words I can bring to mind are those of perhaps the most beautiful song from Jesus Christ Superstar, Can we start again, please?

David Bowie is dead. Alan Rickman is dead. Both 69. Both of cancer. Both in the same week.

We can be heroes. Alan Rickman is one of mine. He has been since I first saw him, in a delightful little film called Truly Madly Deeply (1991), playing opposite Juliet Stevenson. His was an affecting performance as the recently departed husband, softly played with a deft touch that never let his character sway into the ever-present and always threatening mire of maudlin. 

I next saw him, and was excited by him, in a very different role and portrayal—that of the Sheriff of Nottingham in Kevin Costner’s Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991). In that, Rickman let loose. He played the Sheriff almost as a parody of every evil genius that ever appeared in a Bond film. And it worked. Rickman as the Sheriff of Nottingham was screamingly funny. He saved that movie.

It was Love Actually. I loved watching that man on screen. I loved those hooded eyes that portrayed nothing and portrayed everything. I loved the wry smile that was so quick and so telling. Most of all, I loved that voice. Who could forget that voice? And why would we want to?

That voice. 

We lost two great voices this week. Two voices so distinctive, so recognisable that we know immediately whom we are listening to. No names, no faces required. Just enjoy the gifts we are given.

No, we can not start again.

But, please God, can that be it, for a while at least?

2016: The Year That Is.

So, Fryday enters 2016. In doing so, it welcomes 2016 as an auspicious year and hopefully a rewarding one. The passing of 2015 completes the second decade of Fryday in its original e-letter format and the beginning of its second on-line decade as a blog. Twenty years this thing has been going. However, as most of you already know of the rationale for its gestation and have been content to let it evolve I won’t bore you by further stroking Fryday’s ego or, now,  yours.
Suffice to say, I enjoy your company and your comments and I thank you for them.
I am going to enjoy 2016. Fryday has a verifiable treasure trove before it. Never before, since the heyday of George W. Bush and Helen Clark, has it had such riches of character and personalities to play with, tamper with.
There is of course its stable of writers and visitors: Cecil C. Sackrider, Minister Yoseph Wankerstan of Wogistan and the irrepressible Whetu (though my old mate seems to have gone AWOL of late); they will remain and this year, possibly, be joined at times by the escapades of the indefatigable Phyllis J. Fenwick. Of course anybody who takes any of those too seriously will not perhaps be disposed to have the sagaciousness or the humour that Fryday so highly prizes and depends upon.
But it is not the musty old stable on which Fryday intends to rely. What is more exciting is the “new” set of personalities that it has at hand. There are those whom Fryday has already visited and will again. Handsome Sampson will deservedly not escape scrutiny in 2016 (he will not be allowed to go gentle into that good night) and he of the coiffeur and the coffer Bishop Tamaki. They will remain targets.
However the body-politic is now replete with soft targets—those who cannot fail to attract ridicule and in one case perhaps even cultivate it. I speak of course of the American presidential election and in particular of Donald Trump—Humpity Dumpity—which I am sure will find favour with Fryday’s oldest friend, Hardman.
Of places, Wogistan remains a favourite. Hamilton, I will scarcely visit in 2016—there is always the danger that boring begets boring. Besides, the city seems to have matured of late. Australia seems a lovely place to live but I wouldn’t want to visit there; others do it better, satirically. There is a little town in Ohio called Freeport that is neither a port nor free but has interesting “folk”, so we may pay a visit or two there in the manner of Truman Capote. And finally a visit or three south to the little town of Te Whaitu and some barside political commentary from “me old mate” Tarragon.
So, 2016 should be an interesting year for Fryday.
For you, I also hope it will be a happy one, a prosperous one, even the best one. For some of you, I know it will also be a different one; with new horizons and locations—I know you will enjoy them and they will welcome you.
Thank you for enjoying Fryday through the years. May we continue to grow old together.

The Artful Dodger

A Brick, Unknown Artist.

