Car Bollocks

The car I am now driving is ten years old and the price I bought it for, a little over a year ago, reflects that. But, when new, my BMW 5-Series was the specified model for the Government’s fleet of ministerial limousines. There is a certain irony, therefore, that my BMW has reverted to that function, at least in part. Occasionally it is used to chauffeur a local minister (of the church) to and from our shared quiz night at the pub. And no, there is no dichotomy of a minister and a pub; if you knew “our” minister you would know that. But that use got me thinking. Back in the 1970s I met the head of the Government’s limo service—the head chauffeur. He was visiting a former government minister whom he clearly liked and whom I was serving as communication advisor. I cannot recall the chauffeur’s name, but I do recall that he was a retired police officer and thus doubled as personal security. I also recollect that we took an immediate liking to each other; so much so that he gave me a standing invite to visit his fleet garage and have the use of a government limousine (and driver) whenever I was in Wellington. I never took up the invitation then, and I am damn sure I wouldn’t be allowed to now. But he was a nice bloke and clearly had a fund of juicy gossip to share about ministerial back-seat machinations, if discretion had allowed. It didn’t. So, my imagination partook of an unbridled journey. What he did tell me though is that there is an etiquette about being a passenger in a government limousine. For example, in earlier days—in the 60s and 70s—ministers and even prime ministers liked to sit up front with the driver in a vacuous attempt to show the common folk that they were ordinary blokes and blokettes. These days, that is not allowed; the minister sits in the back, often with his or her press secretary. And, if you are the prime minster, the front passenger seat is usually taken up by a Diplomatic Protection Squad officer. Furthermore, the minister, or VIP, is required to sit rear-left (curb-side) for ease of access, and proximity to the security guy in front. One New Zealand holdover to earlier times is that the male minister or prime minister is still likely to open his own door. If you are a woman—or even, like Helen Clark, a reluctant one—the implicit understanding is you wait for the door to be opened for you. I don’t know why this is the case, though I have been told that it is in part to shield you from embarrassing photographs as you alight from your vehicle wearing a short skirt. Helen Clark wearing a short skirt would be embarrassing enough, I would have thought. Of course, being chauffeur driven is one of the trappings of power. Nevertheless,  these days it is closely monitored in case of embarrassing abuse. Even so, there are many cases of ministers using their ministerial BMWs, and drivers, for journeys of less than a kilometre; conversely, the longest recorded trip was 734 kilometres by former National minister, Kate Wilkinson, in 2013. In the old and less monitored days, Crown limousines and their drivers were used for such disparate tasks as collecting the minister’s mail, laundry, TAB bets and, more often than rarely, mistress(es). Those days have gone—we hope, and the sleek silver BMWs of today, whilst still an awesome sight if they arrive en mass with the Prime Minister, are used more circumspectly. I don’t have to worry about that. I have a big black brute of a BMW I have called Bruce. I am proud of that. And if I have a minister who doesn’t give a toss whether she sits in the the front, the back or the boot? Well we is (sic) just common folk up here in Kerikeri. It is just the BMWs that are uncommon

The unenviable loneliness of the long distance sentinel

News this week that South Auckland Police had been “given the option” not to ticket unlicensed Maori drivers generated inevitable outrage from the public. So it should, the police spelling of “liscense” on the documentation was deplorable. And on that subject, we did think Fryday’s old friend Whetu would have a say on the matter of Maori allegedly getting preferential treatment. Never slow to come forward on such matters Whetu’s reticence on this issue seemed strange. “Not at all, bro,” he said when we contacted him. “Those police fellas giving the bros the choice of training instead of fines for driving witout a license is really choice. Really works, eh. I done it five times now.”
Elsewhere this week FIFA and New Zealand Football are proclaiming the U20 Tournament a success. Tomorrow’s final will pit Serbia against Brazil and whilst New Zealanders don’t have any special affinity with either team, the brand of football they play is apparently exciting, say those in the know, so it should be a fitting finale.
Pity it is at North Harbour Stadium, which was a sorry sight and site for Tuesday night’s semi between Serbia and Mali. The stadium was practically empty. Temporary stands at either end were empty. Much of the temporary south stand was in fact covered by a large Fifa banner, so one can surmise that the organisers already knew that this semi-final would be anything but a sell-out so rather than waste space they used it as advertising space. Only common sense, really. But why, if they had foresight in that matter, do we have the above photo?I am sorry it is so small—it is a screen grab—but look closely. See him? The loan security guard sitting behind the goal, scanning an empty stand? There was another security guard doing the same thing just to the right of this picture: sitting, their backs to the game, watching an empty stand. For ninety minute they did that and in the time I was watching them, not once did they turn and look at the game (maybe they are rugby fans). I find that laudable of them—their attention to duty—and I can accept any security provision proffered by Fifa as substantiation for their presence and positioning. But, really, was it necessary for them to be subjected to that? Would that not be the most boring ninety minutes you could possibly spend?
If you get a chance to watch tomorrow’s match have a look for him/them. I am sure they will there. I just hope that this time they will have something to look at. I bet they do, too.

