Things that can get fucked

Armed only with a camera and a sense moral outrage, I roam society judging people, things and stuff:
 "Who are you to judge?" "I'm Jono and I'm a bit of a bastard, but nothing compared to you.

The Embuggerance of Christmas

The prompt for this one started innocently enough with Attila the Wife mentioning to me this morning "Crikey, it'll be Christmas soon." All of a sudden the horizon darkened, my eyes rolled back in their sockets and the voice of Satan himself welled within me to say "No it fucking won't." The fact of the matter is that at the 8th of October we are two and a half months away. 

I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have
money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my walletgo now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.

It's a grumpy old man thing, but it does seem like Christmas advertising starts earlier each year. I saw ads for Christmas begin in the last week of October last year and it's the usual culprits too: Briscoes, The Warehouse, Crisco and other money-suckers capitalising on the gullibility of those who seek easy credit, payday loans and no deposit to finance the increasing demands and expectations created in the minds of their families. I cite the example of a former bottlestore customer of mine who had a massive swastika tattooed on one of her puffy calf muscles who told me that she had spent $4,000 on her children's Christmas presents. One of the bloated little cherubs was screaming at her because she wanted crisps despite having just had cake. The other little moon-faced cherub was running hyperactive circles around one of the displays and powered face first into a plate glass sliding door, which didn't break but elicited an ear-splitting shriek from the child. I can only imagine that her Christmas presents made her feel better about the whole experience... or not.

I want to be able to say that I like Christmas, so I drew up a list of likes and dislikes to see if, on balance, whether I do or not:

Likes: Time away from work; a fresh start to the new year; catching up with family, especially younger family members; giving them presents; Christmas lunch. So that's six likes.

Dislikes: Bloody Christmas advertising; being given bloody presents that I have no intention of keeping; bloody Christmas carols; bloody Snoopy's Christmas; Hearing bloody people saying 'Merry Christmas' - can't you think of something else to say?; not having a bloody newspaper; bloody shops being shut when you want something; wide-eyed American Christmas movies and television programming that some bastard always wants to watch; having to be sociable when I bloody-well don't want to be because 'It's Christmas'. That's nine and believe me, I stopped before I got really annoyed.

One that I will expand upon is the 'But it's Christmas' one. In hospitality (and thank God I don't work in that sector anymore) this seems to be a cover-all for bad behaviour for people who've had a few too many. Every barman has their 'but it's Christmas story' but I'll give the example of when I locking up the bottle store I was working in a few years ago at five past eleven on a Thursday evening the 22nd of December, three days before Christmas Day. I had been there all day when three blokes rocked up expecting to be let in after closing, something I never allowed to happen irrespective of time of the year.
"Sorry mate, we're closed. I can't let you in." says I.
"But it's Christmas!" slurred punter number one who wouldn't have been served anyway.
"No it's not. It's Thursday." I respond.
"I'm not sure I like the attitude." says punter number two, who may have been served if he'd thought to turn up ten minutes earlier.
"Well I'm deeply sorry if your Christmas has been ruined by me not serving you alcohol outside our licenced serving hours. You might want to take this one up with the District Licencing Authority or come back during our opening hours of 9am to 11pm. Hopefully fourteen hours of opening is enough of a window for you." I stopped myself from both wishing him a merry Christmas and wishing him that he died in a housefire as the trio wandered away tracing my ancestry with four letter words. Very Christmassy.
Christmas, those who advertise two months early, those who foster such a thing as Christmas spirit and everyone connected can get fucked.

Law Exams

Anyone got a Pink Floyd song that leaps to mind?

Law Exams can get fucked indefinitely. Once the court has determined that they have finished this period of getting fucked, they can go and get fucked again. It would be unusual for me to add an entry to this page as an act of joy but this is is sheer unparalleled bliss. You see this morning I completed my last (touch wood) law exam and all going to plan the marker will put a pass on the paper as an act of clemency and I will be free. FREEEEEE!
There will be a coterie of people who read this page who have gone through the complete and total embuggerance that university law exams bring. In every law student's academic career they will sit between thirty and fifty of the things as well as writing screeds of essays (I once had to hand in 25,000 words from five essays due within a three day window). Factor in the avalanche of readings of interminable dross written by hobgoblins with no sense of boredom and a predilection for the overuse of commas and you've got a nasty, noxious four year beast of a degree. But in all that, exams are the worst. 