The subtleties of an artist’s creative work, to say nothing of the subjective nature of the viewer’s opinion, mean we are often on very soft ground indeed when we take it upon ourselves to criticise such work.
Who am I to say that a painting (for example) is good or bad, particularly if I have no knowledge of the artist’s intent? I am on far more solid—though liquid— ground when I assess a good scotch: I know what I like, and don’t like, and I can in confidence settle on that, knowing that you may have an entirely different opinion of the same scotch.
Allow me please the presumption to suggest I may also know what is a well-written book (Gore Vidal’s Julian) and what is not (E.D. James’ Fifty Shades of Grey).
But throw me in front of a painting, and I have no opinion of what is good and is not. Unless of course we are taking of a Graham Sydney, the quality of which is beyond dispute. But among the raft of contemporary artists—many of whom are dealing in obscurities—I completely flounder.
I have a young artist friend, Brett A’Court. I like his work. His Flesh and Spirit Exhibition is now showing at the TSB Wallace Centre in Hillsborough, although I am afraid I am unable to attend. And I have a friend in France who does some interesting work, though I am drawn to believe her most creative work yet is her family.
With these exceptions, I tend to journey, naked and vulnerable, through the world of art. I have no pretensions to say anything pretentious (Art often speaks for itself) and if that makes me appear ignorant, so be it—I am. Anyway, I  have a sneaky suspicion that one or two so-called “artists” are conning us—scamming us. Throwing a bit of paint about. However, that was said of Jackson Pollock, and no-one doubts his talent, for art and for life. Warhol on the other hand…
But I imagine that most artists today are sincere, and honest. One in particular.
I found him in Hamilton. He is currently exhibiting there. His name is Guy “Moskon” Horton and his Sans Serif exhibition is at the Wonderhorse Tavern in Hamilton—yes, there!  You might take to his stuff. I don’t. Wrong generation. Mr “Mockson” Horton specialises in a comic style. Indeed he admits to being, mostly, a jobbing illustrator—and that is fine.
However, if I am not taken by his art, I do like his honesty and his humour. In promoting his show on Facebook, Mr Horton invites us to “Gaze at the shapes, lines, piles and renderings of colourful goop created by 'Moskon' whilst sipping on artisan beverages and absorbing audible pleasure from Actual Nutritionist Mike Blanchett.”
No real pressure applied there. Just a good time.
But what really stuck me as a virgin traveller through Mr Horton’s world was the self-effacing spirit in which he treated his own work and his helpfulness in suggesting for me the somewhat cynical and comparative view I should have of it. Indeed Actual Nutritionist Mike Blanchett and Bricks may be the primary attractions of Mr Horton’s exhibition if the following admission by him is anything to go by:
“Come drink a cocktail, beer, wine or all three and gaze at some beautiful brick walls covered in pictures.”
Now, that is honesty in Art.

We, the people...who are left

“My fellow Americans” is a phrase often heralding a presidential pontification.
It implies a fraternal association between a President and the people—an ordered society based on fraternity, equality and…a pipe-dream. The mass killings tragically blighting America these days have put paid to any sense of fraternity—even friendliness—replacing it with paranoia that the fellow American next to you, could be the American who kills you.
Yet, despite the number of killings—most of them with guns, and in numbers unprecedented since the American Civil War, gun proponents, most notably the National Rifle Association (NRA), still insist they have the inalienable, unassailable right to keep and bear arms, as enshrined in the American Constitution.
But is it enshrined? And, if it is, need it remain so? The NRA will answer Yes and Yes. Proponents of stronger gun laws will answer Yes (and No) and No.
This is why the proponents are right and the NRA and Donald Trump are wrong.
The Second Amendment of the United States Constitution (ratified in 1791) does, by interpretation, say Americans have the right to keep and bear arms. But, does it actually say that?
No.
It says:
    “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”
    Where in that does it say all Americans have the right? These days “Well regulated Militia” would suggest only those under Federal or State control such as the police, defence forces and perhaps the National Guard—not Mark Chapman, not the killers of Columbine, of San Bernardino and not even the NRA have the Right to bear and keep arms.
    Furthermore the introduction of that amendment, drafted by Thomas Madison, seems to be  based on the English Bill of Rights (1689). Sir William Blackstone described this (English) right as an auxiliary right, supporting the natural rights of self-defense, resistance to oppression, and the civic duty to act in concert in defence of the state.
    None off which even remotely rationalises the motives for these mass shootings. The Second Amendment was also introduced at a time when the United States state was under external threat from Great Britain, and its civilians in remote areas vulnerable to Indian attack. Neither of which today exist.
    So, yes, the right does appear in the American Constitution. But, no, implicitly it does not apply to all Americans and in any case was predicated at a time and circumstance that no longer exist and on a precedent that is no longer relevant.
    So, if there is ambiguity, would it not be safer to get rid of it altogether or at least replace it with something that defines “the Right” more clearly? No, says the NFA, it is enshrined in the Constitution. Yes, it is, we know that (yawn), but the Constitution can be changed.
    Can it?
    Yes.
    In one of his erudite essays, American writer Gore Vidal regarded the US Constitution not as “the stone tablets of Moses” but as “a living document in need of regular visitation and revision.”
    “I have seen how much trouble it (The Constitution) causes,” he says.
    In that, Mr Vidal echoes the thoughts of one of the authors of the original constitution, Thomas Jefferson, who wrote that each generation should take a hard look at the document and make changes.
    Since the US Constitution was ratified in 1789 it has been amended 27 times and it won’t have escaped your notice that the right to keep and bear arms was the second of those amendments. So, if it took an amendment bring it in, logically the same opportunity/process can be employed to take it out. All it takes is a two-thirds majority in both the House of Representatives and the US Senate, or a constitutional convention by two-thirds of the state legislatures.
    But that is not going to happen. The American gun lobby is too strong to allow it to happen.
    Americans will be left to their own devices—usually an AK47, or similar—to kill each other at will.  It is a malaise that has always blighted the self-perceived “greatest country in the world” and one the United States, as great and powerful as it is, seems unable or unwilling to shake off. In fact, if the farcical thoughts of Republican candidate Donald Trump are anything to go by, they may even elect to promulgate it.
    America the beautiful.
    America the dammed.

