The C Word

It is too easy for us to criticise and we avail ourselves of the facility too often. Nothing is easier, or more receptive to an audience, than railing against Asian drivers, slipping standards of service, central and local government, this year’s Halberg Awards presentation and everything else that sticks in our collective gullets. I am guilty of it; you are guilty of it. To be fair to us both, most of our criticism is justified and formed from anecdotal evidence. There is also nothing wrong with it; criticism can bring change and is second only to humiliation in its faculty to do so. Which is perhaps why, in my recent experience, standards of service are actually rising. Yes, I admit to a gross over-generalisation here, but of late I have had some outstanding service in restaurants and shops. Most surprisingly, most of it has come from young people. My previous experience has been that young people have been surly, uninterested and in some cases outright rude. Many may well still be, but they seem to fewer and the young people I am lauding are bright, attentive, knowledgeable and natural. Why is this? Are they better trained? Is the employment market more competitive? Are we and they more exposed to overseas standards of service? Or is it simply that our collective criticism has at last had an effect? I am certainly not qualified to give an answer, nor am I particularly interested in finding one. I am simply content with the (now) better than average prospect of walking into a New Zealand restaurant or shop and having an enjoyable experience.

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On The Nose

I’m sorry, I’m a bit tired. This morning’s daily dalliance in bed was shattered by a sudden and strident knocking at my back door. I knew who it was, of course: Whetu has a habit of worming himself around to my backdoor—more used to it, I guess. Nevertheless, I left Maggie to her dreams of Brendon McCullum (God, he’s gorgeous!) and last night’s waiter (If I were only 18 again!) and stumbled to the door, still in surprise.

ME: Whetu?

HE: Tena Koutu, Tena Koutu, Take a photo.

ME: What?

HE: Kia ora Bro. Want a photo?

ME: What are you on about Whetu? What are you trying to sell me this time?

HE: Take your photo.

ME: Why?

HE: Make you famous.

ME: Don’t want to be famous.

HE: Made me famous.

ME: Oh?

HE: Yeah, I gets my photo in the paper lots. Sometimes they does the front on photo like this, eh. Sometimes they does the side-on one like this, eh. Sometimes both.

ME: I don’t want my photo taken thanks.

HE: Made Keith Locke famous.

ME: What?

HE: Made Keith Locke famous when he gots his photo taken with Tama Iti.

ME: That was John Key.

HE: Not Tama Iti?

ME: No, Not Keith Locke.

HE: With Tama Iti?

ME: Yes.

HE: Not Keith Locke?

ME: Yes. No. John Key.

HE: Close.

ME: Yes.

HE: Anyways, you gets your photo taken with me; make youse famous.

ME: How did you find me, Whetu?

HE: Only $20.00. Got a camera?

ME: No thanks.

HE: Worth trying though, eh?

ME: Yep.

HE: I’ll be back.

ME: Like my herpes.

HE; I know him. He that Geek god fella.

ME: I guess. Bye, Whetu.

HE: HE’S famous!

ME: Bye Whetu.

HE: I seen HIS photo.

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Eel Be Right

Our local newspaper, The Rodney Times, does a fine job in its reporting of local affairs. Not that there are many local affairs—a small community and a lack of accommodation have seen most affairs conducted in Auckland—that is of course if we exclude the annual orgiastic aftermath of the aptly named World’s Longest Dinner. But, I digress. What local affairs there are, are reported wonderfully well by our local ‘paper. One cannot fail to be fulfilled as one reads of the activities of the Scrabble Club, the Writers’ Club and the intriguingly named Probus Club. Then there are the fine fictions of the pontificating of local politicians (don’t even get me started on those of their spin doctor(s)). Sport reigns supreme as the vehicle for great photos and the continuation of the scrapbook industry. The newspaper of this fine burg doesn’t technically sell its papers; it gifts them—even, in the experienced and capable hands of its current editor, bestows them. We are anointed.

But, sometimes, we are also annoyed. Last week the editor ran a front page story and photo of a small boy’s killing of a large eel. Condemnation has since rained down on both the editor and the boy. The only party to escape is the eel—if you can call being dead and integrated into this year’s radish crop an escape. At issue, if we are to read the letters to the editor, are:

1. The boy should not have killed the eel
2. He should not then have used it for fertiliser
3. The editor is sending the wrong message to young people by publishing the story.

Well, my first point is this: the boy having done nothing more than thousands of kids before (indeed it is a customary right among Maori) by doing the first showed commendable aptitude and environmental consideration in conducting the second. As for the editor’s action, I don’t see it as his job or responsibility to send messages, good or bad, to young people, and I don’t believe he has done so here. He has simply reported an event, an affair, in the community.

