Poetry in Pantyhose

I may be delving into dark and dangerous territory here (you think?) but I believe I understand women. I have been one, once or twice. Yes—that is me over there. Now before I completely embarrass my sons and scare my wife, let me explain.
A few years ago I played the Fairy Godmother in a couple of children’s pantomimes. In doing so, I experienced the trials and tribulations of being a woman—some of them at least. I itched and scratched from bra rash (I was not, I think, properly fitted) and I holed pantyhose beyond count. I even exposed my derriere one notable night when my tutu dropped to the ground. Yes, sisters, I am one of you. I feel our pain.
However…
Whilst it can be said that we women don’t have to wear bras or pantyhose and such inflictions are affectation, we know that not to be true, don’t we darlings? Men do rather expect it of us. But, what about elective cosmetic surgery—facelifts et al? Is that really necessary, and, if not, is that a truly self-inflicted affectation? I think so. And, yes, I know men have cosmetic surgery too, but I am not going there—I am back to being a misogynist male. Okay?
I think some of the women around me today are among the most beautiful I have met—inside and out—and as far as I know none has had major cosmetic surgery—or need it. Yet, reading a story in the Herald today, I see that for some women such surgery is not only an affectation it is an addiction. I refer to the story on mother and daughter Georgina Clarke and Kayla Morris who have spent thousands of cosmetic surgery, with Kayla funding much of it as a stripper. You can read their story here. The story tells us that currently the pair spend £5,000 a year on tanning beds and have had lip injections, Botox, cheek fillers, semi-permanent make-up, tooth whitening and hair extensions. Despite having already spent more than £50,000, the pair plan to have a boob job apiece later this year, along with buttock implants, a nose job, further lip injections, and veneers.
Now, may I venture a suggestion here that perhaps successful surgery, whilst enhancing the face or body, is most successful if not immediately apparent that you had it. Such is not the case here. As you will see if you go to that story or google images of the couple, their body and face enhancements are so obvious they are bordering on the grotesque. Why would you do that to yourself?
But, then I am being judgemental.
Sorry.
I am such a bitch.
So, let me return to safer ground: writers, writing and words.
All writers dream of that magic (and not always attainable) moment when he or she comes up with so perfect a phrase that they are forevermore in debt to the Muse, yet saddened that never again will they have such a moment. If it happens at all, it happens once. And it must have happened to the Daily Mail (the original publisher) writer who, grabbing a gift from the gods, appended to the above list of upcoming surgery this:
“(and) a designer vagina for Georgina.”
Gold!

You have to hand it to them

Politics has shaped a lot of recent Frydays recently, so I thought I would take a break and tell you about an interesting experience I had this week. This week I went to hospital to correct a, for me, long-standing and, for many, surprisingly common deformity of the hand, called Dupuytren’s Contractures. It happens because some muscles (not the tendons) in the hand contract causing one or more fingers to permanently bend at right angles to the palm, giving the appearance of a “claw hand”. In my case, it was the little fingers on both hands, though I initially elected to have only one of my hands, the right, corrected.
Others who have had Dupuytren’s include, to my horror, Maggie Thatcher and Adolf Hitler. I must remember to take a close look at Donald Trump’s hands. On the positive side, I am told that those with the most propensity for this condition are descended from the Vikings. I am quite excited by that, having just finished watching the excellent History Channel drama series The Vikings on Netflix. I feel like going out and buying a sword.
Anyway, after a referral from my GP I was given one week’s notice to present myself at Whangarei Hospital for a corrective operation. I was told that I would be operated on in the afternoon and would need to stay overnight. I would also need to be driven home. Arrangements were duly made.
And I duly present myself at the assigned time having dutifully had “nil by mouth” since 6.00 that morning, but having substantially fortified myself with scotch the previous evening. My wife was able to accompany me through all stages of the process, except the actual operation, and she and I were treated by Whangarei Hospital staff with great courtesy and consideration. They are a friendly mob down there. And casual.
How casual though I was not to find out until the point I was wheeled into the anaesthetist's room next to the operating theatre.   There I met my surgeon for the first time. Down to earth and informative he told me at length about the operation after first examining my right hand. He then asked to look at my left hand—remember, I also have the condition on that hand, though not as pronounced. The subsequent conversation went like this:
He: How about we do that one, as well?
Me: When?
He: Now.
Me: At the same time?
He: Why not? I got time. And I guess you are not going anywhere for the next hour or so. We’ll fix that one up too. Take an extra five minutes, that’s all. Then we’ll send you home.
Me: Home? I thought I was staying overnight.
He: Nah. You’ll be good, as long as you are not driving.
At which point, and with a wide grin, he left me and I was wheeled into the theatre. Now the point about that theatre was it contained a cast of thousands—well, six people really. More than I expected. In my time as an actor I have performed before much smaller audiences—and I said so. Does everybody have a permanent grin at Whangarei Hospital? The grins faded though when they saw that the principal surgeon had marked the “wrong” hand.
“Thought we were doing the right hand,” a nurse said. “We are,” I said, “but he has told me he is now going to do both hands.”
“Oh,” said the nurse and threw a knowing and slightly ruffled glance at the rest of the team. “Well,” said one. “Two for the price of one. That’s Whangarei for you.”
The grins returned.
So I had both hands done. I did have to stay overnight, but that is another story. As I write this the operation was successful. My hands ache and I have difficulty typing (ironic, given this is the longest Fryday I have written) but my fingers have noticeably straightened and I am told they will stay that way—no more quizzical glances after shaking hands with men who are left wondering whether I am a Mason or coming on to them.
But the point I would like to make about the surgeon and indeed the rest of the team is this. First the surgeon. The two groups you want to see calm, informative and relaxed are pilots before you take off and surgeons before they put the knife in—am I right? And as for the team? Calm, reassuring, professional, laid-back and flexible. All the traits that I believe epitomise New Zealanders generally.
I never thought I would say this—It was good to be in Whangarei.
In fact, it was good to be a New Zealander.