As Cecil C. Sackrider Sees It: The Lord Cometh Over Me Again.

The Lord has cometh over me again. And this is what the Lord hath said. No man shall enter the Kingdom of God who hath worshipped false gods. Hallelujah, say I; Awesome, says my wife Billie-Jo, barely (and often) sixteen years of age. For what the Lord is telling us is that no man who votes for Donald S. Trump shall enter the Kingdom of God. It saith in the Good Book that we shall not worship false profits. And whomsoever is such a worshipper of mammon than Donald S. Trump? The maker of profits. The Republican Party is the party of God. Ordained by God to rule in God’s name. George W. Bush was God’s anointed one and His greatest gift to our great nation. Holy be Praised our Father, for He has come again. As did George Bush Senior so many years ago, and given us a second Bush, John Ellis “Jeb” Bush to save us. So saith the Lord to me, last night when I was with Billie-Jo and at our prayers. And so I saith unto you—friends—that you must heed the Word of God and save yourself from damnation. You must vote for Jeb Bush. And you must cast out so that he is enveloped and drowned in the  depths of Mammon that scourge of God’s society, that succubus of satan, that worshipper of false profits: Donald S. Trump. Mammon is evil. Money is evil. Cast it away. Cast it away now: send your gifting of $100 (tax deductible) to our Saving Christians Against Mammon (SCAM) fund to help us help the White house to once again be the home and haven of the True Faith and that Faith be through God’s anointed second son of George H.W. Bush, Jeb Bush.

• For a list of God’s Gifts, as delivered personally by God to Pastor 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 personal phone call from Our Lord, as delivered by Pastor Sackrider.

The Real McCaw (2)

This week we have lost from rugby two of its biggest names, though of course for vastly different reasons—one a tragedy. But as we all mourn the passing of Jonah Lomu at such a young age, we can I think call it a point of maturity—not to say, common sense—that we have not allowed it to overshadow Richie McCaw’s retirement announcement. That announcement was handled superbly, I thought. It paid homage to the great Jonah, sensitively mixing sadness and some humour, and then it moved on. As I now do. In fact, I move back. Rarely does Fryday repeat any of its postings, but I am here repeating one I wrote on December 16, 2011, when it was first mooted that Richie McCaw was right to decline a knighthood—then! And that was then. Now is different and whilst I have changed nothing of the earlier posting I think it still has relevance today. By the way and as some small barometer of the esteem in which Richie is held, this December 16 edition is the most read of all Fryday blog posts since I started recording them in May 2010. The second is a Fryday post (29/6/12) that opined Mickey Mouse was gay. I do not think the two are connected. Here is what I wrote on Richie.


"This morning the Prime Minister revealed on Radio Sport that he offered All Black captain Richie McCaw a knighthood in the New Year’s Honours List. John Key further revealed that Richie had declined because he (McCaw) felt it was too early for such an honour. Implicitly that left the door open for one later, and most New Zealanders would probably applaud that. Having said that, I can think of a number of New Zealanders who have accepted the honour who are far less deserving of it. The criteria of who gets a knighthood these days seems to be a lot looser than that of the Knights of Old and Knights of Bold. If we go back to those days, to gain a knighthood one had—generally—to be brave, chivalrous, to exhibit considerable prowess on the battlefield, and to be diligent in protecting the sanctity of a woman’s maidenhood. Well, if we replace battlefield with rugby field and acknowledge that protecting maidenhoods may be more honoured in the breech than the observance, nobody would be more qualified than Richie. But it won’t be this time. Richie’s decision. But when they do come knocking again—as they will, perhaps on your retirement Richie—accept it then. You deserve it. We deserve it. It honours you. And in some way it honours us, and who we like to think of ourselves--the Real McCaw.

