Useless Objects: The Toilet Lid

From time to time Fryday indulges itself in questioning the veracity and purpose of apparently useless objects. Previous subjects we have scrutinised include eyebrows and male nipples. This week we look at toilet seats.
We begin by getting our terminology right. I talk of toilet seats for ease of reference; I am in fact talking of the toilet lid, which, whilst it forms part of the seat, has far more dire consequences if mistakenly left closed while in use. I can find a use for the seat, mainly comfort while seated, but what is the purpose and function of the lid?
However, before we get to the bottom of that, a slight digression as we look at an eminently practical toilet seat design and the meritorious body that governs it: the open-front toilet seat. The International Association of Plumbing and Mechanical Officials' Uniform Plumbing Code, section 409.2.2, requires that "all water closet seats, except those within dwelling units or for private use, shall be of the open front type". The code has no legal force, but because it is followed by many public authorities, many public toilets feature open front toilet seats (also called "split seats”). The purpose for this seat design is to allow women to wipe the perineal area after using the toilet without contacting the seat. It also omits an area of the seat that could be contaminated with urine, and avoids contact between the seat and the user's genitals.
Who knew? And who knew that there was The International Association of Plumbing and Mechanical Officials? I wonder how often they sit?
But back to lids. Apparently toilet lids provide a very important and sterile service—one that most of us have probably not thought about. Here I am indebted to Fryday’s scientific advisory panel http://www.littleherbal-international.co.nz/ (highly recommended). This makes for troublesome reading, I admit, and you need go no further if you wish, but it has come as a surprise to many I have mentioned this to, that: “After flushing a toilet with the seat up, significant quantities of microbes float around the bathroom for at least two hours after each flush, much like a bacterial and viral aerosol. These microbes then settle onto surfaces, including toothbrushes. So if you don't want to be brushing your teeth with the contents of your toilet, best to keep that seat down when you flush.”
So, toilet lids are there for a purpose. And really, if we are wise, they should be used for that purpose. And whilst it may be galling for we wee men to say it, women have been right all along. We wee men need to put the toilet seat, and its lid, down
And to finish. In researching this item I put in possibly my most improbable Google question ever: “How to use a toilet seat?”
Guess what?
Google gave me 7,690,000 responses!
Who knew?

The Handsome Sampson Diaries: The One That Sucks.

It is just as well no-one will read this diary.
If they did,  Aucklanders would really know what I think of them.
They suck.
We should call this place Suckland. First off reason is Suckland’s reaction to the 9.9% rates increase. For goodness sake, don’t they realise that is only an average? Some will get a lesser increase; some higher. But the average will get what they deserve—an average. Ironic, really, because what they get in return is an average council (Ha Ha, Bev would like that).
But that is not my fault. The council are mean people and it seems all but the Pennies have dropped on me. What about that proposed move to build a new Council Chamber? Yes, they all wanted it. Once. They all said they didn’t like the four-minute walk down to the Town Hall, especially when it was raining and especially when it was with me with all that abuse and all. What was it you all said—it was bad enough being rained on, but shat upon too? Worth spending a few million dollars of ratepayer money to avoid that. That is what you said.
Now you say you didn’t say it. And now I have to say I didn’t say it. And it is left to the CEO to say he said it, because I said to say it because I didn’t want me having to say I said it. Or having said to him to say it.
Why is it that these days nobody takes anything I say (even if I didn’t say it) at face value? Answer me that Bevan. Oh, you are not reading this are you? Wish you were. I wish a lot of things. I wish Bernard Osman would stop picking on me. I wish Stephen Joyce would go away. I wish Ports of Auckland would go away. I wish Auckland Transport would go away (and give me a carpark at Henderson). I wish I had my time over again with Bevan—over and over again.
Most of all, I wish everyone would go away and leave me alone. Just because I am an elected official, does that make you think you own me? Obviously, you think it does. But, be warned (even though you are not reading this. Are you?).
If you persist on picking on me, I will not stand again. And what will you get? John Banks?
You deserve him.
Suck on that Suckland.

