Sunday 28 April 2013

Extracting the Urine

I answered an ad looking for student lawyers for preparing earthquake cases through the courts. I was a successful applicant and went to work preparing documents, sitting in the the High Court watching barristers doing tedious battle and hoovering up the worst coffee in the world while sitting in on meetings giving non-binding legal advice*. But then all of a sudden an email from EQC ended up in my boss's inbox that he wasn't supposed to get and all hell broke loose.
*So not strictly speaking legal advice as I am not qualified to do so under the Lawyers and Conveyancers Act 2006, so don't bother asking.

Now my job has changed. While still being part of that department, I am now my own department responsible for satire. I am delighted. I get (badly) paid to dream up things that extract the urine out of the rebuild: EQC, Gerry Brownlee, insurers, CERA and the Christchurch City Council. Believe me there is plenty to lampoon. The thing about satire is that it exists to mock vanity, humbug and vice. In Christchurch, the rebuild is being handled so badly that I will have fodder for years. My brief was to draw attention to earthquake issues using humour and the issues that exist are so serious that I cannot believe that people in Christchurch aren't rioting. The EQC hubs should be on fire and Brownlee's electorate office should also be burning. Why there isn't a pitched running battle between protesters and the police with batons, tear gas and dogs I don't know... except that I do know. The problem with Canterbury is apathy. Cantabrians don't like protests, they don't like complaining and they simply don't care. On one side of the city there are smooth roads and settle earthquake claims, on the other side there are four wheel drive tracks, closed streets, ruined houses and people living in their garages coming into winter. But as long as the roads are smooth and the house is warm with all its services, why would people in Avonhead, Burnside, Ilam, Upper Riccarton and Fendalton care? For them the earthquakes are something that happened two years ago but it's all behind them.

Something boring you Gerry?
The issue is wider than just the people who cannot settle their earthquake claims or whose house is suffering from a shonky Fletchers job (this is the majority of the legal work that we do). The issue is sufficiently broad that it affects every single New Zealander because it involves a colossal amount of public expenditure. Was anyone worried by the headline last week that there had been $100,000,000 of excess payouts by EQC? Not really, because it is a win for those who got paid out. How about the instances of nepotism at EQC that were covered by media early on? Not many batting eyelids there, good for the 19 year old who was given a loss adjusters $6,000 a week job by his dad straight out of school. Incidentally, it takes three years to train and qualify as a loss adjuster. So no joy in eliciting vociferous public disapproval so far. How about that the rebuild is set to cost $40,000,000,000 of public money, that's forty billion folks, and EQC refuses to release how their part of the money is going to be spent; Gerry Brownlee refuses to countenance a council-funded insurance advisory service; insurers are obstructively reluctant to settle claims; people are having to take court action to get anything done; you cannot drive in a straight line down Bealey Ave, Madras St, Manchester St or Moorhouse Ave; a elderly man who has had open-heart surgery and is on EQC's urgent list still hasn't had his case settled two years after filing his claim; the CERA land offer is slashing the value of people's homes; there is still a red zone and people are still living in it; the central city still has a cordon around it... there is a list and it can go on. This earthquake is the greatest farce since someone said there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.



For Sale: Spacious one bedroom house on one sixteenth
of an acre. Access to four wheel drive track, neighbourhood
mainly on fire, cold and cold running water. Offers above
$350,000
Why should I get in a tizz about all of this? I was in Wellington recently and looking down Courtenay Place at night I got a bit emotional. Wellington wasn't buggered, it's nightlife was vibrant and its roads were baby's bottom smooth. I love Christchurch, or at least I used to. I am kept here and Attila the Wife and I are looking for houses. The open homes we go to are well-attended but when the homes (invariably) got to auction, first home buyers are being out-bid by people looking investment properties or by people who are desperate to purchase a home prior to the EQC cutoff. People looking at getting onto the first rung of the property ladder either cannot afford to or have to 'manage their expectations' - which means you have to buy shoebox in a suburb that makes Harlem seem like Remuera. Why would you want to buy a shitty house in a city you don't really like anymore? I'd be quite happy to move but we're tied to Christchurch. People are tired, they're strung out and if you don't laugh, you cry. So armed with my sense of outrage, I'm happily turning my lampoon against some very large whales. 
It should be fun. www.ministryofawful.co.nz coming soon.

Saturday 13 April 2013

A Civilised Show-Stopper

A hallmark of entertaining when you're in your twenties is the state of the floor. In the run up prior to having friends over this doesn't matter. During the event it will grow a layer of empty bottles over it and, after the entertainment has finished, that's usually where you end up sleeping. In your thirties onward the state of the floor is the most important thing in the world. Clear it, vacuum it, mop it and most of all keep the cat off it for the sole criteria of judgment is the state of the floor in your guests' minds eye. We had guests over last night and very pleasant it was too. Freshly baked bread and dips, lamb shanks and rhubarb crumble with custard for afters. Civilised conversation was the order of the day until there was a sudden silence where, like a beam of sunlight breaking through the clouds, our feminine guest said "You should see my massive bush." Any vestige of proper conversation immediately following that was impossible as massive bush comments flew thick and bushily. 
The massive bush to which Anna alluded,
not a luxuriant crop of pubis.

Another notable from the evening was that just for a giggle we plugged my laptop into the television with a youtube video of a nice warm fire*. Ha ha ha thought we. Cue cracks about stoking the fire when the video ended and how it was the cleanest, most fuel efficient log burner in Christchurch. But as it cracked and flickered away it became part of the atmosphere. A psychological trick occurred when any one of us looked at the screen we even felt warmer. 
Bizarre. 
So at the end of a most convivial evening the dishes were done, the floor remained immaculate and our bed called sweetly in the distance. Definitely thirtysomething.