Greetings to you good folk in New Zealand

Greetings to you good folk in New Zealand
It is Chuck Mantell editor of the Freeport Bugle talking to you here again. Freeport is looking awesome at the moment. We are heading into spring and the crops are sprouting. Mindy Holsberger says her melons are going to be simply awesome this year. Mindy is well known these places for the size and juiciness of her melons. She never fails to display them to best effect, and folks come from miles around to see and touch them. Why I remember last year when I touched them that they were the firmest melons I had felt since way back in 1989 when I got to touch Mandy-Jo Bodkin’s that time she had them out on display.
I know you folk down there like your fishing, so you will be glad to know that the fish is aplenty in Freeport this year. Billy-Bob’s hole up there on Trumpet Creek is simply swimming in them. Why I have even heard that you can put your hand in Billy-Bob Haubraw’s hole and fish will just swim into your hand, that’s how willing they are to be caught. Billy-Bob’s wife, Billie-Jo, will even fry them up for you if you are of a mind. And if she takes a liking to you, Billie-Jo will even show you her secret hole out the back and let you try your hand at that.
Don’t get me wrong though—there is more to Freeport than melon squeezing and fishing. We have culture here too. The Freeport Little Theatre Repertory Society are putting on the annual musical this month. It’s a return to those times we all remember, the summer of love, when the Society presents their remake of Hair—50 years on. The society has managed to assemble much of the same cast as their 1967 season and the men especially say they reckon that despite some of them being in their 70s the singing and dancing will be just as good as it was back then and the nude scene don’t phase them at all. They say they will be up for it, excepting for the matinee—they reckon that these days they can only get it up once a day.
Not sure what you folk down there do for culture. I heard tell from a friend of mine who visited New Zealand a few years back that your men folk like to parade around in skirts made of grass while your women folk play with their balls. Now, I guess that would be a sight to see.
Of course you are probably like us, God-fearing folk. We don’t do anything on the sabbath, excepting go to church. Pastor Ron reckons he is going to have a right passionate sermon this Sunday. He says he doesn’t often get into politics but he says it is time for all righteous folk to do God’s willing and get behind Senator Ted Cruz from the great state of Texas. He says God has no time for Donald Trump. I don’t know about that and as an editor I reckon it is my responsibility to go straight down the line when it comes to politics, specially when God and politics come together. I reckon that is an awesome combination and I am thinking I don’t want to take that on.
Nope, your good mate (like that Kiwiism?) at the Freeport Bugle will be sticking to his knitting—reporting on Mindy Holsberger’s melons, delving into the Haubraw holes and reviewing Hair for my readers who don’t get the chance to see it for themselves. I wonder of Jenny-Mae Tolkin-Elliott looks the same. That would be awesome!
Yours truly
Chuck Mantell
Editor, Freeport Bugle.