Everything Trivial

There is no doubting and, increasingly for some, no avoiding the popularity of quiz nights. Many of us have participated in at least one, for quizzes proliferate in a number of guises, whether weekly down at the pub, less often for charity, and as fund-raisers for schools, clubs and associations.
Most often they are great fun, a great night out, in great company. Yes, they can be extremely competitive and some people may enter them with a greater intensity than they, the quiz and their fellow team members deserve. That was one factor in the demise of the home board game Trivial Pursuit.
But if we go into them with good intent and with a good team—and by good, I mean friendly—a well-run quiz can be deeply, though not initially obviously, satisfying. For example you may not feel that you have a great general knowledge and, as another example, of sport have none at all. But you will be surprised—nobody knows everything, and everybody knows something. Your team may be asked 30 questions; I am prepared to bet you that among them there likely will be at least one to which only you know the answer. That is why in the professional and lucrative world of quiz shows on TV the most feared teams are those with a gender and age balance—they cover all the bases.
Conversely, if you get a question wrong and by force of persuasion got your team to agree to it, then a good team will offer up no recrimination—after all, we all make mistakes and it is like a cricket fielder who drops a catch; you dare not criticise them for that, for the next catch may be your own—for the same result.
I was invited to a few quizzes earlier in life, but nothing regular. These days—or, to be more specific, these Wednesdays—I am to be found regularly down at the local with a team that can number as few as three or as much as seven. Our success is mixed, but we are always thereabouts and last week we won it and, separately, the bar-tab. We won the bar tab again this week, but were third to last on the quiz, such are the vagaries of quizzing. Our team is about as balanced as we can make it: three journalists (which some may say is the least balanced of all professions), an extraordinarily gifted heath practitioner, a teenager and a Vicar. With that combination, we can usually cover most bases and when we can’t, well, God (is there to) help us.
There are less trivial pursuits I could undertake, but at my age and with my mania for minutiae, quiz nights suit me well enough. Besides, there is little better vocation than forging lasting friendships, and in that regard my Wednesday quizzing has been wonderfully successful. No question about it.

Hamilton Public Library Book of Lists: 2015.

Chilly nights and clear days again herald the advent of winter, and with it the Hamilton Public Library’s Annual Book of Lists—those books, periodicals and other media that captured the interest of the good folk of Hamilton over the past 12 months. As always, Fryday is indebted to the librarians of Hamilton for whom a book is both a passion and a blessed escape.

1. Most Popular Career Book (Female): A Life in Hairdressing.
2. Most Popular Career Book (Male): A Life in Hairdressing.
3.  Most Popular Entertainment Book: Hamilton—The Inspiration for Rocky Horror Picture Show, by Richard O’Brien.
4.  Most Popular Autobiography: My Life as a Hamilton Hairdresser, by Richard O’Brien.
5.  Most Popular Cook Book: KFC Menu.
6.   Most Popular Sport Book (Equal First): The Chiefs—Almost Making Us Proud to Live in Hamilton.
7.   Most Popular Sport Book (Equal First): The Fall and the Fall of the Auckland Blues.
8.   Most Stolen Book:  A Guide to Auckland’s Most Expensive Homes, and Their Security Systems.
9.   Least Popular Book: Living in the Shadow of Auckland.
10.   Most Popular Magazine (Male): Straight Furrow, The Magazine for Heterosexual Farmers.
11.   Second Most Popular Magazine (Male):  The Next Best Thing—Bovine Beauties on the Farm.
12.   Most Popular Magazine (Female):  Time of the Month—Working With Your Hairdresser.
13.   Most Popular Computer Book: A Step-by-Step Picture Guide to Finding Google on Your Computer
14.   Second Most Popular Computer Book: A Step-by-Step Picture Guide to Turning on Your Computer.
15.   Second Most Popular Magazine (Female): She’s a Cow!!!!! How to deal with his bovine infatuation.  A Seven-Part Series.
16.  Most Requested Book: Short, Back and Sides From the Front—Gallipoli Inspired Hairstyles for the Lesbian Community.
17. Best War Book: What a Do!—Hamilton Hairdressers who served at Gallipoli.
18. Best Farming Periodical: Why Only Cows? A Study of the Post-Colonial Genderisation and Stereolisation of the New Zealand Dairy Industry as it Equates to the Objectification as Cows as the Sole Providers of Dairy Milk. (A Waikato University Women’s Studies Department Publication).
19. Most Popular University Document: Auckland University Enrolment Form.
20. Most Popular ‘How To’ Book: Knots—What We Can Learn From Fifty Shades of Grey.
21. Most Popular Council Publication: God is not that thirsty—Hamilton City Council Liquor Licensing Laws.
22. Most Popular Life Affirmation Title: God Knows— Homilies for Hamiltonians (updated to include Hamilton City Council Long Term Plan).
23. Most Popular Military Title (still): Fags, Fogs, and Frigates—Hamilton’s Contribution to the Royal New Zealand Navy.
24. Favourite Parenting Book: Kids and Cows—God’s Gifts To Us All.
25. Favourite DVD: Fast & Furious—CCTV Footage of Auckland Drivers.
26. Favourite Music DVD: K-Tel’s Kuntry Klassics Vol.1 (also available on VHS and Beta).
27. Favourite DVD (Adult Section): Country Calendar Uncensored.
28. Favourite DVD (Young Adult): Twerking, It is, like,  sooooo NOW!!!
29. Most Anticipated Book: Hello Sailor—A Follow Up to Fags, Fogs, and Frigates.
30. Most Popular Book of the Year: Fifty Shades of Grey — Where It All Began, A Homage to Hamilton, by E.L. James (in appreciation).

