Sick to Death

Yesterday I had the pleasure of enjoying a couple of hours in the company of a couple of intelligent and articulate friends. The adjectives are of course relative; all my friends are intelligent and articulate, in their own way rather than by degree. Each of us has a contribution to make to the world. Everybody enhances it. Well almost. I wonder if, like me, the child killers in our midst heartedly sicken you. We had another yesterday: Joel Loffley, the killer of two year-old JJ Lawrence. JJ is just the most recent of a long long list of such toddlers and Loffley is –most frightening—just the most recently convicted of an unknown number of killers and potential killers who will ram yet another photo of an awesomely cute young kid on to our televisions and in to our newspapers. This Fryday is, to be honest, not going where I wanted it to go. But I think there is a question to be asked. And it concerns commonality in such killers. Yesterday, I read that a couple of treaty settlements had been signed. One was for $10 million; the other—to Ngati Whatua Orakei—was for $18 million cash, other assets and an apology. We are told it addresses 150 years of grievances. And we, New Zealand, have to apologise for that. I take issue with that—both the predication, and the settlement that implicitly subjugates one part of society to another. There is not a lot I can do about it, though. However, if we are going to shell out that type of money to iwi (and we are told that Ngati Whatua now has $500 million in assets) do we not have the right to ask THAT question? That question being: When are you going to stop killing your kids?

Not Bothered

God Botherer is not a term I ever use to describe my religious friends. Mainly because I have no religious friends, or at least none deserving of that derisory epithet. But I know what the term means, implicitly and effectively, and it is entirely accurate. These people do bother God. They bother God because, I think, He’s thinking, “Who the Hell are they talking about ?” The God they are talking about—the tele-evangalists, the people who come knocking at my door—bear no relation to the God I was taught about at Sunday School. The God I was taught about was kind, compassionate, all-embracing; not a redneck, bigoted, self-styled moral arbiter with an obscene bank account and a hankering to delve into secular politics. Mitt Romney’s problems were two-fold. The first was that he represented a party with archaic values. The Republican Party, the Grand Old Party, is these days neither grand nor, given its ideological splits, a party. But it is old and long out of touch with progressive thought and a young vote determined to reshape the world. It will find it hard to bounce back from this, and almost impossible to do so in its present form. The second reason I believe that Mitt Romney lost this election—and I believe that he did lose this election, Obama didn’t win it (not with 8% unemployment)—was his religion. Religion is all very laudable, but when it governs all that you do, and therefore, if applied to a President, governs all that you and I do, then it becomes dangerous and these days unacceptable. We saw that with George W. Bush (remember him?) and the memory of war-mongering Bush is still fresh and haunting. It haunted Mitt Romney and ultimately—I believe—played a large part in his losing the election. I once said and remain of the view that the American presidency is so important to the world that Americans should be excluded from voting—its like putting a squirrel in charge of a nut farm; but on this occasion they made the right choice. Thank God.

For they shall inherit

A few weeks ago I had the occasion to write of the new-found pleasure of nieces, nephews and goddaughters. I revisit that today for two reasons—light and dark. The light is that it is soon to be my goddaughter’s birthday and, through that, I have found another pleasure—buying gifts. Happy birthday Lilia. Love you. Also on the light side of delight is the accumulation of pseudo-relatives: L in Whangaparaoa who has so much to share and G in Queenstown, whom I have met only once, but of whom I am taking a paternalistic view. And if my niece in Christchurch, Jessica, who shares my love of snail-mail, has not yet replied to my letter, I blame not her, but her mother. Get your act together sister. The dark side is this It is time for us all to put an end to the torture and liking of our children. It is time for us to state the obvious: there is no greater crime on earth than to torture and then kill a child. For those who are found guilty of doing so, of ending such a young life, there should be no life. If I am not advocating the death penalty for this crime, I am at least saying there should be no life of freedom, there should be no 12 years and then release, there should be only prison and death. This awful crime deserves nothing less. And for those who blame me—society—for these horrendous crimes: FO. If you were less PC about these things, and if you were to Google child torture and killings in New Zealand and then Google Maori child torture and killings in New Zealand and find a striking similarity of the two lists then we may start getting somewhere. Recognition of a problem is always a good start to solving a problem. Get real, get hard. Rest in peace JJ. I hope your sad, sad death will come to mean something for us all, specially our children.

Nieces and other niceties

I am surrounded by negativity. It’s my choice; it’s part of the job I do and enjoy. And if I am the whipping boy taking the hits for others, that is my lot and life and I accept their generous payment for that. I also think I am helping the moaners, the groaners, the malevolent and the malcontent. They have as much right to be listened to as anyone and I do have the ability to shut up and listen, even if my mind is wandering back to Rarotonga or forward to the single-malt I shall relish tonight. So, surrounded I am. But like the 1900 Foreign Quarter that for 55 days in Peking was surrounded by the lethal Boxers, relief is at hand. It comes in the form of lasting friendships—personal friendships—formed, often in adversity, with those with whom I work. You know who you are. It also comes from a relatively new quarter for me—kids: nieces, nephews and goddaughters. I seem to have a plethora of them now, and they are all delightful. Before knowing them, I thought of them as foreign objects and God knows what they thought of me. But not now. Now they enrich my life and provide it with a new perspective. Two of them are staying with me now, and another is corresponding with me. It’s making for a special Labour Weekend. So, getting back to my malevolent malcontents. Yeah, I’m still there for you, I’ll still listen to you. But I have noticed a common element for many of you: no kids. So, whereas in the past I might have been tempted to say to you “get a life” my revised suggestion is “get a kid” borrow one, if necessary. They do help you stop acting like one.