Law exams are stressful: it is the one time that Attila the Wife cops the short straw in our relationship as I turn into a nasty, snapping, seething ball of upset and anger. In the immediate run-up they consume your thoughts, dominate your spare time and loom. When I say loom, I mean loooooom: you know that bit in the roadrunner cartoon where the massive rock that's falling appears as a small shadow around the coyote and gets bigger and bigger until eventually the poor little bugger gets smashed. Yeah, it's like that. The date appears as a spot on the calendar and gets bigger and bigger and bigger until you're counting down the hours and how much study you can shoehorn into those precious minutes that slip through the fingers... like sands through the hourglass etc. Sleep? If you get some, you'll find yourself waking up quoting authorities, passages of legislation and quotations. And then the day arrives...

Hands before.

You wake up immediately thinking you've slept in. You're too sick in the pit of your stomach for breakfast. Your time in the shower isn't spent sculpting your hair into a shampoo mohawk, singing Tom Jones songs like it usually is. It is spent looking despondently into the plughole attempting to remembering cases, mnemonics and things your lecturer told you that you had to write in your exam paper distracted only by thinking how you might successfully kill yourself on the way there. It wouldn't be unusual in the hour preceding your exam to feel like your eyeballs have been sanded, your back is full of knots and that someone has injected you with cancer. You leave the house with enough time but there'll be some unforeseen delay, such as the light turning green and the dickhead in front of you is sending a text message, doesn't see it but catches it when it turns yellow and drives through leaving you trapped. Trust me, I know, these fucks do it deliberately and I feel your rage. I have broken several Commonwealth, Olympic and World Records in swearwords per minute on the drive to varsity for a law exam. I take my usual road-rage and concentrate it to the extent that if I was connected to the national grid, I could power most of greater Auckland. You get there and attempt to find a car park. Of course you can't, so you park a mile and a half away. You get out of the car, dash down the street sweating and swearing, get two hundred metres away and remember that you haven't locked the car. So you turn around, belt back and lock the fucking car. By this time your carefully allowed time to get to your exam has dribbled away and you collapse several minutes later through the door. But you're not late: you have to mill around, trying to cram in a few extra passages of notes before you're admitted by the pasty crone on the door. You fail to absorb a thing before you're called in and then before you know it, you're seated and waiting for permission to start. Funnily enough, at that moment you couldn't give a fuck in the world. It is almost like a state of nirvana when you realise that there is nothing else you can do but take up your pen and start writing.

Hands after.

And then you write. Three hours later you've been writing continuously pausing only to look up to see if you can remember the name of that guy in the authority who parked his car on the policeman's foot and walked away demonstrating that assault could be a continuing offence. At the end of three hours your hand looks tortious, twisted, gnarled and bent. It doesn't look like the hand you came in with and it is sore. Anyone who wonders why students drink heavily after exams, it is to get rid of the pain in their hands... that and through the massive surge of relief. And it's odd, because in the immediate aftermath of an exam, no-one, including myself, knows a thing about what they have written about. You just simply cannot remember. It's gone like a leaf in a forest fire. Dazed and hurting, my cohorts and I will reel to the bar for a bit of therapy to talk about anything but what we've just been through... except today I quietly went back to work. But be under no illusion, I will be playing my favourite game tonight: it's called 'The Drunkest Man in the World' and with a bit of luck I'll be playing 'The Drunkest Man in the World with an LLB'. Wish me luck.

Digital TV

Back in the days when the NZ cricket team was ten blokes
who played for (and were from) Canterbury and two blokes
from Auckland. Enthusiasts will note the old number two
stand of Lancaster Park in the background... when it was
Lancaster Park.

In reflection it was a high point in my life. I had somehow found an old black and white television which must have weighed around thirty kilograms (remember them?) and hoisted it on top of the wardrobe in my sleepout. I could get one channel clearly and another channel badly. Any suggestion of being able to get anything else could be easily dismissed as utter nonsense, but I didn’t need other channels because back in the halcyon days of the early 1990’s in North Canterbury, TV One had the cricket – all live, all free to air. Test matches, one dayers, provincial cricket. I watched a Canterbury team stacked with Black Caps* such as Nathan Astle, Chris Cairns, Chris Harris, Rod Latham, Stephen Fleming, Lee Germon, Geoff Allot and Craig McMillan tear the rest of the country apart and it was bliss. I watched every ball in glorious black and white with a length of copper wire running from my TV to the roof and I watched it all in the solitude of my sleepout with a box of warm Canterbury Draught out of the forbidding eye of my mother. I was also able to watch live rugby, the news and anything else I wanted provided it was on channel one and I was interested in it, otherwise the TV was off and I was busy doing something else.