Going down in the last shower

It is said that one can successfully dampen one’s rampant sexual desires by taking a cold shower. That may well be true, though I am yet to see or seek credible scientific evidence of it.
Nor do I see, at this aged time of life, a need to dampen sexual desire.
Quite the reverse.
However, there may be those who find it helpful—among them, those committed to a celibate life, those for whom any form of sexual desire is a moral affront and a personifestation (sic) of the male subjugation and objectification of women (Waikato University Women’s Studies) and anyone living at Gloryvale.
For the rest of us, attempting to stem rampant desire is a most often needless and, more often still, impossible exercise. One would have to give up watching Game of Thrones, for example. Or find some other rationale for the existence of Kim Kardashian.
So, it is with mix of sympathy and empathy that we read in this morning’s Herald of the couple whose car rolled off the end of Birkenhead Wharf last night and into the Waitemata Harbour—with them in it. Fortunately, no-one was injured and the car and couple were successfully recovered.
Now, there may be any number of reasons why car and couple were parked up on Birkenhead Wharf at 9.00 at night. The couple say they were about to go for a walk—a most laudable vocation. There may also be reasons the car decided to go for a walk of its own—the police say it may have been the hand-brake taking a break.
But forgive me for opining that a more “amore” scenario would have been that ardour was such that a handbrake was kicked, and chance and circumstance and car collectively decided that a cold shower was called for.
So they provided it.

A Special ANZAC Day

Tomorrow we will remember and honour those New Zealanders who participated in the many armed conflicts inflicted upon this small nation of ours. Not one of those conflicts, as I recall, initiated or orchestrated by us. But that doesn’t matter. We did the job. Among those we will honour will be primarily the dead; those who in most cases did not return. The ultimate sacrifice. Then we will remember the others—the others who fought and, increasingly these days, those who supported them at home and behind the lines. In these enlightened times, tribute will be made to the women and their role in these wars and, today, the women who serve on the frontline in the armed services. Inevitably, reference will be made to the increase in the number of us attending Dawn and other commemorative services; mention will be made of the number of “young people”. And so we should—if accurate. But the sad fact is that with the exception of those who served in more recent conflicts—Malaysia, Vietnam, Afghanistan and Iraq—most of those we now honour are done so in spirit; there will be none from the First World War, and a sadly diminishing few from the Second. Yet, because of that and because this is a special ANZAC Day, there is tomorrow a poignant change—it’s become personal. Whereas in the past we have rightly honoured the many, this year I am detecting that in my family and most likely in yours we are honouring, remembering, our own. In this small nation of ours there are few families, even today, that did not have a relative who fought. There are few families that do not have a reason to look back in pride, even a 100 years on. There are few families that don’t have faded photographs or treasured letters. There are few families that tomorrow, when those immortal words “Lest we Forget” ring out, will not have a very very personal reason and right to respond: “Not a Chance.”
Private George Isle
No. 38288
Canterbury Infantry Regiment
New Zealand Expeditionary Forces 1917.
R.I.P.

When Whetu Calls: On Winston Peters

New Zealand First leader Winston Peters is the new MP for the Northland electorate, the electorate in which I now reside. I haven’t met him, I have no reason to. But my friend Whetu has, and he has a reason. Here is what transpired.

ME (Whetu): Kia Ora, Bro.
HE (Winnie): Good morning.
ME: Choice you sees me, ‘cause I wasn’t one of those fellas whose voted for youse.
HE: As the new Member of Parliament for Northland I see it as my job to represent all the people of Northland—Maori, Pakeha, Everybody. Northland has been neglected for too         long by this Government. The people of Northland have voted me in to send a clear message to John Key and his cronies in Wellington.
ME: So, we don’t have to use email then? Choice!
HE: What can I do for you? I have an important appointment.
ME: I want to knows what happened to the two miles.
HE: Two miles? What two miles?
ME: You knows Ninety Mile Beach?
HE: Yes.
ME: It isn’t.
HE: Isn’t what?
ME: Ninety miles.
HE: What on earth are you talking about? This is a waste of my time. I have a message to…
ME: I been on my mate’s computer and I looks it up on that Wiki thing and it says that Ninety Mile Beach is really eighty-eight miles.
HE: So?
ME: Sos, I want to know where the other two miles went.
HE: What???
ME: I think those Pakeha fellas took it and me and my mates wants compo…compaps…compon…money for it.
HE: Compensation.
ME: That’s it! Youse choice with words.
HE: Look, I haven’t time for this. My job is to send a clear message to Wellington. I have no time for you—or your mates. I have an important appointment.
ME: Whats more important than ours two miles?
HE: My hairdresser.

