A Bastard of a Boss

Most of us know that Monday is not the Queen’s birthday other than in the honouring. Queen Elizabeth II’s actual birthday 20th April and she is now 87. But we and other countries of the Commonwealth choose another day. Though, to be more accurate, the day is chosen for us. You may not know that whilst Queen’s Birthday varies among countries it is usually around the end of May beginning of June to coincide with—and get this—“the likelihood of fine weather in the Northern Hemisphere to accommodate outdoor celebrations.” All very fine for the Brits and the Canadians but looking out my window at the weather here I more than content to leave the mother-country to it and go back to bed. Some see Queen’s Birthday as an archaic and foreign tradition. Some want to do away with it entirely; others want it replaced with Matariki (Maori New Year) or the more politically palatable Hillary Day. The impetus for the last was as late as 2009. But as far as I am aware there is no intent to change in the near future. One change I have noted of late though is the newly-found propensity to turn Queen’s Birthday into a four-day weekend a la Easter. I know many who are taking today (Friday) off. Maybe it is the proximity to Easter and our desire to “shout” ourselves another long(er) weekend , maybe employers are more flexible—maybe we are more in tune with life balance. Whatever the reason, I am pretty sure that traffic on the road this morning will be lighter than usual, at least inbound to the city. So what is it to be for me? Bed or business? It be business. I work for myself, self-employed, and I be a bastard of a boss. Have a good weekend, whenever it starts.

Ties that bind

Two things that seemingly have gone out of fashion are farting and ties. The former was once omnipresent and everybody except the Queen did it. For men farting was greeted as an abject multi-sensory display of machismo—competitions were made of it; a film—Blazing Saddles—was made by it. But no more; it seems years since I have heard or smelt a good manly fart—and I spend much of my life working with roading engineers! Ties have also gone. I see them rarely these days, and none at all on people I like. When seen, ties almost have a priggish effect and are, these days, most often confined to senior bankers, junior arse-lickers, HR managers and politicians, upon which I rest my case and my contention. The only person with some modernity who assiduously wears a tie is Seven Sharp’s Jesse Mulligan but he hails from Hamilton and the tie may also have been a quick exit mechanism had the show’s ratings not improved and he decided to hang it all. But the question I often ask is where did the tie go? Its exit seems so quick and complete. Only a matter of two or three years ago most men—and some women—were wearing them. So, what happened? Did we all wake up one morning and say today I am not wearing a tie? Yes, we did. It was a Friday. It was the day that companies created casual Fridays—the adult equivalent of school-days’ mufti days. For one day a week we were allowed to wear what we willed and for most that meant jeans, and for men it didn’t mean ties. And we got used to that, liked it. On Monday we were back to slacks or suits but the tie remained in the closet, which these days is about the only thing that does. Does anybody miss Ties? No. They are I think and on balance much like Hone Harawira: ill-conceived, of no practical use, and now past their use-by date. We have cut our ties with ties. But you can stay Jesse.

Fryday congratulates George W. Bush

This week the George W. Bush Library and Museum in Dallas was finally opened. It opened to considerable speculation as to which book, other than The Bible, the library would contain. The choice of Tolstoy’s War and Peace came as a revelation, though a spokesperson for the President quickly explained that President Bush had not read all of it. He said the President had read “about half; skipping over the peace bits to get to the war bits.” Now, in writing that passage I can reasonably expect to get sued by President George W. Bush or at least receive a visit from our GCSB. The passage is clearly defamatory or it would be without the qualification that it is nonsense, clearly made-up and clearly untrue. It is satire. The same satire Fryday employed with Bush’s Letters to God and Helen’s letters to her therapist. It is the same satire that I intend to employ in respect—but without respect—to the Conservative Party leader Colin Craig. Should I be worried? Well, Mr Craig threatened to sue The Civilian, but then again he stated emphatically that he, Mr Craig, had a well developed sense of humour. A well developed sense of humour and a right-wing and righteous Christian seems a bit of an oxymoron to me, but I’ll let that pass. Archaic phrases such as “Day of Reckoning” (on the redefinition of marriage) are more telling. For what it is worth, and to George W. Bush it is worth very little, Fryday congratulates President Bush and his family. Every former President receives a library; President Bush is no less deserving. If I have mocked it, then I hope I have done so gently and in good humour and in some reverence for our shared past. As for Mr Craig? Well, I reckon that day of reckoning is still to come.

