Let's sex this up

With a few minutes to spare this week, my thoughts turned to sex. Strange word: sex. It can be a verb, as in having it; a noun in terms of the act; and again, a verb as in determining the gender and even an instruction (not in the 50 Shades of Grey context) of “sexing” something up.
Two articles in today’s NZ Herald, a publication I rarely find interesting, prompted my new-found, though brief, interest in sex.

One was an article listing New Zealand’s top five dating sites. Yes, I know dating doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with sex—but let’s not be pedantic, and you have my sympathies that it didn’t work out for you. However, I digress.

What interested me about this article was that the second most popular dating site is called Academic Singles, which promises to “put you in touch with intelligent people near you.” Well I guess that could work; anywhere except Hamilton.

But what would a date with an intelligent person be like?  What would happen? Would the main subject under discussion be philosophy, the classics, or poetry? Would the sexual component consist entirely of an academic critique on Masters & Johnson? Who knows? In any case, the questions themselves are—well—academic. Surely, intelligence is indefinable—even adjustable. In the context of this site, it is also a conceit. I applaud anyone for going on to the site to find someone intelligent—we are all lonely at times—but are they not making a rather large assumption that they, themselves, are intelligent? I am not sure I would like to go out with someone so arrogant. However, good luck.

The second NZ Herald article about sex was a Kinsey Institute study of the amount of sex we should be having according to our age. Well, of course we would want to go and read that, wouldn’t we? I was not surprised to learn from the Kinsey study that those aged 18 to 29 had “sex” on average 112 times a year. Between the ages of 30 and 39, it drops to 86 times annually.  And sexual activity droops (pun intended) for 40 to 49-year-olds to half the amount of sex of their 20-something counterparts, making love 69 times a year on average…and some of it, I guess, must be distinctly average.

However, what disappointed me was that there was no mention in the study of the quantity (or quality) of sex for those aged over 50. The Herald tells us that is because (the study) “appears to back up separate research which found that sexuality among older people is largely ignored.” Really? Which separate research was that, and who did they ask?

To be honest, and here I am being both honest and through Fryday anonymous, I find it easier to ignore the Herald than sex. I am also here interested in their use of the word “sexuality.” One definition of that word I read said it was the study of human sexuality, which should certainly appeal to Academic Singles. Another dictionary defined sexuality as “a person’s sexual orientation or preference.” In stating that we over 50s are ignoring that, is the Herald suggesting we don’t care? That we’ll have it off—so to speak—with anyone? Well, all I can say to “Granny Herald” is that we over 50s are (usually) more selective in our partners than you are in your use of terminology.

So, this is The End...The Doors

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So Jacinda Ardern is pregnant? Or is it more socially appropriate these days to say Jacinda Ardern and Clarke Gayford are pregnant.

And, by the way, the NZ Herald caption for the photo making the announcement says, “Clarke Gayford and Jacinda Clarke are to become parents soon!”

When did that happen? When did she become Jacinda Clarke, or is that just her homage to her mentor Helen Clark?

Anyway, Fryday sincerely congratulates them both, but hopes fervently, if curmudgeonly, that we won’t see a repeat spurt of babies in Parliament as we did post-election. Spare us that, please.

And spare us the NZ Herald…for just about everything these days.

Where is the venerability, where is the gravitas, where is the news of yesteryear?

It has gone. Gone from once sage pages. Replaced by such headlines and “news” stories (today) as: “Kiwi Stars React to Jacinda’s Pregnancy”. The story that follows is comprised mostly of tweets from so-called stars such as ColinMathura-Jeffree, Urzila Carlson (who?), and Matilda Rice—among others.

With the obvious exception of Colin Mathura-Jeffree, they may be important and talented people in their fields (Colin doesn’t have one), but are we really interested in their messages to Mr Gayford and Ms Clarke?

I admit that it takes very little to track down a tweet, but hasn’t the NZ Herald got better things to with its time and staff? And who made these people “Stars” anyway and their views any more relevant than—say—mine, or yours?

I am sorry. This is a story that, as hard as I try, I can’t find any excuse for. It is drivel. It is dross. And if the caption is anything to go by it is also wrong. 

It is, in the end (and it may possibly will be), the NZ Herald, but not as we knew it.

The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard (third door on right). Telephone: 125.

Mr Donald J. Trump

Presidente of the USA

Washington District Council

Washington

In America

Greetings from the Democratic Republic of Wogistan.

