The company I keep

Yesterday I had the unvarnished and unwarranted pleasure of having lunch with 15 women; I being the only male so invited. These women are the spine, the heart, the very womb of the Rodney District Council. They are the personal assistants (PA’s) who in that capacity know everything and know nothing, which makes them extremely formidable and somewhat daunting as companions at a lunch table. But they are also extremely good company. How we laughed; sharing our feminine sides—mine taking a little more effort to extract than theirs. I have always known that woman were preferable company, that’s why I married one, but I never quite realised that, en mass, that company would exponentially magnified in direct proportional ratio. I am drawn to the conclusion that it is a great shame men ruled the world for so long; they are so boring, so intense, so stilted. Whereas women are flirtatious, responsive and adaptable. The only cases when they have not been so in the political arena is when they acted like men, or maybe thought they were men. But even here, I suggest, they would be more successful than the converse: a man trying to lead as a woman. Unless a man is entirely camp, and even then he becomes less a woman than a parody, it is entirely impossible for a man to act like a woman. He cannot even begin to understand them, let alone replicate them. Even if he has a small measure of success as I think I had yesterday he cannot sustain it; it is far too tiring and leads to one being stripped naked—metaphorically speaking, I hasten to add. No, I thoroughly enjoyed the company I kept yesterday, but it was good also to return to the company of men and in particular a couple of crusty old reporters who like nothing better than to have a beer and talk about women.

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Life Savers

I am persuaded that Helen Clark is not the man to replace John Key as leader of the opposition.

If she is loses next year’s general election, she is surely gone for good, having done little good. That of course is a personal political comment and you may well disagree. I, like Helen, simply do not care. She and I share the view that the opinions of others are a quirk of nature to be tolerated, though better suffocated at birth. Ours are politics of predetermination rather than conciliation.

Nevertheless, your opinion is not the point of this Fryday, so we may without hesitation and with some considerable satisfaction move on from that to my concern. My concern is that when Helen goes so will Fryday. Helen, George W. Bush, Brian Tamaki and fundamentalists everywhere have been the cornerstones upon which Fryday has been built. If I should lose one of my cornerstones next year with Helen and the year after with George can Fryday survive?

Brian Tamaki may well be building God’s house. But he hasn’t the strength to build Fryday, and when Fryday forayed into other areas such as sex, which it did recently, I received no reaction at all—admittedly, par for the course with most of my sexual excursions.

So, you see my dilemma? You Fryday readers love Helen Clark and George W Bush. And when you see them you lose all interest in sex.

I am left with the euphemism of blank shots and the contemplation of a life after Fryday. And that may well be something you may want to contemplate as well, or else suffer the real prospect of in future considering your role in its demise.

The choice is simple: if you don’t want sex, vote Helen back in.

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A Uniform Honour

Next Saturday I will shall in a room with 200 men in uniform. If I was one of the Village People that situation may have a certain erotic appeal. But I am not and it does not. It does however enable me to demonstrate my core communication competencies because I will, in that situation, be Master of Ceremonies for the Rodney Emergency Services and Rural Fire Officers Honours Awards. I was a member of the audience at the same event last year and was pleased to accept the award of Media Personality of the Year—there not exactly being a tsunami of other contenders. This year I am on stage, introducing our new mayor and her council and trying to keep these 200 men (which in fact include many women) in order. That may be difficult. The honours night is an opportunity for them to let their hair down—those who have hair; No.1s seem to be somewhat obligatory among this group, including the men. But they are good people who serve the community selflessly and bravely, as I saw personally during the hurricane earlier this year. So, whilst public speaking may not be a pleasure (erotic or otherwise) for any of us, for this event, for me, it will be a privilege and an honour.

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A Plea For Common Sex

Few would doubt the veracity of sex as a cornerstone of life. In fact, it is the beginning of life and, in the stuff of urban legend, sometimes the reason for its end. At the beginning of our life as a race it was raw and animalistic, a state it lost and never regained until the 1960s then lost again. For sheer finesse and advancement in sex the high point was the Nineteenth Century when the Victorian Era drove much unbridled sex underground and quantity was by necessity replaced by quality: Queen Victoria therefore truly became the Mother of Invention. Throughout its history sex has been sold. It is and always has been a commodity. Today it is the prime disposable commodity. One minute it is there, next minute it is not, then its there again. For some of us, it lasts even longer. But we all use it, then lose it, and then use it again. Some even abuse it. All have the capacity to enjoy it. Those who don’t or can’t would do well to look at technique—easily fixed (write to me), or conditioning—change your church. There is no reason why, in some capacity and in some form, we can’t all enjoy sex; the Internet has made sure of that. Of course there is a downside or two to sex: some children actively cringe at the thought of their parents still “doing it.” There are some people I cringe at the thought of their doing it as well, but we won’t go there (I hear the cry of “cop out”). But in general terms, to paraphrase the Mitre 10 Mega man, “Sex is Good”, though his actual saying, “Big is Good” is also relevant…I’m told. So, whilst we all get wrapped up in the packaging of modern life: politics, fashion, gossip, race relations and politics again and, in this, Fryday is no different and is indeed a key culprit, here’s plea for once in a while let’s just talk about sex. Let’s make a promise to ourselves to move on from the era of elections to that of erections. I’m up for it!