Leaning to the right

It may have been used before but I first heard the term “New Journalism” in relation to American writers of the 60s Tom Wolfe, Truman Capote, Hunter S. Thompson and others. As I understand it New Journalists didn’t just report on the story, they became part of the story and, in the case of Hunter S., became the story. Today’s journalists could and should have learnt from that. To do that. We then wouldn’t have had so many recent cases of shoddy reporting. Take the Jesse Ryder affair. When that story broke we were told that Jesse was in a critical condition with a fractured skull, broken ribs and a collapsed lung after having sustained a brutal and prolonged attack where he was beaten mercilessly at the hands and feet of up to four or five men. His subsequent recovery was deemed to nothing short of miraculous. And so it would have been if the first reports had an ounce of accuracy. Instead we learn now that—allegedly—there were just two men, one (king) punch and Jesse’s injuries amounted only to severe concussion. * How could the media have got that wrong? Inexperience? Interviewing their iPads? Haste to get the story out first? Probably the latter. But even so could not “Cricketer Jesse Ryder is in hospital following what is believed to be an assault.” Suffice? With more later when the facts are procured? Another example came last night when radio news bulletins told me that 70 people had died in the Texas fertiliser explosion. This morning I read it was 15. A journalist colleague and I were both canvassed recently about the introduction of a new industry body called The Foundation for New Journalism in New Zealand. The communication was so convoluted that we were and are still unsure of what they are and what they intend. That’s not an auspicious start. That apart, it seems that one of their objectives is to arm young journalists with the skills and the ability to service the new Internet-based media. All very laudable, if late. From my point of view those new journalists, we the public and a certain cricketer from Wellington would be better served if the Foundation concentrated on teaching those new journalists the basics—the basics being get it, and get it right. * This is in no way a criticism of Mr Ryder, who has been as ill served by the media as much—if not more—than the rest of us.

I'll dine out on that...

A few years ago I disposed of an unused chest freezer by giving it to a charity collecting scrap-metal as a fundraiser. Two burly scrap-metal merchants of questionable charitable intent duly arrived, tossed the freezer into the back of their ute, and drove off leaving a stench that I thought would linger longer than Peter Dunne. What I hadn’t realised was that the freezer, lying dormant and switched off for over a year, contained a meat pack. I had not before the time smelt anything like it. I fully expected to receive a complaint and a cleaning claim from the scrap-metal merchant and numerous complaints from those along a route which surely for a while would be a road less travelled. Neither happened. I guess the good people of Helensville thought the odour just another element in a far from rich tapestry of life more akin to sack-cloth than fine needle-work. This month Helensville suffered another loss. Porcini, the restaurant that for years had been the gild in Helensville’s fast fading lily, closed for the last time. Owners Peter and Karen had enough. There would be few who blamed them for that but many who would still regret it nevertheless. In its time the restaurant hosted prime ministers, mayors, sailors, disgraced lawyers, obnoxious individuals and excited and excitable families—my own included. I went often. What happened inside Porcini, stayed inside Porcini. The culture, the conviviality, the courtesy that permeated that place couldn’t survive outside. Not in Helensville. Not ever. There is that which lingers in Helensville. The bad and the good. My freezer odour among the former; memories of Porcini truly among the latter. Thank you Peter. Thank you Karen.