An Old Fryday

Derived from the French "chevalier" for horseman, chivalry was originally linked to the code of behaviour associated with knighthood. These days we have restored Knighthoods but chivalry seems a dying art. An art form it is—or was—there are certain techniques and protocols and there is a skill in pulling it off without seeming patronising or, increasingly and sadly in these PC days, sexist. Personally I don’t give a shit how it or I look when I practice it. I will continue to open doors for women regardless of age—of the woman not the door; I recently did it for a 10 year-old. I know to walk on the outside of a footpath and I will stand to greet a woman. That’s what my parents taught me and something I hope I have taught my own boys. But what I am wondering is why even writing about chivalry makes me feel so old.

El Walrus v El Teflon

At the beginning of the Kim Dotcom affair we were told implicitly that there was something dark and devious about Mr Dotcom and his operations. Whilst that may be the case and we are yet to hear any evidence to the contrary, recent revelations would suggest “dark and devious” better describes the behaviours of our own organisations and individuals. First it was the Police and the paucity of evidence upon which they based their search warrants, then was the alleged rorting and befuddled behaviour of John Banks. More recently there was the revelations about the role of our super-intelligence agency the Government Communications Security Bureau. And now, even our Prime Minister Teflon John is being hit, and it is starting to stick. Incidentally when Googling Kim Dotcom for Fryday, Google informed me that others who had made the same search had also searched for John Banks, John Key and Julian Assange; now that is a fast-developing unholy trinity if there was one. Strangely, the other search subject was Steve Wozniak, who is not even on the same planet as the others, let alone the same ilk. This affair has not ended here. A not always prescient Fryday invited you as far back as May 4 to watch this space; more was coming. More is coming. Sadly, we won’t have TVNZ's top investigative reporter around to investigate it. Just Kidding.

Hysteria: The Movie, the Man.

There is a movie out at the moment called Hysteria that is creating some hysteria. It purports to be the true-life story of the invention of the personal vibrator. It is not. Even a modicum of research reveals that the personal vibrator was an evolutionary development. But no matter, Hysteria has found its spot—so to speak—filling the void, so to speak—for a post Fifty Shades of Grey market. Among women, among whom Fryday occasionally enrols, vibrators are quite the talking point and one assumes that this is reflected in increased sales and households literally humming as a result. Which brings us to Piri Weepu. The batteries in even the best vibrator will in time run out through over use or lack of use. They will have exceeded their use-by date. That’s what’s happened with the All Blacks’ nuggerty halfback. Piri was unceremoniously dropped at half time at last weekend’s test match against South Africa. It was clear, at least to me, that he had to go: slow delivery, wrong decisions, hospital passes—all showed that Piri was past his best. The batteries had run out. Aaron Smith was creating the new hysteria. Steve Hansen made the right move. I feel sorry for Piri. After his undoubted success at the World Cup he had every right to feel he could continue to create the magic behind the scrum. But the warning signs—with The Blues—came quickly and culminated, dramatically and so sadly, at the test. We are unlikely, I think, to see him in an All Black jersey again. As ignominious as that half-time dropping is, we can and should remember and reflect on Piri Weepu at his best. New Zealand rugby is blessed with a history of great scrum-halves and Piri Weepu is among them. His high point must certainly be the 2011 Rugby World Cup where he galvanised the tournament and created thousands of Facebook postings. He was wonderful to watch, and the hysteria—then—was his. And ours. And for that, we should thank him, move on now and watch tests without him, and simply bask in the post-orgasmic glow that is Piri Awahou Tihou Weepu.

Ridge Line

I am not going to join those criticising and ridiculing The Ridges. I didn’t see the inaugural programme and have no intention of seeking out and seeing any in the series. I am simply not interested in a contrived insight into the self-perpetuating B-List celebrity ilk that ilkees and a largely slavering media are trying to foist upon us. I have seen bits of Keeping up with the Kardashians with the horribly disfigured Bruce Jenner and the KKK (note no African Americans) and that’s enough. This is not “reality” television, there is more reality in The Simpsons, this is Junk television and whilst I am no cultural snob, I have better things to do with my time. Or at least I thought I did until I realised what proportion of my evenings was spent on Facebook. Now, here again, I won’t join the critical mass. Facebook has its critics. I am not one of them; I see its uses and its benefits though I worry sometimes that it is now the preferred method of communication for many, supplanting the phone and even emails. It is also highly addictive and has all the intellectual majesty of Mitt Romney. Nevertheless it has presented me with some new “friends” and restored others and that is something no other medium could do. It has also, this week, informed me that Bob Dylan has a new studio album, The Tempest, and that it may be his best ever. I bought it. It is. Facebook tells me that all three of my sons are doing outstandingly well in their respective careers and there is an adhesive love within a geographically fractured family. Facebook delivers on the impossible, giving us Oscar Wilde’s opinion of Fifty Shades of Grey: “There is no such thing as a moral or immoral Book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.” And such it is with Facebook. Facebook is not moral or immoral. It is what is: a service, to amuse and abuse. And if it is overly replete with teenagers making silly hand signals to the camera, and too many inspirational motifs, it is still a warmly embracive community and, like it or not, it is the modern reality. Whereas The Ridges…?