Our xalted leader, Presidente Yoseph Flagrantlie (God give him long life and much children), believe he friend of yours. Not now.

He say you call some countrys of which Democratic Republic of Wogistan friends be shitsholes. They not shitsholes. Your wife comes from Slovenia. That shitshole. Have you looked at your wive’s shitshole lately?

Presendentie thinking of declaring war on United States and Slovania over insult. Will have nuclear hollowcast as soon as we can hire plane.

If you want to save United States of America, you says sorry to all shitsholes that are not  and deposit US$50,000 into Presidente’s Help The People Account.

You do that now, or you will not see your United states or wive’s shitshole again.

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Wankerstan

Foreign Secretary The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor Spartacus Male Gym and Bathhouse.

My New Year's Resolutions

Man Fryday has made a list of New Year’s Resolutions:

1.     I will not mention Donald Trump this year. Bugger!

2.     I Will not slag off Hamilton, though it deserves it. Bugger!

3.     I will never criticise “Bishop” Tamaki’s stupid hairstyle. Bugger!

4.     I will never mention, comment on or even think about Whetu. Bugger!

5.     Having done it last year, I shall not make any further comment about Jacinda Ardern’s teeth. Bugger!

6.     I shall not use any big words in an effort to obfuscate an issue to demonstrate my immanent, though chimerical, superiority. Bugger!

7.     I shall not make up words to give further credence and croiadence to that superiority. Bugger!

8.     I shall not deign to use double-entendre in a scurrilous and superficial attempt to make you feel my button is bigger than your button. Bugger!

9.     I shall stop using swear words. Shit and Bugger!

10.  I never again write Fryday under the influence of whiskey. Bugger!

Now, having not kept to any of 2018’s resolutions, I’m free—free at last. Bring it on—it’s going to be a good year. All the best for yours, as well.

A Curmugeon's Christmas

On Christmas Eve I travelled to Auckland from the Bay of Islands. It takes just under four hours,  but I had one very good reason for making the trip. On the day after Boxing Day I returned to the Bay of Islands. It took just under six hours, but I had three very good reasons for making that trip.
Traffic was the reason it took so long to get back. I accept that; it is the holidays and the Bay of Islands is a popular holiday destination and if the circumstances had been different I would have avoided travelling at that time.
However, what I don't expect and what perplexed me most—even during the  holidays—was a throwback to a time when as a child I went on holidays with my family and had to endure the almost continual cursing of my father. The reason?
Caravans.
Yes, there were caravans on the road back. Three of them, seemingly in convoy, one after the other, from Whangarei to Kaiwaka. I am not talking campervans, nor even the fold-down-types that are streamlined to the point of being trailers. No, I am talking the old type: the classic bulbous egg-shape that these days are beloved only by the eggs who own them.
At no point on this long (61 kilometres) and often twisting drive did those eggs exceed 80 kilometres an hour. Nor at any point when safety permitted did they pull over to the left. Nor on the few passing straights did they reduce their speed to allow more cars to pass them—there are six vehicles to be passed, remember.
In other words, they were plain pains in the arse, and certainly deserving of the derision that was repeatedly directed at them. They were doing nothing illegal, of course—though the antiquated caravans they were towing were an affront to the senses—but the lack of courtesy by them and the possible danger posed by impatient drivers held up by them pushed an already near unbearable trip over the edge.
My advice to such caravan owners wishing to take them on holiday is…don't. If that is impractical, at least not go in convoy like the jolly campers you think you are. You are probably all ageing swingers anyway and in the final event are going to wind up in the same caravan, so you don't need three. If you do indeed need three (or even one) keep to the maximum allowable speed or, failing that, pull over when you can safely to allow others to pass. Above all, exhibit some courtesy and common sense.
On a somewhat higher plain, may I suggest you upgrade to a motel or a tent? Either would be easier on the traffic and the stress of an already stressful season. If even that is insufficient reason for you to consider others, consider: do you really want to look like you never lost the yearning to be in a Carry On movie?

Regrets? They have had a few.

The relentlessly positive among us will have found much of delight in 2017 and even more so to anticipate in 2018.
Regrettably, I am not among them. In fact, I am full of regrets. Just kidding; 2017 was admittedly rough; however, I have a much more positive outlook for 2018. But I know there are others who must look back over the past year and have a few regrets as well as perhaps some satisfactions. This is just conjecture, of course. But of (other’s) regrets I have a few:

Jacinda Ardern

Must regret winning the election. She probably would have preferred rolling Andrew Little after a (lost) election and serving an apprenticeship as Leader of the Opposition. Her one point of satisfaction may be the record profits made by Lumino Dentists’ parent company and the contribution she undoubtedly made to that.