*This link is only fifteen minutes of atmospheric fireplace warmth, there is another somewhere which lasts for nearly an hour, which is better.

Monday 8 April 2013

Love letter to Wellington
I shouldn't be writing this and please don't tell Christchurch. I am a little guilty about our weekend together behind Christchurch's back, but the thought of your long smooth streets, your unblemished civic facilities, your array of boutiques, cafes, bars and restaurants and even your weather makes me think that my relationship with Christchurch is in trouble. We've had problems recently, Christchurch and I: she's been ill and I am doing my best to support her but since September 2010, she has not been the same vibrant girlish beauty that I fell in love with all those years ago. Spending the weekend with you was a tonic Wellington and I shall think of you while I work to nurse Christchurch back to health. It may even come to pass that nursing her may be futile and her battle against Brownlee, Simpson and Sutton is a losing one and while my enduring love for Christchurch will mean I will grieve, I will happily run to your arms.


Brian Eerwriter in the exactly the same place
as I left him on Saturday. I presume he's at
least moved to the toilet and back a couple
of times. Maybe.
To be fair, it was nice to get out of dodge and go somewhere civilised where we weren't going to get eaten to buggery by sandflies and where the roads aren't four wheel drive tracks masquerading as city streets. My beloved, light of my horizon and mistress of all she surveys booked tickets and accommodation with relatives and we were off for a weekend of culture. This obviously meant a certain amount of waiting while she tried on dresses and me being forced to try on silly looking trousers, but the payoff was a chance to sample the local beerscape (see the On Beer page) and have a few in the excellent company of Neil Miller, henceforth known on this blog as Brian Eerwriter. Brian is self-employed and thus has time and access to brewers, breweries and bars up and down the country. As long as he writes about them and sells his stories he has the ability to live a life of leisure keeping half an eye on parliament, putting blonde highlights in his hair and making appearances on Radio New Zealand National's Afternoons Panel. Brian Eerwriter is living my dream (less the blonde highlights. I prefer blonde highlights of a different sort - there's a few blondes that have been highlights in my life, but there's also a few who haven't). He also is the mayor of a couple of Wellington's better beerspots and it was where we were at the Malthouse that I make my first recommendation of places to go in Wellington. Or in my case, places to go back to. Also making the shortlist was Sweet Mother's Kitchen for its New Orleans cuisine despite having to queue for a table. I loathe queuing. I hate it more than I hate traffic but the Jambalaya was worth it. Recommendations continue for brunch at the Cuba St Bistro and Duke of Carvell's. Also for a quiet coffee in the chappish surrounds of Crumpet on Courtenay St.


A child.
Not one created by Sarah and Harry.
I've been mindful that a trip to Wellington is an overdue chance to catch up with one of my favourite people, Sarah Choolmate, her partner in life Harry Usband and their children, who now also join the ranks of my favourite people. I have been trading letters with Sarah since we parted ways at the end of 7th form: she to a double degree in law and commerce, public service and international travel; me to the Army, dressing like a tree and being cold and the other things that have kept me occupied until Attila the Wife came along. A convivial afternoon was spent at the Southern Cross where the children roam free. In fact, the children roam, chase each other and invariably one of them will cook the other in the pizza oven or create some action that will leave one of the others in tears. Usually I am a critic of parents that allow their children to ruin the ambiance of a pub, however this place seemed to be designed to cater for parents with children and it seemed to work rather well. You have to feel for parents when their child reaches the stage that they become grizzly or noisy as there are few venues which are as much child friendly as parent friendly. I tip my hat to the Southern Cross in this regard. Sarah and Harry have a child that is going to grow into Andre the Giant and a wee girl who isn't. They also have a holiday home on the market in Ohakune, so give me a whistle if you're interested. In short, they represent everything I ought to have achieved if I hadn't been very busy buggering about with my life, but I don't begrudge them their domestic bliss for a second. We enjoyed a very convivial dinner (after I had read a story to young Andre) and the embers of our friendship were left well stoked. This part of the blog serves for Attila and me to thank them for their hospitality. There's a lamp in the window for you in Christchurch.


Picturesque North Fendalton. The empty car park
spaces have been photoshopped in.
Wellington wasn't at all drab, drizzly or dire. There is a (probably justified) perception that Wellington is dominated by its changeable maritime weather and that some days you are lucky if you don't drown in the rain leaving only an inside-out umbrella clutched in your cold lifeless hand in the gutter. Conversely there is a saying that you can't beat Wellington on a good day. There was some drizzle, but by and large my majestic cloth umbrella with its cane handle was used mainly for me to lean on while we perambulated, bimbled and soaked up our surroundings and the bright sunshine. Further, our digs were located near the Zealandia bird sanctuary where the air was peppered with Tui ravings and punctuated at night by Morepork calls. I also fell for the collection of villages that surround the city centre. They are picturesque wee things and Kelburn was within inches of the cable-car down to the CBD. There is one thing I would change though: as I spent most of my time in a state of geographical confusion, I would change the names of the suburbs to something more familiar. Consequently Kelburn is now North Fendalton and Miramar (where we missed a film at the Roxy because there is nowhere to park) is now New New Brighton. Actually, this raises a wee bugbear. There is nowhere to park in Wellington. There are plenty of car parks in Christchurch because every missing building is now operated by Wilsons. Still, I would rather look at tall buildings than car parks and as we ducked through the clouds on the flight back into Christchurch I sadly thought I would rather be looking at Wellington than my own home town. So we say goodbye to Wellington, Middle of Middle Earth*, city of smooth tarmac, playground for beer lovers, capital of brunch and keeper of my heartstrings.

*How the bloody hell did this happen? Have we not got over all this Lord of the Rings crap yet?