The Fryday Fry Up

The blog version of Fryday goes out on the Internet and is of course accessible there to anybody anywhere with a computer and a connection. Whilst I can’t determine who is reading Fryday, I can monitor the numbers, where they are from and what they are reading. A random look at the blog stats yesterday got even me questioning Fryday’s attraction. It appears that one person (presumably one) spent over an hour in one session reading Fryday and in the process got through sixteen pages. Now, that is very gratifying and I am flattered that they found Fryday Quite Interesting (to coin a phrase). But what I found Quite Interesting was that the person was in Brazil and the entry-page they started with was an item on Tuku Morgan. What possible interest would a Brazilian have in Tuku Morgan, even if Tuku Morgan may be persuaded to have an interest in a Brazilian—underpants tend to chaff, after all. Nevertheless some Brazilian has taken to Tuku and from there ventured elsewhere in the Fryday Realm. Quite Interesting, and, yes, I am getting to that point—an unashamed plug for another Fry up: the Stephen Fry hosted, John Lloyd conceived, BBC series QI on Prime each weeknight at 7.00. It is truly addictive as the erudite Stephen Fry presents an ever-changing panel of comedians and other celebrities with an array of little known but (seemingly) unassailable facts upon which they are invited to comment by way of confirming or otherwise the veracity of such facts. Points are deducted if the obvious but wrong answer is given; points are awarded if the answers are QI—Quite Interesting. There is such a profusion and confusion of facts that I can’t remember them all, but here are a few from memory. See if you can answer them correctly. 1. In what year did the Second World War between the Allies and Germany end? 2. The Spanish national anthem is sung in what language? 3. How many legs has a centipede and what is extremely odd about the answer? 4. At one time or other one-eighth of all Californians have insured themselves for what? 5. According to a survey, 46% of all Americans can’t read well enough to read what? That’s the type of thing that in the deft hands of Stephen Fry QI on Prime is compulsive viewing—even if they are yet to find even one remotely interesting fact about Hamilton.

Slàinte, sonas agus beartas

Oscar Wilde said of the United States and the United Kingdom that they had everything in common except language. He was right of course. In their land of excess, Americans have paradoxically opted for minimalism in language. They have dropped more letters than a disgruntled south Auckland postie on P. And rearranged more letters than a Mt Eden prostitute on a good night. Color=colour, flavor=flavour, meter=metre, etc. Which is why I find it surprising, musing on this over the Christmas break, that in one area dear to me Americans have elected to add a letter, the letter E to whisky. They spell it whiskey, which is the way the Irish spell it and that in itself may be an explanation, given the Irish influence in early America. There are almost as many American whiskies as there are Scotch whiskies (in the plural both countries employ the E) and the distinctions are many. In the interests of robust research I have sampled—and will continue to sample—as many as I can. Scotch is the form and firm favourite for me though. Helensville is the site of the only successful Scotch invasion since Braveheart and will, hopefully, last a lot longer. There is little more enjoyable to me than the big blustery, take-no-prisoner single-malts from Islay (pronounced Eye-Lah) and the favour of friends. With that in mind and glass in hand I raised a few drams to you this happy Hogmanay. Allow me to do so again with a Scottish greeting I like, plus, appropriately, a translation for all my Fryday friends: May the best ye hae ivver seen be the warst ye'll ivver see. May the moose ne'er lea' yer girnal wi a tear-drap in its ee. May ye aye keep hail an hertie till ye'r auld eneuch tae dee. May ye aye juist be sae happie as A wuss ye aye tae be. The above, in translation, reads: May the best you have ever seen be the worst you will ever see. May the mouse never leave your grain store with a tear drop in its eye. May you always stay hale and hearty until you are old enough to die. May you still be as happy as I always wish you to be. Slàinte, sonas agus beartas (Health, wealth and happiness) Fyday.

Whetu Calls: It's in the water

MEDIA RELEASE Watercare Names New Chief Executive Watercare Services Limited has announced its replacement for outgoing chief executive Mark Ford. He is Whetu TeWhetu, a 56 year-old analyst from the brewing industry. Mr TeWhetu says he is excited about the challenges of stepping into the sweeping shoes of the versatile, if sometimes volatile, Mark Ford. "That's if he leaves his shoes, eh. I got to look under the desk. That's if those fellas gives me a desk 'cause I not had one of those before, eh," says Mr TeWhetu. Industry analysts say Mr TeWhetu should have little difficulty fitting into his new role, pointing to his substantial experience in the brewing industry. Commentators attribute the growth of that industry to Mr TeWhetu, and he is seen by some to be even its saviour. Mr TeWhetu is more modest but does agree that he, along with "colleagues and associates", may have been a contributor to increased beer consumption patterns, particularly during the league season. "What wes got here (with Watercare) is just another drink, eh? And we knows all about drinking, so Ise the right fella for this job." The Maori Party and Mana Party have both endorsed the appointment of Mr TeWhetu. Mana Party leader Hone Harawira says the appointment sends a clear signal to "whities" that Maori own water, and the Government should be "afraid, very afraid." Mr TeWhetu was previously Hone Harawira's travel agent. However, Mr TeWhetu himself is a little more self-effacing and circumspect. He acknowledges in his first media interview since the appointment that he is not quite sure what either term means, but happily confirms that he was "circumspected" at birth. Elsewhere in the political spectrum, opinions are divided. When asked what he thought of Mr TeWhetu, Prime Minister John Key was suitably succinct: "Who?". Opposition leader David Shearer was even more scathing, saying you cannot trust anyone from "that Cunliffe bunch." Mr TeWhetu denied any personal knowledge of Cunliffe. "Me and the missus don't do that sort of thing," he says. "But I do knows a few shearers in my time down King Country. Good fellas." When asked what his first decision will be when he takes the reins from Mr Ford on January 1st, Mr TeWhetu was characteristically blunt and decisive. "My first ting eh, is to change the name. Ise gonna change the name to Wai Care, eh? 'Cause that's what the fellas and the fellesses tink around here, eh. Wai Care. And for white fellas, they good Maori fellas." Mayor Len Brown says Mr TeWhetu will bring a new dimension to Wai Care. ENDS. For further information: you media fellas look me up on Googles or buys me a drink at the Kaipara Tavern on Satday.

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…?