A Bush in the Hand

Fryday has enjoyed a raft of new readers over the past two weeks. They are welcome, whether they be readers of the blog or the email. Those on the blog I do not know—at last count there are about 20,000 of you. The email e-letter is a little different—I know all of you, because it goes only to those whom I like. It has been that way from the start. Fryday started 20 years ago in 1995 as an email to 20 friends attempting in my vain and inglorious way to discredit a panelbeater. It was my first and I think only malicious Fryday email, though some of you may think my disparagement of George W. Bush, “Bishop” Tamaki, and particularly Hamilton, attests to the converse. Then again, most of you also know that much of Fryday is a piss-take, to use a revolting phrase. Nothing you read here should be taken to seriously. I mention all this, not only for the edification of  my new readers, but also because there is a very real prospect of Fryday finding a new outlet in the mainstream media. In other words, a publisher. This is of course exciting. But also worrying. I am concerned that a wider distribution may lead to an adverse—read legal—reaction from those whom I deride. Seemingly the common element  among those “victims”, including the hole of Hamilton, is that they lack humour. But my legal advisor, Whetu, who has over his years had much to do with the law, sees it differently. He opines that as I am simply “poking the borax”, though he admits to having no idea what borax is, and nor have I, there is no chance of legal action. The worst that could happen, in his view, is that I get invited to participate in a charity boxing match against Cameron Slater—and that is nothing. So, after 20 years it is onwards and upwards—literally and literarally, publish and be damned. And even if the halcyon days of George W. And God, Helen Clark and Michelle are gone, there remains the Hamilton Public Library, my old mate Whetu,  Handsome Sampson and 123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard to go on with and, yes Hardman, there is Jeb Bush just waiting in the wings. Bring it on.

We are Farrrrrmaleee!

A week ago I took the unusual step, for me, of commending the Australian cricket team for their sportsmanship. I highlighted their apparent concern for tailender Umesh Yadav after he was felled by a Mitchell Starc bouncer. In the light of subsequent and much reported Australian behaviour at the Cup Final I somewhat regret writing that post. It has also been pointed out to me that I should have questioned the temerity of bowling a bouncer to a tailender in the first place, particularly as it was tacitly countenanced by an Australian team captain who wears a black armband in memory of a team mate felled and killed by a bouncer.
However, I am adding nothing new here. All this has been written about before and even attempts by such writers as Chris Rattue to present a fresh perspective by playing Devil’s advocate, “They (New Zealand) surrendered in the final, and took this whole nice-guy business too far.”, lacks vigour and, some would say, credibility.
So, for my final word on the ICC Cricket World Cup I want to leave you with what it left me. Like much of the country I felt a real pride about the on and off field performance of this New Zealand cricket team. In terms of representing this country it was an almost flawless performance from beginning to end. The team was universally commended for the way and the spirit in which they played. It did not go unnoticed world-wide and in Australia it drew the inevitable comparison with their own team.
In sporting terms we were gifted with magical moments and memories. Some games were pure theatre that would defy scripting. Almost all games included examples of individual brilliance, and not always from the same individual. And then there was the way Brendon McCullum’s side went about their business—methodical, determined, skilled—getting the job done.
For themselves. For us.
And that is the point. It was us. I believe this team did something that no other New Zealand team has ever done. Yes, we have unified behind teams in the past—the America’s Cup team once or twice, the All Blacks often and the The Breakers repeatedly.
But somehow—and I cannot explain it—the New Zealand cricket team succeeded in making each and everyone of us feel that we were part of the team. Think back—did you not feel, as I did, that mix of dread, fear and anticipation every time Mitchell Starc stormed in at Eden Park? Did you not stand alongside Brendon McCullum for each and every ball wondering whether it was going to be an out or a six? We were there. Eden Park got crowded. Even the MCG got crowded. There were so many of us out there in the middle.
New Zealand’s participation and performance in this tournament had a family feel about it. So did the team itself. I felt that watching the NZ Cricket Awards last Thursday. There was a real sense of camaraderie in display there. This was a homogenous unit, unified on and off the field and remarkably free of any obvious ego. The speeches were heartfelt and eloquent—none more so than the perfectly crafted yet spontaneous and sincere speech by the team’s dying uncle Martin Crowe. That speech, even the gentle admonishment to Daniel Vettori to get a shave, was a perfect exempla of how this nation can handle itself when it sets out to be itself—without pretence.
Yes, it is just a game. A cricket game. A sport.
But you know what? It did something magical. It endeared ourselves to ourselves. During the course of this tournament we looked at ourselves.
And guess what?
    We liked what we saw.

