Bring Back Buffoonery

I have been thinking of buffoon. Buffoon is a word not often used today, which is strange because it is one of the few words in the English language that has an exact meaning and therefore not open to ambiguity. It means, according the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, a ludicrous person. It does not mean idiot or wanker, which mean something else but often supplant buffoon these days. No, buffoonery has an exact meaning based on ludicrous and it should be brought back with haste because as I have seen in recent weeks and last night in particular there are so many to whom it so aptly affixes. Here is my list of current buffoons.

§ Hone Harawira—for throwing his toys out of the cot because one of his toys was not a ministerial limousine..

§ Moammar Gadhafi for having too many toys and using them to shoot people.

§ His son, Saif al-Islam Gaddafi, for saying the protests are the work of “drunks” –in a Muslim country.

§ Former Secretary of Defence Donald Rumsfeld for insisting even today that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction.

§ George Bush Jr for employing Rumsfeld

§ George Bush Sr for having Junior.

§ The Egyptian who named his daughter Facebook.

§ The Mexican woman now in the ninth day of a hunger strike she plans to continue until she gets an invitation to Prince William’s wedding.

§ Me for calling it Prince William’s wedding rather than Prince William and Kate Middleton’s wedding.

§ Me (again) for forgetting—or not knowing—a good friend’s birthday (sorry Linda).

And finally, the biggest buffoon of them all…
§ Mark Sainsbury—for a tragic, tragic disaster that deserved reporting of gravitas not idiocy.

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Old Friends

When I was a child, one my pleasures was the reading of the Biggles series of novels by Captain W.E. Johns.
I don’t know what drew me to them, but I know I was not alone; Biggles (worth) and his “chums” Bertie, Algie and Ginger had squadrons of, mainly male, readers throughout the world. Later in life I was to successfully parody those books in a play I called Biggles Flies Undone, which today, 28 years after its writing, is still performed.
In my late-teens I was drawn to another British series, that of Flashman, the consummate cad authored but not created by George Macdonald Frazer. Here the attraction is more evident—fast-paced, rollicking adventures set in historical events and featuring no small amount of sex. Later still I dropped the adventure bit and just went for the sex—the books of Henry Miller.
The point is that certain authors have charted my life and had my loyalty. One, a significantly attractive author from the United States, Sharon Kay Penman, even has me a fawning fan. They have stuck with me—until death, in the first three cases (Sharon lives, as does love and lust)—and I stick with them.
I can’t say that of other areas of my life. Nor can anyone, I think. We all hope those closest to us will remain so forever but even that can’t be certain. We hope that business relationships, particularly the rare friendships forged in the furnace of business, will be as enduring as steel but they too are prone to tarnish and rust. Let’s not even consider politicians.
I am drawn to the conclusion therefore that the only true rendering of the enduring but hopelessly optimistic adage “until death…” is a man’s reciprocated love for his dog. Everything else is fiction.
Am I depressed by that? No. Even an exemplary bottle of single malt whiskey will not last forever, not in my reach. And friendships, like whiskey, are there to be enjoyed and honoured while they last, as long as they last. To cultivate the analogy just once more: whilst most whiskeys and friendships are quickly consumed and have no lingering aftertastes, there are others—rarities—that linger and provide a fine “finish” and delicious memories. They are life’s treasures.
At 60 years of age I have more old and deleted friends than I will ever now have new. But that is a library of enrichment for which I am immensely grateful.

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King Bee A

Dear Liz
I may call you Liz, may I? I feel I know you so well and should we ever meet I am certain we would have an immediate rapport. Of course you would need to take my word—and me being a politician you may have some difficulty with that “Ha Ha”—but I am generally considered here in New Zealand as most approachable and, to use the vernacular, something of stud muffin.
Now, I trust I am not being too forward in writing to you like this. I have read that you are in some form of relationship with the Australian cricketer Shane Warne, but I have also heard that you are nothing more than text mates. I of course am married—more honesty—happily so, the Woman’s weekly continually tells me.
But I have always been able to differentiate between love and lust. I compartmentalise and it would be true to say that until such time as Bronnie takes to wearing dresses held together with safety pins, as you so graphically did some years ago (I still have the photos) she will remain in the love department while you will reign over that of lust.
Liz, you are hot!
Of course one is talking here of unrequited lust. There can be no expectation here of me, a mere prime minister, entering into anything untoward with the most beautifully proportioned, most seductively-eyed, most sensual woman in the world. Any requiting must by necessity be vicarious. And if Bronnie is woken at night by my sighing and groaning, one does not want to disabuse her of the notion that I am simply thinking of Hone Harawira.
Of course I am not; he is not hot.
I hope you will forgive this dewy-eyed boy—this man with a heart of lust—venturing forward in such a manner. Further, I hope that you will allow me to write to you again. Little missives from the king bee in the beehive.
I remain your devoted fan,
(Not so little) John.