Bill English

Has no regrets, least of all about losing the election. At most, he would have had only three more years before being tossed out by Jacinda. Now all he has to do is wait for this so-called coalition to collapse and he is back—probably for the long run.

Winston Peters

Also has no regrets. He got what he wanted and had fun doing it. He also got rid of that pesky Northland Electorate and having to deal with real people.

Matt King

The man who unseated Mr Peters in Northland. Obviously satisfied and as yet too young and too new to have any regrets.

Kelvin Davis

Has plenty of regrets. One is being passed over as Deputy Prime Minister because of the coalition deal. But the major one will be his time as “Acting” Prime Minister and being made mince-meat by Bill English. It has just about killed off any chance of him becoming a credible politician, let alone a political leader.

James Shaw

Leader of the Green Party, surprisingly has no regrets. In fact, he has the immense satisfaction of knowing he is the deputy prime minister when Mr Peters retires or accepts his appointment as High Commissioner to the United Kingdom.

Donald Trump

Plenty of regrets. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He wasn’t supposed to win. It was a game. An ego trip. All he can do now is play with his toys. And, no, we don’t mean Melania or even Ivanka—we mean the armed forces, as forewarned by Fryday months ago.

Hilary Clinton

Plenty of them, and they are festering.

Bill Clinton

Only one: Hilary’s home too much.

Kim Jong-Un

No regrets. Just insanely regrettable.

Have a great Christmas everyone.

Smell the Flowers

Last week I photographed a man—it need not concern us who.

Suffice to say he is a man of some renown in his field and he has what my good friend Phyllis Fenwick describes as an infectious smile. Phyllis would know: her late husband also had an infectious smile, that later turned out to be herpes.

However, this man (the one I photographed) came across as a sincere kind of bloke who most would instantly like. I did and that surprised me

Why?

Well, I’ll tell you.

 I met this man before, many years ago, and on that occasion, I found him unfriendly, arrogant and dismissive. You know the type—the type that women (and it is invariably women) excuse as being shy. We men know different: we know a prick when we see one. And based on my meeting with him years ago he was one.

He doesn’t appear to be one now. Quite the opposite: open, friendly accessible and—under the circumstances—patient. And the interesting point about that is he is doing the same job he was doing all those years ago. He has had different jobs in the interim, and that may have changed him, but right now, and back at his old job, he is missing one core and defining component of his earlier personality—bitterness.

Recent events surrounding him could have subjugated him. They could have made him bitter. They did last time. Not, it appears, this time. Instead he looks relaxed and rested with no rancour about him. His smile is sincere. He seems genuinely interested in what people need to say to him, and he comes across as down to earth and honest. Which is unusual for someone of his occupation, which I again choose not to name.

I thought about this I thought about me. And I thought about Fryday. Mainly about Fryday.

Fryday over its past 26 years has tried to be like this man—though, until now, I would not have recognised that.

Sure, Fryday has taken the odd-swipe; but never without the quietude of humour. Only once has it shown bitterness, and that was its first posting when it attempted to drive a panel beater out of business. It didn’t and I learnt my lesson.

That lesson was that I have no mandate—let alone faculty—to educate you; only, if I can, entertain you. And the lesson I learnt from observing the individual I photographed is that there is little point in bitterness, and every point in a smile.

I am not suggesting blind acceptance. We all have our concerns. And those who exhibited them most intensely changed the world: Martin Luther King, Mahatma Ghandi, Adolf Hitler and my personal hero Mikhail Gorbachev were some.

But, I am not talking the big picture here. I am talking one picture. One picture I took last week of one person. It didn’t change the world; It simply changed my opinion of him.

And to a certain extent it justified 26 years of doing this bloody Fryday. If Fryday gives you a smile today, then I guess it has achieved its only achievable and modest expectation.

For all else to make our day great, look not to Fryday; rather look to the venerable Ferdinand the Bull and do as he did: simply smell the flowers.

To all the children of America

 Trump Annex

Office of The President of the United States of America.

1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW, Washington, DC 20500, USA

Telephone: You’re Crazy, right? Twitter: #millionsofpeopleloveme.