The Not So Secret Diary of Handsome Sampson

So, Auckland’s least kept secret is out.
I am not standing for re-election.
Or as Bevan would have said it jocularly in those long ago fun fun days I am not “standing” for re-erection. Oh, those days (and nights) were wonderful. Even these days (and nights) I lie in bed, alone, clawing back every golden moment—the touch, the feel, the silk, the whip(s)—He He.
Will those moments come again?
Will I?
As for Suckland? You can suck yourself. I am not bitter. But as a city, you do not know what you are losing. And you know why you don’t know? Let me tell you—you do not know what you are losing because you are so used to losing that you don’t recognise it anymore. You don’t know a loser when you see one. I knew that as soon as you elected me.
Now you have lost me.
Suck on that.
(Why does she keep coming back to me?)
And what are you going to get to replace me? Goff? Banks?
Don’t make me laugh. Neither of them is twice the man I am. Neither of them will even begin to leave the legacy I have left Suckland. I will go down (oh God, not again) as the greatest mayor this city has ever had. Or ever will have. It was me! It was me who gave the councillors their new chambers and toilets, it was me who gave council staff their new building, it was me who gave every Sucklander the right to look after their berms, it was me who enabled every Sucklander paying rates the chance to contribute more to their city.
Their city.
Not mine.
I cannot be part of a city that has no gratitude.
Will I miss anything?
No.
Will you miss anything?
Yes.
Everything.
Did you see my speech welcoming the All Blacks back after their World Cup win? How jocular was I? All that rousing magic I delivered. And did you see me give the “key” to Richie, joking that there was no actual key? You don’t find that kind of humour everyday. No wonder people often call me a joke.
So, I am going. Gone.
I would have won again, you know that don’t you?
The people love me.
The people love me.
The people love me.
“Len, you are the MAN!”
How often I think that—lying in bed clawing back every golden moment—alone.

Letters from Wogistan: Rugby World Cup

The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

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

The President

World Rugby Union Federation

Rugby House

London

England

Dear President Jonah Lomu

The Democratic Republic of Wogistans peoples send instruction to you that Rugby World Cup 2015 final not final.

The Democratic Republic of Wogistan say in letter last month the Wogistan Rugby Team of President Yoseph Flaglantelie play final game against aged foe New Zeland. President Yoseph Flaglantelie come to Twickenham London England (gate 1B) in time for match with boots but not allowed in by security guard.

New Zeland fight Australia instead. Not worthy apponent. Australia empty of many peoples, just many kangaroos who not play rugby and men who hate homosexuals peoples.

The Democratic Republic of Wogistan demands Capitaine Ritchie McCaw returns World Cup and play match again against Wogistan. By way of sorry to Democratic Republic of Wogistan, game to be played in Wogistan (we send bus).

Game to take place after corn harvest when playing field again available.

With sincere facilitations,

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Wankerstan

Foreign Secretary The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor Spartacus Male Gym and Bathouse.

Australia Fare

The present animosity between New Zealand and Australia because of the Rugby World Cup Final is both contrived and hoary.
I say contrived, because most of it seems to me to be through the media which has taken some fairly innocuous comments by the respective coaches and blown them out of context and importance.
It is hoary because it is boring, not original and certainly cliched. I also don’t think it is a true representation of our feelings to each other, and is based, largely, on stereotypes.
Good natured ribbing between two nations is okay and we are not the only nations indulging in it—France and England, USA and Canada are others. The difference though is that those other countries went to war with each other: USA and Canada (1812), England and France (1799—1815), whereas what do Australians and we lob grenades at each other about? An underarm, a crowded house, a racehorse and a pudding.
Yet we are called “sworn enemies”. Really?
Now, you may, rightfully, accuse me of taking this too seriously. And I am. But I am only doing so because others—inside the media and out—are, taking the competitive nature of our two countries  and placing on it connotations and ramifications that it doesn’t deserve and for the most part don’t exist. By all means hope for an All Black (sorry, Michael: New Zealand) win but let us not over-indulge or succumb to this xenophobic nonsense which seems totally bereft of humour and grace.
We should be above that and Steve Hansen is.
Even if the Australians and Michael Cheika are not—just kidding cobbers. :)

Letter from North Korea

From time to time I receive correspondence from a friend whom I have known for more than a quarter of a century. Phyllis J. Fenwick (Miss) is 86 years old and, if what she tells me is true, has lead an extraordinary life. She continues to lead that life with her one all-embracing interest being her perpetual quest to find the ancestral breeding grounds of the fabled Devonport Guppy. That quest has taken her over the world and when she is overseas her usual means of correspondence with me and her other friends is Facebook, with which she is quite adroit. Currently, Phyllis in in North Korea, apparently at the personal invitation of President Kim Jong-un. Internet coverage isn’t great in North Korea, but Phyllis managed to post the following on Facebook and I thought I would share it with you. One final note: Nothing in Phyllis’s life is meant to be taken seriously and nothing is as it seems. Have an enjoyable Labour weekend.