Whetu Calls: Gangnam Style

News this week that ads by online electricity store Powershop featuring Mao Zedong dancing Gangnam style were pulled by Auckland Transport because they might offend New Zealand’s 120,000 Chinese immigrants set me thinking. Would that move not pose a greater risk of offending the 50 million South Koreans from whom Gangnam style originated? And what of our old friends of the Democratic Republic of Wogistan (123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard-3rd door on the right) who have adopted Gangnam style as their national dance? I believe they are writing to Auckland Transport. But there are some of blissful ignorance for whom this move passed unnoticed. Those not easily offended. Maori for one; Whetu for one. It had to happen. The knock: ME: Hello. HE: Bro. ME: What do you want, and how much will it cost? HE: Me? ME: He…You! HE: Me? Nothin’. Just come to say me and the bros in morning. ME: Morning? HE: Ten Guitars dead, Man. ME: Dead? Mourning. HE: Whatever. Gone. Got new song. ME: What? HE: Haka. ME: The Haka is not new. HE: Gangnam style. Want to see it? ME: Okay. HE: Two bucks. ME: Of course. Here you go. HE: Ready? ME: Ready. HE: Ka mate, ka mate! ka ora! ka ora! Ka mate! ka mate! ka ora! ka ora! Tēnei te tangata pūhuruhuru Nāna nei i tiki mai whakawhiti te rā Ā, upane! ka upane! Ā, upane, ka upane, whiti te ra! Seeeexxxxyyyy Lady. Gangnam style! Well of course you had to see it to believe it.

On Any Given Day

Today is International Women's Day. Do I care? No. Do I believe that most women, international or otherwise, care or know? No. It is just another of those days that come and go, created by goodness knows who to (usually) create awareness of goodness what—which it rarely does and is rarely necessary. June 1 is Children's Day, and 20 November is Universal Children's Day. If I was commemorated only in the first I would be somewhat aggrieved that I was perhaps not among the more prestigious "Universal" kids. If I was in both I would just be like most kids—greedy. But here we have two days creating awareness of children—as if we didn't know they were there already. But who creates these "days". Apparently most of the so-called official ones emanate from America—go figure-and are given authority by Act of Congress. The rest of we World Citizens get saddled with them—given to us by the same people who gave us George W. Bush (and don't start me on Jeb). So what else has this great nation of America given us? Well, as a bit of a light read, I thought I would give you the list of official days for this month (March). Personally I'm off now to have a big lunch—I love National Pig Day; and anybody who wants to join me to demonstrate Goddess of Fertility Day is more than welcome. Have a good Day. March, 2013 Daily Holidays, Special and Wacky Days: 1 Employee Appreciation Day first Friday in March 1 National Pig Day 1 National Salesperson Day - first Friday in the month 1 Peanut Butter Lovers' Day 2 Old Stuff Day 3 I Want You to be Happy Day 3 If Pets Had Thumbs Day 3 National Anthem Day 3 Peach Blossom Day 4 Holy Experiment Day 4 Hug a GI Day 5 Multiple Personality Day 6 Dentist's Day 6 National Frozen Food Day 7 National Crown Roast of Pork Day 8 Be Nasty Day 8 International (Working) Women's Day 19 National Agriculture Day (date varies) 9 Panic Day 10 Middle Name Pride Day 11 Johnny Appleseed Day 11 Worship of Tools Day - guys, you can relate 12 Girl Scouts Day 12 Plant a Flower Day 13 Ear Muff Day 13 Jewel Day 14 Learn about Butterflies Day 14 National Potato Chip Day 14 National Pi Day- Why today? Because today is 3.14, the value of Pi. 14 Popcorn Lover's Day second Thursday 15 Everything You Think is Wrong Day 15 Ides of March 15 Incredible Kid Day 15 Dumbstruck Day 16 Everything You Do is Right Day 16 Freedom of Information Day 16 National Quilting Day - third Saturday of month 17 Submarine Day - the hero sandwich or the boat?? 17 Saint Patrick's Day 18 Goddess of Fertility Day 18 Supreme Sacrifice Day 19 Poultry Day 20 International Earth Day 20 Extraterrestrial Abductions Day 20 Proposal Day 21 Fragrance Day 22 National Goof Off Day 23 National Chip and Dip Day 23 Near Miss Day 24 National Chocolate Covered Raisin Day 25 Pecan Day 25 Waffle Day 26 Make Up Your Own Holiday Day 27 National "Joe" Day 28 Something on a Stick Day 29 National Mom and Pop Business Owners Day 29 Smoke and Mirrors Day 30 National Doctor's Day 30 I am in Control Day 30 Take a Walk in the Park Day 31 Bunsen Burner Day 31 Easter Date varies 31 National Clam on the Half Shell Day