AN OPEN LETTER TO

ALL AMERICAN CHILDREN

FROM

THE PRESIDENT

I can imagine you are as excited as I am knowing the great American, Santa Claus, is so busy right now making great presents for me and you. He will have his little elves—or, as I like to call them, Mini Me’s—hard at work at their little desks making such great toys.

And you know what, children? What is best about that? Santa is giving those jobs to Americans. Yes he is. They may be little people. But they are still Americans. If you visited his workshop today you wouldn’t see Mexicans and other drug dealers, rapists and swimming pool cleaners. No, you would only see Americans. Real Americans. Americans like you and me.

And that is what is good about Christmas. It’s American. It’s ours. None of those folks from the Meddle East get to share it. No Christmas gifts for them. But Christmas is a time for love. So we show love, don’t we? If you have a Meddle Eastern kid in your class (they are usually the darker ones with names like Mustapha or Fatima or something), you go up to them and say how sorry you are that they weren’t born an American.
You tell them it not their fault.  It’s their parents.

On a sad note. Did you read where all Santa’s reindeer are getting killed on Alaskan roads? Runover and squashed. I was sad too when I read that. So I am going to do something about it. I am immediately authorising more oil and gas pipelines all across Alaska so we won’t need as many roads to cart oil and kill reindeers. That will allow us to do more drilling for oil too.

Won’t that be good? And, you know what? You can help! Go right through to your mom and Dad right now and tell them that President Donald J. Trump is saving Santa’s reindeer and they need to get right behind congressmen on the More-Drilling-Platform. Do that, and there could even be an extra present for you in Santa’s sack.

But let’s not forget the true meaning of Christmas—Family. I love my family. I have a great family. But let’s also not forget that other family of long long ago who gave birth to a  son. A special son. Thiers was the true gift of Christmas. A son destined one day to be President of your United States.

Merry Christmas one and all. God bless America.

Donald J. Trump

President of the United States of America.

The Ultimate Comfort

I have been thinking a lot about God lately.
I have a dear friend who is likely to meet Him soon.
But the god I am thinking of is not the god Brian Tamaki and Cecil C. Sackrider see—a cash cow; not the god Dave Dobbin and the rest of AA see—a crutch; not the god Donald Trump and George W. Bush see—a correspondent; and certainly not the god the mainstream churches see—a justification.
No, the god I see is different. The God I see is Reality.
Reality is what I am confronting at the moment. I have always known Reality was there, but often chose to ignore it and sometimes avoid it. I can’t now. I have to face it. So, soon, will my friend, though she doesn’t know it.
I see Reality as God because it is the only thing that brings certainty to our lives. That can be confronting, but it can also be comforting. Either way, we need to acknowledge it and embrace it. We need not, however, worship it. The God I am talking about is a compassionate god who, whilst omnipresent, does not require us to prostrate ourselves or even acknowledge his or her existence. All Reality requires is acceptance. And that is the comfort Reality gives us: the understanding that we cannot change it, and whatever it now is, it is not our fault.
Poverty is real. Death is real. Terrorism is real. Cancer is real. All things that blight us are real. But then so too are those who love us and whom we in turn love. So are the people who work to relieve that poverty and fight that terrorism, and to cure  cancer. They are real. The good things in our life are all gifts of Reality.
Reality has told me that I will lose my friend. I cannot change that. It is God’s will; it is Reality and it requires only my acceptance.