Cache in Hand

At my age, an unrestrained brain decides, with increasing frequency and in modern parlance, to clear the cache. It consigns to a metaphorical trashcan memories that, in its opinion, I no longer need and am unlikely to use. Sometimes it is a blessing; there are many things in my past that I would rather forget (we all have them). At other times, the brain’s unilateral and undiscriminating clearing of the cache obliterates some little treasures and pleasantries that, if left intact, would provide comfort through dotage.
Fortunately, the brain—like any computer—has a fail-safe mechanism, nothing is ever completely deleted.  There is always a way to retrieve information, or in this case a memory.  It happened to me the other day when I saw the above picture.
Of course, I knew what it was immediately. Nevertheless, I had completely forgotten them until someone posted the picture and the embedded question on Facebook. It is the floor dimmer switch used in most vehicles from 1927 through to about 1975 when they were placed on the steering wheel, where in fact they were before 1927. Now that you, like me, remember them, I wonder whether you, like me, are drawn to the question: which configuration is better? I am inclined to the floor mount because of the number of times I am late in dimming my lights while I fumble around in the darkness trying to find the stalk.
However much of everything above is a digression. The point I am trying to make is that it often takes one event to trigger another—one long forgotten. It took the Facebook posting to remind me of floor dimmers. It took the death of Christopher Lee today to remind me of Dennis Wheatley. We all know of Lee, though without his appearance in Lord of the Rings, he too may have been consigned to a trashcan. However, who remembers Dennis Wheatley?
I do.
Wheatley through a mammoth series of thriller and occult novels from the 30s right though to the 70s was one of the best selling authors of the era. Probably his best known was the Duke de Richelieu satanic series, which when turned into films by Hammer Studios stared Lee as the formidable and stately Duke. But Wheatley was a prolific author and he had an avid readership, I included, that spanned the world and sated many an adolescent thirst for adventure, fear and the prurient.
Yet, now he is forgotten.
Sir Christopher Lee, however, is not. For a modern generation he will be remembered most as Saruman, the wicked wizard from the Lord of Rings trilogy. For an earlier generation he will be remembered as the eponymous Man with the Golden Gun opposite Roger Moore. However, there is one role that eclipses both and is still remembered and revered by all generations:
Dracula.
Christopher Lee was the definitive Dracula in those Hammer horrors. No other actor could have brought that Stoker creation to life—literally—with so much majesty and malevolence and sheer vampiric horror than Lee. In these days of Twilight, that should not be forgotten.
Nor will it, I think. Sir Christopher Lee, like Dracula, the character he made his own, is immortal.
Rest in Peace Sir Christopher.
If you can.

Two Hundred Shades of Awful

News that EL James is to pen an additional book to the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy sends a shiver down my spine for several reasons. The first is that, in my view, the first three books are appallingly bad, both in the writing and in their representation of the BDSM world. Of course when it comes to the latter, each to his or her own, and Christian Grey and EL James are entitled to whatever “jollies” they like. But the books smack (pun intended) of little more than Goggle research, and I am prepared to bet that Ms James has never even been to Hamilton.
The second reason that I am all a tither is envy. I wish I had written those books. I wish I had a share of the US$95 million a year EL James purportedly earns these days—and, while I am at it, a share of the $540 million the film took in. I could have written them, I think. I thought about it and there are some these days who suggest I should do it. But, really, it is not my style. And if EL James lacks credibility I would be far worse. After all, how could you take seriously anything on the serious subject of subjugation of women from a man who a month ago was writing letters from Wogistan and last week  offered a learned pedagogy on the use of toilet seats.
No, it wouldn’t work. Not for me and not for you, dear reader.
But will it work for EL James? And here we come to my third reservation about the fourth book. We are told that Ms James will write it from Christian Grey’s (the man’s ) perspective.  My question is, is anyone interested in his perspective? And I am not asking this of my male readership. Men made up only 20% of FSOG purchasers. I want to know whether women (the other 80%) are in any way interested in in reliving the story from Christian Grey’s viewpoint? And certainly after previously subjecting themselves to the slightly dim-witted and certainly unnaturally naive Anastasia Steele and her “experiences”.
Do you expect to learn anything? I would be surprised if you do. We men are fairly superficial really. Generally speaking, what you see is what you get. And if EL James has created a complex character such as Christian Grey, don’t forget he is a work of fiction. Real men, in the real world, are simple souls, with simple prurient interests easily identified and exploited by women. That is why Hooters are coming to New Zealand.  If there is anything left to learn from and about us, you would probably learn it quicker talking to the man in your life rather than from the new book on your shelf.
Just saying.
And finally on the subject of complexity: toilet seats. Last week’s tome on such a (I thought) prosaic subject drew a wonderful response. It didn’t earn me US$95 million but the number of you who gave me your thoughts was gratifying. You will remember that we men were admonished to put the lid down for very good heath reasons. Well, one of my correspondents, a woman, has offered another compelling reason: feng shui. Apparently, and according to the tenets of feng shui, you can make some simple enhancements to uplift the energy in our bathrooms. The toilet is the most detrimental in reducing the energy. It has the largest opening and when flushed with the lid open  effectively sucks energy down and out of your home.
We men need to put the lid down. I just did not know why. I thought it was just women being fussy.
That’s why we simple men need you complex women to tell us such things.

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.