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Logo Bull

I don’t know about you, but I am feeling sorry for the Auckland City Council over this logo issue. The introduction of a new logo is almost invariably greeted with the twin cries of “It cost what?” and “my ten-year-old could have done better than that.” Auckland’s new logo has elicited the same response as did Te Papa and Auckland, eh! before it. Closer to home, I had much the same trouble with the Welcome to Rodney gateway signs. So, there is nothing new here and, as so often happens, spin doctors are hung out to dry trying to defend the indefensible—the indefensible here being debate on a largely subjective issue with a populace believing it knows it all. Compounding this is the logo’s similarity to Triangle Television’s, and here the designers can be taken to task for not having done their homework. Then there is the apparent one million dollar price tag and the timing of the introduction so soon after councillors and candidates made rates control an election issue. So, it all becomes a bit of a mess. My friend and erstwhile colleague Mark Fenwick is trying to handle this for the Auckland City Council. Mark has some saving graces that will enable him to handle this with aplomb: he is experienced, he is placid and, whilst he is fully committed, he never lets the job get to him. Nevertheless, he has had a litany of issues that have seen him cornered into becoming an apologist for his council—most notably expensive junkets of councillors and staff. In my very similar role to Mark I have never had that magnitude of issue but ‘in the small pond’ of Rodney I have had the higher visibility, which may or may not have worked against me in the recent elections. I did lose that election, and some attribute the loss to my association with council as its “spin doctor and apologist.” I don’t. I don’t know why I lost, but it may well have been because of who I am rather than what I am. I just didn’t hack it. But we move on and I have moved back to council in a new and challenging role. And if in the future I find myself regretting the missed opportunity of becoming a councillor I shall simply create and put out there a new logo for the council to take my mind off it. Have a good weekend.

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The Fire Below

George W. Bush up to and in his early years as President believed he had the God-given right to be leader of the Free World. He might have been right and had that right. Even if not, his delusions of and allusions to grandeur are still understandable. If you have a taste and indeed a driving necessity for acceptance and ratification why not shoot for the top, particularly when that of the literal and paternal definition of “our father” has been less than forthcoming? George then took one step further in making it abundantly clear, particularly in the setting of social and foreign policies, that the will of the American electorate (twice) is somewhat secondary to that of God (interpreted). So young men and women die in Iraq and malformed foetuses do not. Such is the will of George W. Bush with God side-lined in apparent compliant silence. Or is God that silent? Might we now think that He has finally lost patience with his self-proclaimed protégé? That the problems now besetting the Bush Presidency may in fact be God-Given? One can of course exclude the man-made that eroded the electorate’s faith in the current President—they include the scandals that resulted in the resignation of so many in his administration and contributed to the departure of “good people” whose belief turned to disgust. But then we have natural events such as the hurricane that destroyed New Orleans, and now the fires of California. Were they sent by God to teach Bush a lesson? It is humbling and somewhat frightening to think so, but the answer, of course, is probably not. However, allow me my flight of fantasy. And allow me to go even further: would it not be interesting to think that with the “Bush fires” of California, as tragic as they are, God is now saying to Bush, “Look, I have named these fires after you as parting gift. Now, get the Hell out of the White House before I really lose My cool?”


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A Penny: For My Thoughts

In days or yore when men were bold and women told, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Duchess of Aquitaine and Gascony and Countess of Poitou (1122^[1] – April 1, 1204) was one of the wealthiest and most powerful women in the world. She was Queen consort of both France (to Louis VII) and England (to Henry II) and later mother of two kings of England, Richard the Lionheart and John Lackland.

But, though some may argue in favour of Boadicea, it was not until much later, with the reign of Elizabeth I, that we have a woman rule in her own right. We then fast forward millennia, passing such personages as Catherine (The Great, as experienced by her horse) and Victoria (as experienced by John “what’s up Maam” Brown) to arrive at Penny Webster.

Penny is the first female mayor of Rodney District. She was elected last Saturday and the result confirmed last Wednesday. She will be sworn in next Thursday; I shall be in attendance, not as I had hoped as one of her councillors but as one of here advisors. I missed out on an election—not by much, but enough. A miss, as they say, is as good as a smisle.