Pitch Fever

It is easy to define the word great. Somewhat harder for greater and greatest; they require a point of comparison, and ‘greatest” in particular is subject to so many variable and subjective views that it is usually impossible and often irresponsible to term anything the greatest.
So, will victory against Australia in Sunday’s ICC World Cup be New Zealand’s greatest cricketing achievement, or even New Zealand’s best sporting achievement? Some will argue that we are already there, simply by succeeding through to the semis for the first time;  a finals win against the Aussies just extends that.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that it has galvanised the nation and we are almost united as a country behind our team. Yes, there are those who say, correctly, that it is only a game and there are more important things in the  world (the Northland by-election, anyone?)
But at this time, and particularly since last Tuesday’s semifinal win, they have been rather muted, stripped of their usual weapons: “it’s elitist” (America’s Cup) or “thuggery” (rugby and rugby league). Left, like the rest of us, with the simple fact that the Black Caps exemplify almost everything that is inherently good about this country—including and perhaps foremost the great spirit in which “we” have played the game—Grant Elliott and Dale Steyn an enduring memory.
Which brings us to the Australians.
You knew we would go there.
 I watched last night’s semi between Australia and India. I expected the worst in regard to on-field behaviour. These two teams have been never afraid to have a go at each other, often resulting in near physical confrontation and massive fines. Before this match an unnamed Australian player or official stated that the team was “pledged to sledge.”
So, it was going to be all on.
What happened?
What happened, I think, was in part Phillip Hughes.
The tragic death of Phillip Hughes, felled by a bouncer at this very ground, the Sydney Cricket Ground, last year, drew the cricketing world together like never before. The outreach of support for the Hughes family and for the Australian cricket team was unprecedented in the sport
I think it caught Michael Clarke and his team by surprise and they have not and will never forget it.
Yes, they will continue to sledge. Yes, they will continue to be aggressive. That is who they are. That is what they are.
But there has been a subtle change. For the better. Perhaps, think first, sledge second. And that, surely, is a legacy of Phillip Hughes.
There was another last night.
Last night in the dying stage of the game Indian tailender Umesh Yadav was hit—hard—by a blistering bouncer from Aussie quick Mitchell Starc. Yadav staggered for a moment and there was a sudden silence—terrible silence—that swept over the ground. Remember, it is the same ground that… .
Michael Clarke was the first to react, the first to Yadav’s side, the second was bowler Starc, six or seven other Aussie players soon followed.
None left his side until the Indian physio reached them.
That will be one of the enduring image of the tournament for me: a solitary Indian batsman surrounded by Australians, not sledging, not being separated by umpires—just sincere concern for a fellow cricketer.
Something happened here.
Something special.

The not so secret diary of Handsome Sampson

So, some of my so-called supporters left me a “blunt” message. What a joke! They say I will have no funding or volunteer support if I stand for re-election. What a joke! Joke! Joke! Joke! I should never have gone to the Left. They are so finicky (is that a word?) and will go with anyone they think will listen to them. For goodness sake, that’s how I got in in the first place! I should have gone to the right where my true heart has always been. They would have stuck by me. They stick by everyone. Doesn’t matter what they do. Bevan told me that. I miss Bevan. Couldn’t stand that Stephen Joyce though. But all is not lost yet. The Pennies haven’t dropped! Ha, ha. Penny H will stand by me, because she has no show against Goff and Penny W, well she will stand by me because I make her feel important. As for the rest of them? Who cares! What are they, 20 votes? What people don’t understand about me is that I am resilient. I can keep it up, as Bevan used to say. I am a survivor. The world can throw everything it likes at me. Who is Mike Hosking anyway? And come election time and my smile—people love that smile—starts appearing on the billboards people will say “Well, Len’s a good bloke. Done a lot for this city. Want him in again.” That’s what they will say. Anyway, I digress. This is a diary. What have I done today? Not a lot, to be honest—and I try not to be. Went to my therapist. And that reminds me, I need to look up the meaning of delusional.