No Small Talent

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Personal opinion this. Probably sounds—or maybe is— a little churlish and insensitive, but I rarely found the late Ronnie Corbett very funny. His interaction with Ronnie Barker on The Two Ronnies was always admired, but I felt that Barker was by far the funnier of the two and a much greater talent. By contrast Corbett’s prolonged solo monologue (forgive the tautology, I am making a point), was for me the low point of the show; it somehow seemed more a nod to ego than entertainment. You may disagree, and I know of at least one Fryday reader who has posted a moving tribute to Ronnie Corbett on Facebook, and may well ask why I am writing anything if it is so negative. Well, the reason I am doing it is that I am paying tribute, in my own way, to Ronnie Corbett—in much the same way I paid tribute to Ernie Wise—and for the same reason. They may not have been as funny as their comedy partners—Barker and Eric Morecambe, respectively— but nor would Morecambe and Barker be quite so funny as they were without the formidable and often self-depreciating skills of their “straight men.” I am sure Corbett never thought himself a straight man when he was performing with—and for—Barker. But maybe he did so later; there is a lovely, but slightly sad scene, in Ricky Gervais’s wonderful Extras. In it, supposedly at the Bafta Awards, Corbett unmercifully takes the mickey out of himself, playing himself as a cocaine-snorting washed up comedian found in a toilet cubicle by Gervais. When they, along with Steven Merchant, are discovered and confronted by security we have a classic putdown by the security chief: “Corbett—it’s always bloody Corbett.” You can view the scene here. Ironically, and skilfully, the scene is played by Corbett with a straight face and the far greater put-down is the one he self-inflicts—brilliantly.  That show, that scene, that face shows to me—in its own small way (pun intended)— what a giant talent Ronnie Corbett really was.

The Wogistan Letters: Dear Donald

Living on Planet Dumb Arse

Are you following the NZ Herald’s daily updates on The Bachelor? I thought not. But have you thought to question why they are even there? It seems somewhat innocuous to have the smirks and scandals of a reality TV series as the daily staple of a once reputable new source. Is this yet another example of the dumbing down of New Zealand news coverage? Other dumbing downs would include coverage of Dancing with the Stars, The Green Party Annual Conference and anything to do with Teddy Sinclair —AKA Natalie Kills, and Mrs Moon. It is not that I am necessarily against dumbing down. In certain constituencies dumbing down can be an effective tool, look at Donald Trump—and what a tool he is. But in our major newspaper, and not even in the lifestyle section? I have a couple of friends who used to work in the Herald. They would be turning in their graves had they not had the good fortune to have not yet died or moved to Hamilton. I know what they are thinking on this issue; it can be summed up by one word: disappointed. In this morning’s Herald stories about the Bachelor are accompanied online by an article on why men fake an orgasm, why boredom is good for you (the Herald defending itself, perhaps?), and a piece about the worst lies you can tell at work. On the distaff there is a good investigative piece on why companies move profits off-shore and there is coverage of “prominent sexual violence advocate” (for or against, the Herald’s writer doesn’t declare), Louise Nicholas, opining that after recent judicial decisions, some New Zealand judges are living on Planet Dumb Arse. Well, I don’t know about judges, Louise, but apparently here in New Heraldland all the rest of us are.

It takes four seconds to hit the water

It takes four seconds to hit the water after leaping from San Fransisco’s Golden Gate bridge. For many who take the leap of fate it is, as intended, the last four seconds of their lives. Few survive. One who did is Ken Baldwin, who jumped in 1985. He later recalled thinking during his four-second freefall that,  'I instantly realised that everything in my life I'd thought was unfixable was totally fixable--except for having just jumped.' Now, that is a statement for posterity. That is a statement for Facebook. And it now seems that posterity and Facebook may well be one in the same.
A NZ Herald report this morning says that by the end of the century there will be more dead people on Facebook than living. The Herald is reporting on a claim by University of Massachusetts statistician, Hachem Sadikki, who describes Facebook as the world’s largest digital graveyard. I have no way off disputing Mr Sadikki’s claim, so I accept it. However, initially it made me uncomfortable. I thought it morbid, possibly voyeuristic. But, then I thought: why not?Through Facebook we have the opportunity to leave a little piece of ourselves for posterity—for future generations; our children, their children and their children’s children. It is not morbid. It is a gift. And, after all, generations before us have left diaries for future generations.
Yes, Facebook is more complex than a diary, but even that has merit. Without diminishing the written diary, I feel Facebook provides a greater insight into our daily lives: who we engaged with, who were our “friends”, what we did, how we felt, how stupid (largely, our photos) we could be, what we enjoyed and what we hated. And if we start now with that thought, we can even leave our pithy little sayings to posterity—something I am now doing on Mr Baldwin’s behalf.
Facebook has a policy of not automatically deleting a dead person’s Facebook page. Nor should they. Surely that should be left to the family or friends of the deceased.
But what they (Facebook) can do is allow us to nominate a ‘legacy owner’ who is empowered to keep our Facebook page alive and refreshed long after we are dead—a living dead legacy. Future generations might even want to use the social media site to send back messages to long-dead generations.
The only problem I see with that, is if they get a reply.