But my second point, and this is what annoys me, is that in writing to the newspaper in support of a very dead eel these arbiters of public morality are publicly taking to task a very young boy who doesn’t deserve this. The writers of those letters will no doubt defend themselves by saying they are simply pointing out to the boy the error he committed (sic) and are trying to prevent it happening again. Well and good. But it is still a young boy you are using to get your, frankly, paper-thin and poetically pretentious, message across. No doubt many of you now feel good having thus written. But what about the boy? How does he feel? Not good I imagine, thanks to you. My message (and, yes, I at least have one) to you is the eel is not the only fertiliser in this story and I am not here referring to the boy.

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Above the bush-line

The similarities between Sir Edmund Hillary and George W. Bush are obvious.

Both were driven by a need to hang in there when the going got tough; Sir Edmund’s need was personal passion—George’s a righteous fear of getting spanked by a collective of Daddy, a myriad of shadowy Texas investors and God, in that order. Sir Edmund was a bee-keeper; B was the grade George aspired to much of his school life and was the best he ever attained as President. Sir Edmund scaled great heights; George plunged unprecedented depths. Sir Edmund was a man of few words; George knows only a few. Both were courted by world leaders—Sir Edmund for who he was; George for what he was. Both got mentioned in the same Fryday; the only time in history both men would be mentioned in the same breath.

I met Sir Edmund several times; many of us of an age in this small country did. Tomorrow I shall attend a commemoration service in his honour. I do so from a sense of duty and pride and in the desire, shared with many, that this man’s legacy and memory lives on. In a few months’ time the George W. Bush presidency will end and again there will be a shared desire (and world-wide relief) that this man’s legacy and memory do not.

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The Panelbeater's Wife

Nickname’s etymology is drawn from the Old English misdivision ekename, meaning (then as it does now) an additional name. Many of us have them. They can stem from any number of facets, including our physical characteristics, occupations and, often most endearingly of all, relationships. Rarely are nicknames derogatory and for that reason most are accepted by the recipient, even if begrudgingly.

In its formative years Fryday made good use of nicknames. Usually they were used at the end of each Fryday in a pithy but prescient message to a specific reader. Nicknames such as Hardman, Petmeat and Frybrosis hid the identity of those readers but were descriptive enough so they at least knew who they were. The aforementioned are still readers, as are Raygunn, Rust and the much loved LilTease and Paris. But the concept itself has fallen into disuse. I don’t know why—perhaps it was because thinking up those statements often took longer than Fryday itself. And, in any case, no-one seemed to mind that they were no longer mentioned; some may have been even glad of it.

It is not my intent to renew the practice but it is my intent to use it to pay tribute to two sincere friends, one of whom I farewell today: They are Vicks and Smitten. They know who they are. Vicks is the more recent friend but alone of the two brings with her that most gratifying if perplexing of tautologies: fate and destiny. I know she will always be there; moreover I know she was always meant to be. Smitten I have known longer. When I first met her she was a panelbeater’s wife and needed help in all manner of matters. She was and is a strong person but much has gone on in her life that is unconscionable and undeserved. I have never had any doubt of her survival but how she has survived with the retention of such good humour and generosity is beyond me. Vicks, because she knows her, will I think be of the same view.

Today Smitten leaves the job that has drawn us together for the second time. In that and in the job she is going to she has made the right decisions and I wish her well. But there is a degree of sadness and loss there as well. Friendships are resilient and always to be revered, but one that lacks the intimacy of proximity and any substance but memory is always a little more…empty.

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When towns go mild

Has anyone heard of Hamilton lately? The city is silent. Gone are the pronouncements, pontificating and artless hyperbolae that greeted the acquisition of the street race, and deluded Hamilton that it was better than Waimate North. Instead Hamilton seems to have reverted to its somnolent self (and rightful place) as New Zealand’s capital of conceit, covert decadence and overt hypocrisy. I for one am glad of that. The masking fog and the orgasmic screams of cows and sheep from within have always made Hamilton a place of mystery and intrigue for me, akin to its street system. I love mystery, and Hamilton abounds with them:

• The fore-mention street system
• Why anyone would choose to live there
• Why it has a museum when it is one.

These are the unknowns that tax the brain. But what do we know of Hamilton? Surprisingly and somewhat paradoxically we know a great deal, such as:

• Hamilton’s idea of great art is Happy Meal packaging
• The essential truth of Rocky Horror Picture Show is that it is a biography of the author’s town
• For a time the town’s favourite film was Gone With the Wind, which they thought alluded to the withdrawal of the fart tax.
• The current film is Dukes of Hazard—now that’s real life on film, Gawd Dang
• Babe has been banned for its portrayal of child sex
• The favourite books are the Tui’s Yeah Right series because of the basic tenets to live-by they provide
• Hamilton’s favourite sport after self-abuse is Find the Cricketer, a variation of the core game, in which batsmen try and work out where fielders are in the fog and what bowlers are doing with their balls
• The most cut out and stolen pictures from magazines in the Hamilton Library are from The Contented Cow, and National Geographic’s pre-1970 series on African women
• The most stolen book is How to Steal for a Living.
• The most borrowed book is a tie between Knots for the Bedroom and The Zen of Boy-Racing
• The most read is the Hamilton street map
• There is more to come.
  
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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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