Dear John: Wogistan

Media Release: Team Fryday

MEDIA RELEASE TEAM FRYDAY. I am going to tell you straight. Contrary to the vicious unsubstantiated rumours going on out there, Fryday doesn’t do drugs and is not on any performance enhancing substances of any kind. Those spreading those rumours are nothing but losers, washed-up writers whose use-by dates are so old they is written in Latin and have now resorted to slagging off Fryday to get a few more final headlines. Fryday is a hard-working writer. He doesn’t need drugs. He’s done the hard yards, got the street cred. He’s drunk more whiskey than all of youse have had mother’s milk. He’s fought more bouts with writer’s block than you have had pedicures. He’s seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas seven times and understood it by the third time! He have learnt grammer and he knows how to spel. My number 1 priority and I am going to give this to you straight is to give Fryday the recognition he deserves—not hard mate when you consider that everybody he’s up against including probably you are s***heads and cretins. Who’s got the belt mate? Ask yourself that—who’s got the belt? Authorised by: Khoder Nasser Business Manager Teams Fryday and SBW. Word Count: 188 words—No I didn’t promise you 300 words!!!!!That's bullshit!!!!!!

Carpe Diem

It is rare on a Friday for Fryday not to have something to write about. Usually there is something worthy of a little borax or humour. Most of whatever that is comes to me late and Fryday is written hurriedly to catch the moment. Today there is nothing waiting for me: no gift, no pearl of wisdom, no interest from The Muse—and she is not a woman to be forced. No woman is, of course. A man is tempting fate if he tries to mould a woman into his ideal and schoolboy fantasy—or is it schoolgirl fantasy? A much better—and safer—route is to find the exact woman you want off the shelf. There are plenty to choose from. Fortunately I have never been particularly good at shopping. If my wish-list is a diminutive, submissive woman whose brain can be turned on and off, then I have been sadly amiss with those whom I have chosen to be my close friends and confidants. I am surrounded by wonder women none of whom completely fits my superficial ideal, my perfect woman. They are too perfect for that. This week I attended the funeral of a friend’s wife. As I recall, I met her only once but found her charming. She must have been quite something, for the manner in which she was eulogised and the devastation her sudden death caused her husband. I had to leave the funeral early, I have been unwell this week and vulnerable. But that too only demonstrated the beauty of women, a suite of whom enveloped me this week with compassion, concern and sincerity. They know who they are. So if I have somehow fashioned a Fryday celebrating women, foisted on me because I had nothing else to write about, let that not diminish the sincerity of the sentiment. Rather acknowledge if you will that we have a Fryday, and that, before I started writing it, I didn’t know how lucky I was.

Mr Speaker

To be the Speaker of New Zealand’s parliament is to be one of the most important persons in the land. It could be argued that you are there of and at the whim of the Prime Minister. But you have the right, enshrined by royal decree, to call even a prime minister to account, as did the (now) former speaker Lockwood Smith when he called Prime Minister John Key a naughty boy. I know Lockwood Smith well. I have had the privilege to meet him on many occasions—some have been political, some have been business and some (most) have been entertaining—Lockwood is a fine singer and poet and not slow to show it. In all those meetings and all those roles he has afforded me the greatest courtesy, something others have shared and this week noted voluminously. Lockwood is like that—old school. And if that is to be seen that he is also pompous and pedantic—also noted this week—then in the role of speaker those are not necessarily bad traits and could even be deemed to eminently practical. Lockwood, the dairy farmer from up north brought a gravitas to the role of speaker, something his successor, David Carter, the dairy farmer from down south, seemingly has the traits to emulate. Parliament can be a raucous place—Winston Peters on his own ensures it is so—and Question Time on television is pure theatre, I often wonder what my friend Whetu thinks of it, but with Lockwood Smith at the helm it was rarely directionless and if at times he came across as a headmaster scolding parliamentary school children—then that is simply what he was…and who they are.