As Cecil C. Sackrider Sees It: The Lord Shall Wrought

The Lord shall wrought Hell upon the Earth.
So it is told. Saith the Lord. God’s choice for the coming election, Jeb Bush, is no longer in the race. His second choice, Ted Cruz, is and this pleases God. For God is beneficent. But God is troubled. God is troubled that His party, The Republican Party, the party of people—white people—has forsaken God and embraced the false profit Donald Trump. Thus, saith God, The White House—God’s house—will fall into the hands of the scarlet woman Hillary Clinton. And the Lord shall wrought Hell upon the Earth. For it is said that a woman shall have no place in the White House. No more place than a black man. It is not God’s will, it is not God’s intent. Yet America has turned its back on God. A black man and then a woman—behold the Day of Judgement is upon us. My wife, Billy-Jo, is much afeared.  I feel her fear through the soft clingy thin satin-fabric of her night-dress. I feel her tremble as my hands glide over her petite body trying to sooth her. She moves from me, fearful that I at my touch will feel her fear. I move toward her. She moves from me again, such is her fear. And love for me. Yet I know. I know I am doing a righteous thing in comforting her and I feel that God is in me as I am in her. But even God’s great beneficence and my manly caresses can not calm her fears. At night, she cries in her sleep. “Tump, Oh God, Trump,” she cries. And I know she is much troubled. Yesterday, when I was going through her purse I found a photo of Donald Trump. And I know that my sweet wife, my petite wife, my Billy-Jo is carrying it with her always to remind herself that Satan is at work upon this Earth. So, I say unto you—as I place instruction upon my wife—do not turn from God. Do not vote for Donald Trump, for that way lies Hillary Clinton—a woman. Vote for Ted Cruz, God’s (second) choice, for only in doing so can not Armageddon be visited upon the Earth. And my wife, Billy-Jo, will not again tremble at my touch.   

For a list of God’s Gifts, as delivered personally by God to Pastor Cecil C. Sackrider (handwriting verified), send a check or money order (minimum US$99.99) to the Cecil C. Sackrider Ministry 1069E West 35 Street Montgomery Alabama United States of America, Zip Code 666.  Checks should be made out to CASH (Congregation Against Satan’s Handiwork). All donations over US$50,000 go into the draw to win a personal phone call from Our Lord, as delivered by Pastor Sackrider.

The one that doesn't feature Fryday's alter egos

I remember little of my days in advertising.
That is a blessing in many respects, but a hindrance in others. For example, some have said I should write my life story and I am technically capable of doing that. However one needs to first remember that life. And whilst anecdotes can be fun and humanising, particularly if seedy, they are insufficient for a credible biography, unless of course you are Keith Richards and an admiring readership is happy to be simply invited into your world. For me, more is needed. Facts are needed; names, places, events, etc. Not easy when few come to mind and those that do are not often aligned.
I was thinking about this this week, not because I intend to write that book, but because of two events.
The first was my correspondence with a Trade Me trader who asked if I was the same person who worked in Auckland advertising. I confirmed that I was but had to admit that I didn’t know him. We shared CVs in order to solve the mystery of where we met. There was a link, though tenuous. One of the problems was I couldn’t recall which advertising agency I was working for when I bought advertising off my correspondent. Worse he remembered me, but I didn’t remember him. How many others have I forgotten? Enough to fill a book?
The second event was the demise of Dick Smith. I was never associated with Dick Smith Limited. But I did help with the advertising of their (then) major competitor David Read Electronics. Do you remember them? They were well and truly No.2 to Dick Smith in retail electronics. However, like Avis, the fact that we were No.2 made us try harder and for a while we gave Dick Smith a run for their money (when they had some) until David Read could do no more and was eventually swallowed up—by Dick Smith, I think. However, again I cannot remember which agency I was working for, any of the personnel involved and even when it was.
So, the residue of my life in Auckland advertising from 1973 to 1995 today consists only of a possibly intriguing and frustratingly enticing series of snippets—nothing substantive. In some ways I am happy about that. I can immediately think of three:
1. I am relieved of the presumption that anybody is interested in my life in advertising.
2. There are things in that life I am glad to have forgotten and certainly don’t want resurrected now.
3. I have fun with the curious, but not entirely accurate, epigram: “if you can remember (the 60s) you weren’t there.”
I was there—in the 70s, 80s 90s. In advertising. In Auckland. Having fun. 
And if that is all I can remember, so be it.
It is enough.