Give me back my old black and white TV Seymour
you little fucker.

Twenty years on and everything has changed. There is no such thing as black and white unless it is an effect applied by the producer of a programme. Free cricket and rugby? Forget it, that’s gone. Being able to run a copper wire from your TV and getting reception? Not a chance, and it is this that is the source of my fury. Attila the Wife and I have moved into a new house which does not have a Freeview antenna, so we had to shell out sixty something dollars for a new one. Reckon you can just get on the roof and attach it and you’re away? Think again, because once I had stuck it on and made to attach the cable to the antenna, I found the cable was a different diameter and had a different electrical resistance so I couldn’t use the one that was there. Cue swearing, lots of swearing. This meant that a new cable had to be threaded through the roof and into the lounge where the old one had been plastered into the wall. Cue more swearing. After poking around in the roof and inhaling half of the pink batts that were up there I gave up because I was stiff from a week of moving, dusty and pissed off. Consequently, I’m buggered if I’m going back into the roof to faff around destroying my own property, so we’re going to get someone who likes being paid to do that sort of thing to put it in for us.

Pio Terei: Not funny and neither is Freeview. Fuck off Pio.

What the hell was wrong with old analogue TV? What wasn’t good enough about it? Why did we have to pander to the lust of some fuckwit who wanted crystal clear television signal that wasn’t some satellite pay channel when we would have to pay to set it up anyway? And now that the public have to pay to either get a digital decoder or a new television, with prices of new TVs through the floor, they're sensibly opting for newer and bigger TVs. The old TVs? They're currently littering the streets, placed on the kerbside by lazy bastards who are pretending that someone will want to take them away. Let me tell you, no-one wants to take them away. And big whoop that it is a clearer signal anyway when there's officially nothing to watch except Americanised talent shows and a host of other rubbish. The only sport that is left to watch free to air is netball, and while netball floats some people's boats I find it absolutely tedious. Flick through the channels and it is more reality television, poor journalism or the Shopping Channel. The Shopping Channel... I ask you. You may as well get Sky or go to the pub. From now it is impossible to set up a TV in your garage, garden or sleep-out for a lazy afternoon of watching the box and I for one think we are a poorer society for it. We’ll have to be anchored to our living rooms instead of having the freedom to do what we want, like watching our afternoon sport on the deck with a beer. Digital TV is a nation-wide embuggerance: it, Pio Terei, that stupid cartoon dog Seymour and the colossal turd who conceived the idea of Freeview in the first place can all get fucked.

*They weren't the Black Caps back then, they were the Young Guns. Most of them had mullets, Martin Crowe wore a sweat band and Chris Harris had (some) hair on top of his head. They were brilliant.

Moving

Look at these bastards smiling as they pack.
That's how you know it isn't real.

There is no particular target for this one as everyone suffers having to move their house at one time in their life or other. Personally, I tried to make things easy by pissing most of my money against a wall but my beloved will save her money and buy possessions... possessions which will have to be wrapped, boxed and loaded, transported, unloaded and unwrapped and then put away. As much of my personal wealth has been liquefied excreted and some of it memorised, I have found this process mostly rather easy. However, we have just bought a house and because of our separate and marital possessions it means that our current flat is awash with boxes, wrapping paper and the anguished lamenting of Attila the Wife who sees so much more that needs to be packed. We have boxes piled to the ceiling in quantities that should be far in excess of the volume of our unpacked possessions, but Attila is right, there is more stuff everywhere. When did we become as bad as those hoarders on television? Where the hell did it all come from?
We have been getting by for the last few days on skeleton possessions, having only got out what we need or having to unpack boxes to find some small but necessary item. We cannot move freely around the place because of the crush of packaged stuff and I cannot begin to tell you how many times we have both tripped over killing ourselves. It's lots of times. It's amazing I'm able to write and tell you this at all outside the spinal unit of Burwood Hospital. We cannot shift a second before the house purchase settles at some stage tomorrow, so there is no immediate end in sight and therefore the risk of rendering ourselves paraplegics remains.
Sputnik the cat however, is loving it.