My Dear Facebook Friends
Many of you have been writing to me asking where I am and why you have not heard from me in such a long time. Your concern for me is vey kind and I am most touched. Let me assure you I am well, but—alas, I am still waiting in Pyongang for my meeting with young President Kim Jong-un.
I have been given many excuses as to why he cannot see me and I am extremely gratified that such a busy young man is taking the time and the courtesy to keep in touch. However one wonders how one man can cram so much into such a young life. On one day, I am told, he is finding (and indeed has found) a cure for cancer. On another day, again I am told, he has succeeded in inventing a nuclear powered moped for the masses. And amidst all this I am informed he has found time to personally deliver no fewer than 20 babies at Pyongyang’s Maternity Hospital.
I am told that, more than anything else, Kim Jong-un likes making babies.
However, it remains frustrating for me not to be able see him. I even at one point suggested to one of his aids that President Kim might like to make a baby with me, but I have not heard back
So, with nothing much else to occupy my mind, I spend much of my time reading or watching television programmes. Most of the programmes are political broadcasts, though there is the odd cooking show (Kim Cooks and Kim’s Kitchen Rules among them) but there are one or two surprises such as Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch, which I understand to be the President’s favourites. There is also something that looks like a North Korean version of Game of Thrones, with President Kim playing all the roles except those who die—it appears those roles are played by some of his ministers and army officers, and their death scenes are very realistic indeed!
No word on the Devonport Guppy yet. A fish was brought to me the other day for examination, but it proved nothing more than entrails from the Game of Thrones set (I am told) and was mistakenly used as a fish dish in one of Kim’s cooking programmes. I fear for the producer if Kim Jong-un hears of the mistake. He is such a perfectionist and the producer might even get a very sharp talking to.
No such harsh words between me and my very dear young friend Elizabeth, back in New Zealand. It is her birthday on Friday and I am so distraught that I shall not be back in time to share in the celebration.
However, my wish for you Elizabeth is that you have a lovely day spent among good friends who love you as I do.
And for the rest of my Facebook friends with whom I am blest have a wonderful day.
Your friend,
Phyllis.
xx

I Take it all, back.

This week Fryday is suffering from a bad back. I am told that there are many things that can damage a back: age, weight, posture, standing too long, sitting too long, sharing your bed with a dog (the canine variety), and I am guilty of just about every one of them. No wonder my back is objecting. My main issue, however, is my occupation. It is a sedentary occupation and does require long hours at a desk typing. To be fair, that is by choice; there are writers who chose to write standing up—Dickens, Hemingway (at times), Churchill and Nabokov among them. Shakespeare is thought to have stood at his writing desk. But it is not my choice; I like to sit and write. So, my problem comes down to choice of chair and its ergonomic design. And I don’t want to go anywhere near those new fangled options such as Swiss Balls and knee chairs—I am a traditionalist. So, it was on to Google for a bit of research (which ultimately became more confusing than anything) and to Warehouse Stationery, which at least has the convenience of being local. My chiropractor, who has wrestled gamely, assiduously and patiently with my back issue also gave me advice. In the end, I settled on convenience, so it was down to Warehouse Stationery I went. They didn’t have a big range of office chairs, just a big price range. The cheapest was about $130, the dearest in excess of $1000. I sat in them all. Surprisingly, the most comfortable was among the cheapest: $160, down from $240.00. It also looks smart, like one of those sports seats in a modern rally car. So I bought it. And I haven’t been disappointed in it. I have spent several writing days in it without incurring any of the pain that beset me from previous chairs. I even persuaded the chiropractor’s receptionist, his wife, to invest in the same model of chair, and she seems equally satisfied. And mention of the chiropractor brings me back to my central premise: the day before I bought the chair I went to him in agony. He did what he could and it was enough to provide relief and restore equilibrium. Then I went and bought the chair, hoping to maintain that newly-restored state of relative harmony. The next day my back was back at the chiropractor—in agony. You guessed it, as much as the new seat is now supplying me with the part panacea for my ills, it required assembly. And, that my friends, is what you call irony.