Up the creek without a Paddles

Let’s be honest (I can be now; I am no longer in politics or advertising), nobody likes whingers. Even whingers whinge about whingers. Whingers are the people who incessantly moan and complain about almost everything their, usually narrow, view of the world cannot comprehend.
In New Zealand they were, in past times, most commonly the “whinging poms” who came here  and complained about most everything and did it most vociferously to the point that New Zealanders of my parents’ generation—New Zealand born—questioned why Poms came here in the first place and, more aptly, why they just didn’t go home. In fact, some did go home. The others? Well, they just stayed and ran the Union movement and New Zealand Soccer. After both failed eventually, Poms settled down and with the support of some New Zealanders were content to whinge about the arrival of bludey (sic) South Africans and how stuck-up “Maories” were.
To be fair to the Poms it was then mostly pakeha New Zealanders who were more vociferous in those complaints. Me? I couldn’t care. Don’t care. Maybe, I wonder why we pakeha always get a lower case whereas Maori get a capital, but who cares—the League season is resuming soon. The Warriors are mostly “Maori”—see what I did there?
So, what has the new election result produced for us? In the eternal battle of them and us, the Us has won. The problem is the Us—the self-styled downtrodden and victims—the delusionals, have no idea what do now that they are in power. They never expected to be there and didn’t train for it. Even worse, they no longer have someone else to blame for it. They are it. They have to take the hit. New Zealand’s former opposition parties, now governing parties, are floundering.
And, you see, that is where the problem is. Labour, Greens, NZ First are whingers. Perpetual whingers. And like most whingers they do it best from the sideline, where they feel safe. From my time dealing with them in local politics I know that the last thing whingers want to do is actually go onto the field and get roughed up in the scrum. Same with national politics. Put simply, this nation’s whingers—and there are a lot of them—don’t have the guts or the acumen to do something about what they are complaining about. And when they are forced into having that real power, as Labour et al are, they are terrified by it.
They will be the first to nurture the birth of the Bring Back Bill movement.
Which brings me to Gareth Morgan.
Gareth Morgan is not a whinger. But he is a complainer. A complainer about cats. I don’t like cats. I am a dog person. Some say you can be both. I don’t believe that. You are either a Laphroig drinker or a Lagavulin drinker; a Holden fan or a Ford fan. You cannot be both. Gareth and I are not cat fans.
But Gareth Morgan’s capitalising on the death of the Prime Minister’s Paddles is unnecessary, immature and insensitive. Also unimportant and unworthy of comment by Fryday. Except that it illustrates another aspect of New Zealand that is unsavoury—our willingness, our hunger, to get entangled in minutiae. Gareth is what he is, and I am not quite sure what that is. But why the media give him any air-time and why we suck it in also defy explanation or definition. In this Kadashian world of ours is this the definition of news? Is Seven Sharp our benchmark for current affairs? Is this week’s “Good Sort” as good as it gets?
If it is, God help us.
Not that I’m whinging, you understand.

The Shooting Season

We seem to be going through two omnipresent trends, or news cycles as they are now called. The first is the deaths of much-loved artists, and the second historical sex abuse allegations against celebrities. Fats Domino is the most recent of the first; Dustin Hoffman the latest of the last. Of course, there is nothing we can do about the deaths, other than acknowledge the variable depth of sadness that ensues. For example, and meaning no disrespect to Mr Domino, I am less saddened by his death (at his age) than I am of Tom Petty’s. I still feel the rawness of the loss of three of my heroes: Alan Rickman, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Roy Orbison. Hoffman’s could have been prevented (perhaps), but not the others nor indeed most other deaths. They are what they are.

But what of the sexual allegations? And here I know I am treading on thin ice. Are the allegations not, perhaps, perchance, just slightly, just teeny-weeny, just a smidgen, getting out of hand? Of course, I am not saying that what is being alleged didn’t happen and I am certainly not condoning it, but I can’t help thinking that the sudden rush of them is something akin to the duck shooting season. Everybody, it seems, is fair game. And there is another thing:  earlier allegations—some proven in court, others yet to be—against Rolf Harris, Jimmy Saville and Bill Cosby point to vile and monstrous behaviour, with long-term traumatic effect on some of the victims. But this latest round of allegations against Kevin Spacey and Dustin Hoffman seem trivial by comparison. Not only are the alleged abuses decades old, they are, as acts, minor relative to those of, particularly, Saville. However, my main question relates to timing. Why now? Why choose to now evoke events that happened decades ago? Yes, I know there is the Me Too movement and Weinstein is still not in jail. But I can’t help thinking that the sheer flood of stars saying, “Me Too” is almost as if they don’t want to be left out of the club. Again, I am not saying it didn’t happen to them, but I find it slightly disquieting and disconcerting that some seem to be wearing it as a badge of honour.

What is to be achieved by these continuing revelations of historical abuse? Is it cathartic? If it is, why couldn’t they have been brought to the fore years ago? What worries me most, though, is that they divert attention from what may be happening now. It was the same with the Roman Catholic Church scandals—all those awful allegations about what happened years ago; yet, as far as I know, there was no serious investigation into whether such practices permeate the Church today.

So, what I would like to feel would be more helpful in dealing with the sexual abuse issue is for the media to move on from reporting historical events, which—like death—are what they are, and focus on investigating and bringing to the fore what is happening now. They have gone some way in doing that with Weinstein, but I assume there are others out there. Go after them. Stop them.  Dealing with Spacey and Hoffman is retrograde—literally and figuratively.