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Brace Yourself

Prime Minister John Key is sporting a new holographic wristband that claims to improve performance and keep the body at an optimal "ionic balance" with "free-flowing energy pathways". Now, I also wear bracelets, two of them, given to me by my wife. But as much as I appreciate and love them (and her) they are not the swept up “New Age” bracelets that Mr Key is sporting. What on earth is ionic balance? And would it not be more apt for a politician, particularly a prime minister, to deal to iconic or even ironic balance? Still it does demonstrate that Mr Key is a new age man in touch and comfortable with his feminine side. Which makes something of an ironic balance, given that a former prime minister always looked more comfortable with her male side.

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Not a hickey as we know it Jim

Of all the body modifications—tattooing, piercing, etc—one can inflict on one’s body, the least intrusive would seem to be submitting to a hickey. The fact that I don’t really enjoy a hickey (from memory) does not mean I demean those who do. Yet, I read today in the NZ Herald that a woman in Christchurch came perilously close to losing her life because of a hickey. It appears that a 44 year-old woman experienced loss of movement in her left arm after her former partner gave her a hickey on her neck, near an artery, while watching television. Her surgeon told The Press in Christchurch that there was a clot in the artery underneath the love-bite, which had gone into the woman's heart and caused a minor stroke that led to the loss of movement. The woman recovered but I note that her lip-smacking partner is described as “former” and one assumes that his somewhat vampiric tendencies are targeted elsewhere. Love does indeed hurt.

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The Swinging Sixties

On Monday I turn 60. Sweet. Time to bring out the bucket and, to quote Jack Nicholson, not trust a fart. I have two consolations. One is that I hated the fifties –there is no particular reason and I felt much the same about the thirties; twenties were great, so were the forties, so will be the sixties--it’s every second decade, seemingly, that I get my shit together. The second consolation I have in turning 60 is that I am far from alone and far from old. The post-war baby boom saw to that. I am sure that in the history of the world there has never been as many people in their 60s or a greater determination not to think of it as a termination. Having said that, one must at this age wrestle with mortality. So, here is my bucket list. Rather than fill it with things I want to do before I die, I am filling it with things I hope I live long enough to see:
• The Black Caps win a match
• The Bulldogs win the Telstra Cup
• Canada win anything
• Intelligent life form discovered in Hamilton
• Me (society) not being blamed for every ill befalling Maori
• The return of the whiskey lake
• The Man Booker Prize given to someone readable
• Wilson Parking reduce its fees
• A Tui Billboard: Wilson Parking Reduces Fees—Yeah Right
• Recycling bins for infomercial exercise equipment
• Recycling bins for failed ideas—sorry, we already have that, it’s called Parliament
• A stop to the smaller and smaller type faces on anything I read these days
• President Jed Bush—let’s have some more fun
• A bald televangelist
• No televangelists
• The Super City work
• Mark Sainsbury ask an intelligent question
• Phil Goff give an intelligent reply
• Benjie Marshall as prime minister
• 70.


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Dollars and sense

Have you a spare million dollars? Good, I need it. Leave it in your letterbox and I will come and fetch it. I promise you it will be used judiciously if a little imprudently. It will, at least, be better spent on me than on this:
http://www.trademe.co.nz/Browse/Listing.aspx?id=344096961.
I can’t quite make this out—here is a guy on TradeMe asking one million dollars for a pair of “original” personalised plates celebrating New Zealand’s victory in the 1995 America’s Cup. I can understand his asking for that—you are free to ask what you want on TradeMe and I could ask that for a set of my toe clippings—but who would pay $1,000,000 for a pair of plates? That, I can’t understand.
To add insult to usury the seller goes on to suggest: “…if you are having difficulties in buying the perfect gift, then why not consider these plates?” Yeah, right; I can think of a number of you who will welcome this chance to buy me a million dollar gift (did I tell you it is my 60th Monday week?). But not this one please; I don’t want to spend the next 60 years publically proclaimed as a wanker for having such pricey plates on Pricilla (my car).
At time of writing, nobody has made a bid. Shock, horror. But if you are interested, a wanker, have no sense and no interest in giving me your spare million, the auction has 30 minutes to run.
Good luck.


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Dollars and sense

Have you a spare million dollars? Good, I need it. Leave it in your letterbox and I will come and fetch it. I promise you it will be used judiciously if a little imprudently. It will, at least, be better spent on me than on this:
http://www.trademe.co.nz/Browse/Listing.aspx?id=344096961.
I can’t quite make this out—here is a guy on TradeMe asking one million dollars for a pair of “original” personalised plates celebrating New Zealand’s victory in the 1995 America’s Cup. I can understand his asking for that—you are free to ask what you want on TradeMe and I could ask that for a set of my toe clippings—but who would pay $1,000,000 for a pair of plates? That, I can’t understand.
To add insult to usury the seller goes on to suggest: “…if you are having difficulties in buying the perfect gift, then why not consider these plates?” Yeah, right; I can think of a number of you who will welcome this chance to buy me a million dollar gift (did I tell you it is my 60th Monday week?). But not this one please; I don’t want to spend the next 60 years publically proclaimed as a wanker for having such pricey plates on Pricilla (my car).
At time of writing, nobody has made a bid. Shock, horror. But if you are interested, a wanker, have no sense and no interest in giving me your spare million, the auction has 30 minutes to run.
Good luck.