Hog-Tie That Kangeroo Down Sport

Dear Friday
G’day cobber and hog-tie that kangaroo down sport.
I reckon we in the great state of Ohio and you good folk down there in New Zealand have a lot in common. Sure we don’t have kangaroos and you don’t have grizzlies (I think), but the way I look at it folk is folk all over the world (except in Muslim countries) and the more folk talk to each other and share what brings them together the more peace we will have in the world.
Hi, my name is Mitch Mantell and like you I work in the media. I am the editor of the Freeport Bugle, right here in Freeport Ohio. I have a reporting staff of three, including my wife Mandy Mantell, and a readership of most everybody in town—which numbers about 245. I also run the local radio station, KSF—“The Sound of the Free” and am the morning DJ.
I sure would like to know more about you. So I hope you will get back to me on that.
You may not know it, but New Zealand appears a lot on our televisions these days, particularly John Oliver’s Last Week Tonight.  Your prime minister, John Key, is a favorite, and your Steven Joyce got a mention because of that dildo in the face thing. As far as I know we have only one dildo in Freeport (Margaret Fraptor’s) so nobody will be throwing that away in a hurry.
Talking of dildos: Donald Trump. What do you folks down there think about him? I guess you are likely to be fairly divided on him. He certainly polarizes us over here. Freeport is Republican through and through, but even here there are folk for him and folk agin him. I reckon I sit on the fence (which gives me and Margaret something in common, Ha Ha) and I think he is a sound businessman. But President? The jury is out. On the good side, he is not going to touch our guns and his immigration policy—I like his thinking on Mexicans and Muslims. We had a Mexican here in town  a few years ago and although his restaurant was okay there wasn’t much else to like about him. Never had a Muslim. You got any Muslims and Mexicans down there? On the bad side, I don’t see Mr Trump lasting the distance—really, I don’t. I reckon he would get bored at that job. He might find a few Muslim countries to bomb, but there are only so many of those and as Billy-Ray Johnson up there on Smoky Ridge says, if you can’t look varmints  in the eye while blasting them it just ain’t sport. So, I reckon it is no use having the likes of Donald Trump as the President of our great nation if we can’t have him for long. I think Ted Cruz is the better bet. Lasts longer and I like his thinking on gays—not that there are a lot of gays in Freeport. Not no more.
Anyways, I’ll just get out and vote like most folk and I guess the result will be God’s hands. I have more immediate things to do, like writing tomorrow’s lead story on Mrs Silvester and her giant pussy—the state champion three years running. We are right proud of that.
So, I sure hope to receive a reply from downunder. I might even publish it in the newspaper because folk here don’t know too much about New Zealand, other than dildos and boomerangs We can’t all be editors—Ha Ha.
Write soon and God Bless The United States of America and the Great Nation of New Zealand.
Yours truly
Mitch Mantell
Editor, Freeport Bugle.
PS: From one editor to another, you have spelt Friday wrong—an I not a Y. :)

Heaven Sent: The Gough Letters

G’day Trumpo
Thought I would start with a bit of Aussie vernacular, though of course I didn’t use a lot of it while I was down there. I guess I have mellowed somewhat up here in Heaven. There are many misconceptions about Heaven —I wouldn’t call it Paradise, too many New Zealanders for that. Not so many Australians and, be warned, hardly any Republicans. But it is warm from the boilers below—Republicans are doing a great job stoking up the fires.
Anyway, I thought I would drop you a line, from on high so to speak. I am following your campaign for the U.S. Presidency with some interest. These are testing times but you are doing a great job standing out from the crowd of evangelicals currently blighting the Republican line-up. Yes, you lost to Ted Cruz and Cruz will no doubt consider that as an act of God. But let me tell you, Big G (I am little g) is far from happy with the Republican Party. He has even had Peter add to the Pearly Gates sign “No Hawkers, No Junk Mail and no Southern Baptists. Big G did have some hope for Jeb Bush, despite being bored by his brother George (what a God botherer he is) but Jeb seems to have lost his way. So, Big G is counting on you to keep the Baptists at bay.
Me? I am not so sure. I think you should stick to your knitting, which the art of the deal and keeping your hair intact. I am not really comfortable with you as a politician. Yes, you have all the credentials—you are a hypocrite, loose with the truth and have great hair—all of which is good for a  politician and really good for a televangelist. But you also appear to have a low boredom threshold. And that worries me. Could you stick it out for a four-year term in the White House? How long would it be before you got bored and started fidgeting such as declaring war on North Korea or firing the Supreme Court—just for the fun of it? But, then again and again from here up high I think that is exactly why you are running for the presidency—just for the fun of it.
Am I right, cobber?
Sincerely
Gough Whitlam
Former Prime Minister, Australia.