Penny will be good for this district. She is open, honest, articulate and intelligent. She is at present conciliatory and compassionate in extending an olive branch and building bridges to those who fought against her and lost. I personally would neither damage the tree nor pay for the bridge; neither is worth it. But I am also neither a Penny nor, clearly, even the full quid when attracting popular appeal to myself.

Nevertheless I am told I am deserving of some satisfaction for having helped deliver what many are now predicting will be the most unified Council this district has seen in 21 years. As for me, neither the Queen Maker nor Svengali I be, a mere functionary is the allotted role for me. But I am at the feet of the seat of power, and the view from here is not at all bad. I am quietly content.

My thanks and love to Maggie for patiently husbanding me through this electoral process at and during a time when she needed and deserved to see more of me.

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A Huapai Opus

In the early 50s of the last century Jack Kerouac chronicled his journey with Neal Cassaday across America. On the Road (originally Gone on the Road) became a classic spawning a multi-genre industry of road trips—most with the implicit intent of “finding America and, in the process, finding oneself.” As a result, Kerouac today rivals Ernesto “Che” Guevara as a dated but resilient icon of every disaffected generation since. But he was not the first. Such epic journeys and the chronicling of them have been the stuff of history since The Iliad and probably before that. Now, I am to add to this rich depository. My own cross-country odyssey starts in about one hour. This long-destined and fate-induced journey, this final relic for me of youthful exuberance and adventure, this homage to my heroes, this wrenching of roots, begins today as I say farewell to Huapai and hello to Red Beach. I admit it has not quite the lustre and mystique of the aforementioned On the Road or even the more recent Easy Rider (it’s hard to complete with the majesty of a Harley when you drive a Peugeot) but you have gained voyeuristic pleasure from observing my foibles before, so this is a simple plea for your patience and perseverance again. My next Fryday will be written from a new location, a new home, layered with all the excitement that is omnipresent, indeed mandatory, with the New; tinged with the sadness at the loss of the Old.

Whither goes, asked the Sage; hither came the quiet answer.

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The Spring of our content

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune are part and parcel of politics, as well as New Zealand on Air funded programmes. But also, as Oscar said: there is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. You see, in my trials and tribulations in running for a seat on the Rodney district council I have history and literature on my side. Shakespeare sympathises; Wilde offers a solution, or at least a consolation. In short, armoured with such majesty, I am inviolate and slings and arrows largely impotent. I am further reinforced by the fact I combat no precedent of history. I cannot recall great gods or kings called Colin, let alone Wayne and the only King John we can recall we would rather forget. So, I sit set to be attacked on all sides, but can I take it seriously? No. Fact is, there are better foes than them (King Wayne?), and worse (or better?) targets than me—George (I am sorry about your traffic jam) Bush among the latter. Bring it on.

The Spring of our Content

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune are part and parcel of politics, as well as New Zealand on Air funded programmes. But also, as Oscar said: there is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. You see, in my trials and tribulations in running for a seat on the Rodney district council I have history and literature on my side. Shakespeare sympathises; Wilde offers a solution, or at least a consolation. In short, armoured with such majesty, I am inviolate and slings and arrows largely impotent. I am further reinforced by the fact I combat no precedent of history. I cannot recall great gods or kings called Colin, let alone Wayne and the only King John we can recall we would rather forget. So, I sit set to be attacked on all sides, but can I take it seriously? No. Fact is, there are better foes than them (King Wayne?), and worse (or better?) targets than me—George (I am sorry about your traffic jam) Bush among the latter. Bring it on.

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The Race for Grace

Amazing Grace is the best movie I have seen in the last five years. I cannot recollect or compare further back nor do I care: for the moment this movie, exquisite in its telling and rendering, is to be simply savoured. William Wilberforce is largely forgotten today, though there is now the predictable rash of books following this movie on his life. Why he should be forgotten worries me. There have been other reformers of course, many of whom equalled Wilberforce in zeal. None however seemed to be as effective or as eclectic. Wilberforce was not only instrumental in abolishing British involvement in the slave trade, he also introduced free education and the National Health Service, all of which he accomplished without being Prime minister. Yet it took a modern-day film-maker to give him the resurgent fame he so richly deserves. Hollywood is yet to do the same for William Blake, but one lives in hope. So, why the worry? It is simply this: our remembered history is replete with those who did bad—Hitler, Genghis Khan and his soul-brother Kublai, Nero, Rasputin et al. Yet we remember little of those who did good, unless they, such as John F. Kennedy and Ghandi, lived in the 20^th Century. All else we seem to be forgotten. Is it deliberate? Do we simply gravitate to the bad rather than the good and pay homage to the horrible rather than love the laudable? Perhaps its our nature. And, if it is nature that the bad live on in our memory while the good do not, we are condemned. George W. Bush will live on.

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