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What's Cooking

Congratulations to Alison Holst for deserved recognition in the New Year’s Honours list. I have never met her, but Mrs Holst strikes me as a self-effacing, gentle woman of the sort destined sadly to fade into memory. Or am I being too harsh here? Perhaps the matronly and maternal are resilient enough to cope with a rapidly changing world that places greater store on the quantity of your Facebook friends than the quality of your scones. I certainly hope so because we need women like Mrs Holst. We men need women like Mrs Holst as a constant reminder of a happier time of unthreatened self-delusion that women ruled the kitchen, and men the rest. It was of course never true but Mrs Holst, and millions like her with her gentle smile, made it seem so and we men, hungry for aggrandisement, dined richly if a little blindly at her table. Still do. Fryday wishes everybody a spectacularly enjoyable 2011.

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Getting your leg over

If I recollect correctly, hedgehogs, when I was young, would curl up on the road when faced with an on-coming vehicle. Most would therefore die—a fact the more observant and learned of the species learnt from. These days, they keep running. Similarly, the pukeko, within my lifetime considered a flightless bird, has learned to fly, albeit somewhat ungainly. But fly it does and it lives. I believe this is called evolution. Whether it is a divine consequence or just a consequence of pragmatism, I cannot possibly comment. But, whatever the reason, it has happened in a remarkably short time.
I have another example of recent evolution but this one can certainly not be attributed to a whim of God or even practicality; it just seems to have happened. When I was young, male dogs inevitably and with considerable élan, lifted a hind leg to urinate. These days they don’t—well many don’t. Have you noticed that? My own male dog, Luke, is a fine upstanding dog, except in one respect: he doesn’t stand to urinate. Rather he squats like a female. And he is not alone in this. I have seen this with many male dogs and I am drawn to the conclusion that some canine social engineering is at work here and that male dogs like male men (tautology) have succumbed to the pressure to adopt many of the traits of more dominate females of the respective species. As any married man will tell you it is the only way we can live the quiet life to which we males aspire. Dogs are obviously no different. They have to turn to their feminine side to stem the tide of the feminisation of the race. Men learnt do this in the 60s, when—as any old codger was fond of stating—men and women became indistinguishable. The nadir was the unisex toilet and I wonder from that how on earth the wall urinal has survived.
So my dog is a squatter. I didn’t think that much about that, least of all be bothered by it. Not until earlier this week when I took Luke to the vet. There we were—Luke and I—waiting outside in the sun when a Jack Russell and its owner approached us. The owner and I entered into a light conversation, which included inevitably admiring our respective dogs. Of course I detest Jack Russells but this was not the time or place. Nor was it the time or place for said Jack Russell to lift its leg and piss on my boot. But it did. The owner was shocked and apologised profusely. I was shocked as well but more about the lifting of the leg. It occurred to me suddenly that I hadn’t seen that from a dog in ages. Even Luke looked quizzical—is that how it’s done? Well, yes it is Luke, or it was. That was the way it was done. At least in the old days. Just leave out the boot bit. Luke I guess just metaphorically shrugged because he has never attempted to replicate the Jack Russell’s deed. No need I think is his view.
I love both my dogs dearly and equally and that will never change. But at this time when I am acutely aware of the passing of generations (see last Fryday) I hanker after the old days. Days when men were men and women were out the back. Days when men did it in front of a tree, and women did it behind a bush. There was a penile pride at play in those days. Not these days.
Haunted by those thoughts, I sometimes look at Luke and I think—Mate, as much as I love ya, can’t you stand up and be a man just for once? Just for me. Just for old times.

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In the light...

Yesterday I buried my father. That is not the literal truth; my father was cremated, not buried, and I certainly did not do that! But you get the point.
I have resisted writing about the death of my father until now because I thought you would find it (a) boring and (b) a solicitation for sympathy, when none was wanted nor needed.
The moment of death—and note here my refusal to use the euphemism “passing”, passing is what’s done in cars—was a relief and a release, not least for my father. His illness was long and cruel, particularly for a man for whom life was a banquet. He wanted to go. His reply to a caregiver in his last days was evidence of that. She asked him if he needed anything; he answered “a gun.”
As it was, his death was somewhat more sweet and serene. It happened just after he farewelled a woman who meant so much to him in his later years. And, if there is an afterlife, I believe there are enough people and dogs in it that knew Dad and would be there to welcome him. I think he knew that.
So, this Fryday is not about lamenting a lost father, though it stems from that, it is more about a lost love. At yesterday’s service I planned to read Dylan Thomas’s classic poem on the death of his father, Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night. It seemed apt and my favourite passage has all the power and intensity of a nail gun:
Do not go gentle into that good night
Old men, at close of day, should rage, rage
Against the dying of the light.
I love that passage but faced with the death of my own father I found myself questioning its veracity. What on earth was Thomas thinking when he wrote Do not go gentle…? Of course they should go gentle. My father did in that last tranquil moment. And the arrival of peace was I think a blessing. Did he “rage rage” against that arrival? No. He wanted to go. So he did. Simple. And I, at close of day, am thinking that my once favourite poem is, in the light of day, just a load of crap.


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