Whetu Calls: A House Nigger

ME: I knew it had to happen. HE: Heys. ME: Hey. HE: I heres to offer my services. ME: As? HE: As wots? ME: As what? What services? HE: As a house nigger. ME: You are a house nigger? HE: I’se a member of the Maori Party. Hone says we alls is house niggers. ME: What does a house nigger do? HE: He do’s all the jobs all the jobs around the house. He’s sub…sube…sub-servant. ME: Subservient. HE: That too. ME: A house nigger? HE: Yus. ME: Someone who do’s—does--all the jobs around the house and does what he’s told? HE: Yus. ME: Don’t need one. I am a married man. HE: Youse got a house nigger? ME: I am a house nigger.

Just Sayin...

Most of us are now aware that some of the quotes attributed to artists and others are fictitious. They simply weren’t said. For example Humphrey Bogart never said “Play it again Sam” in Casablanca; he said “Play it” that is all. My favourite actor Jimmy Cagney never said “You dirty rat” in White Heat or any other of his wonderful films. As Oscar Wilde said of something James Whistler said, “I wish I had said that.” They may wish they said it, but they didn’t. But what interests me is what was not said or at least reported after famous quotes. Winston Churchill after his famous “We shall fight ‘em on the beaches” speech is reputed to have turned to his BBC sound technician and said, “But I don’t know with what, we don’t have any bloody weapons.” Topically Neil Armstrong was reputed to have said of his “One small step …” “Well, actually it wasn’t that small a step. It was quite a distance down to the surface.” So, the world has lost the last of its great exploratory heroes of the 20th Century; the only one I think to match Armstrong was our own Sir Edmund and it is perhaps no coincidence that both men were among the most self-effacing one could meet. Perhaps it is that very fact that added to the reverence in which they are held. They are much revered for their famous acts and famous words. But here is something that you may not know. Neil Armstrong’s words were written for him by a NASA speech-writer. Nothing wrong with that and I wouldn’t want to diminish their effect for that. But Sir Edmund Hillary’s almost as famous statement of fact after his Everest climb “We knocked the bugger off” was all his. Simple, succinct, accurate. Very Hillary, but also very Kiwi. That one statement, by Sir Edmund, did a lot of summing up and it still resonates today. Just sayin… If you are at all interested, James Whistler’s riposte to that great plagiarist Oscar Wilde’s “I wish I had said that” was “You will Oscar, you will.” I wish I had said that.

I won't drink to that

Tonight I am having drinks with a couple of friends. As is the New Zealand way with such a small group, each of us will likely shout at least one round. We are unlikely to worry about the cost—the cost of the round and the cost of the individual drinks. The cost of alcohol is something we rarely worry about and rarely comes to mind. Which is why the proposition of raising the minimum price for alcohol is unlikely to have any effect on what some see as an out of control drinking culture, particularly among the young. I say this because of two personal observations: most of the young I know who drink to excess can afford it and don’t, in any case, spend their money on much else—they live to drink with their mates--that’s it. They are not going to movies or restaurants; they’re going to bars and parks and beaches and their only expense apart from petrol is alcohol. The second reason that price will have little effect on the young is that it simply doesn’t take that much alcohol to make them drunk. It’s not going to break the bank before they are paralytic. Price therefore, on two counts, is not a factor. Proponents, however, will point to the success raising the price of cigarettes has had on reducing smoking. Different case. Price certainly had an effect but the increase in the cost of cigarettes has been astronomical and nobody is seriously suggesting increases on that scale for alcohol; secondly, various lobby groups, including the health sector, have been successful in making smoking socially unacceptable, and that’s probably a bigger factor than anything in making people quit. Drinking, for all its perceived faults, is not socially unacceptable and in fact is a social adhesive. Finally who in all seriousness came up with the perverse logic that because some, mostly young, have a problem with drink, the rest of us should be made to pay more? I don’t have an answer to the youth drinking problem. But I know that alcohol costing a few dollars more will be ineffectual as well as unfair. Raising the drinking age also seems, these days, unenforceable. Greater parental control may be helpful. Maybe the answer is that which worked with cigarettes and, to some extent, drink driving: make it socially unacceptable. God knows we see enough drunks acting as complete idiots—if there was only some way of turning less of a spotlight on them, and more of a mirror.