I'm sure we could get a few more boxes on top.

Then there's the move itself:
We, like just about everybody else who have done this themselves, have to enroll friends and bribe them with beer to help us load vehicles, pantechnicons and trailers and then unload it when it needs to be deposited at the other end. I have lost count of the amount of times I have done this for friends and not minded, but when the boot is on the other foot and I need help, I am mortified with the imposition I am inflicting upon them. They are saints, heroes, white knights and candidates for papal knighthoods and when the fish and chips are unwrapped and the tops ripped off a couple of beer bottles I shall be dewy-eyed with gratitude. Then they shall go home and Attila and I will be up to our arses in boxes to unpack, furniture to move, move again and move again when she decides she doesn't want that dresser there really. 

So that's what you think you'll be doing when you're
done for the day? Fool. Not a chance.

The end of the day will see us knackered and cranky, which is the usual outcome of most working days, only this time maybe Attila will be too tired to talk*. We might take a sneaky second to sit down and survey the carnage, and Attila will then mention our impending obligation to clean our former residence top to toe for the new tenants to move into. 
There isn't anything in the world I will be less in the mood for. I will just want to flop into bed and cry myself to sleep. The next day we will troop into the place we are glad to be leaving and we will have to clean it. I will piss and moan through cleaning the stupid windows, through wiping down the stupid window sills, through mopping the stupid floor, through clearing the stupid cobwebs, through waterblasting the stupid deck and every other stupid job when we could be at our new place making it habitable for ourselves.

The aftermath of a move lasts for weeks afterward, unpacking, shifting, arguing, changing our minds and weaning out the stuff we don't actually need or want and can't believe we bothered shifting. Eventually we will move on with our lives vowing never to go through the tiring, exasperating and tedious process voluntarily again... until we get our next place.
Fuck.

*I'm not holding any hope of this because it would be unusual. Actually, it has never been known to happen before. There have been more occurrences of New Zealanders winning the New York marathon, sightings of Moa in the 20th century, occasions where it has rained herring... you get the idea.

Road cones

I was in Wellington in the weekend. I like Wellington, as I have previously made the erudite, sophisticated and stylish readers of this blog aware. Compared to Christchurch it is a sexy cosmopolitan mecca with sexy cosmopolitan people such as Brian Eerwriter, Sarah Choolmate and her life partner Harry Usband, Charlotte Nicole and a bevvy of my wife's family and friends. They're all lovely but when you drive around with them, they're hopelessly naive. The first sight of a smattering of road cones they'll mutter about bloody roadworks prompting my eyes to roll back in my head and a disembodied voice to rise in my throat that sounds like Satan herself. They visibly flinch when Satan makes me turn to them in a voice that sets fire to small animals: "You have no idea."
You see, when Wellingtonians see a smattering of road cones they are unaware that every other road cone in the world is currently sitting in central Christchurch and will be there for quite some time.

I'm not joking or attempting hyperbole when I say this is a typical Christchurch street. Note the rather pleasing waves in the foreground. Also note the sheer number of road cones required for this operation. Also note the rather optimistic 30 speed limit - most of the time you're lucky if you can go at 3 km/h.

Don't even dream about attempting a shortcut. You'll only
strike this little red devil and then you'll have to work your
way back into whatever tangle you tried to leave.

The term 'getting around Christchurch' is misleading. It suggests that there are roads, streets and avenues that facilitate the flow of people around the city. There used to be but now we have some dusty tracks that are littered with said road cones. What isn't being repaired is riddled with potholes. Once the road is (badly) repaired, they will move the cones and patch the potholes. While they do this, the road they have repaired will get covered in potholes. It's a vicious circle and else is vicious is that there is so little communication between the bodies that are responsible for repairing the roads that many vital links get closed at the same time. All the north running streets through the centre of the city are closed down to one lane. So what would ordinarily convey around a dozen lanes of traffic are down to four lanes. It takes nearly an hour to move the two or three kilometres across the central city and what is most frustrating is that as you ride your clutch and feel the life draining out of you, there comes across the radio news that the council and government have announced that the new stadium will cost half a billion dollars. This is at the same time the council is facing an insurance shortfall of $560m to repair its subterranean assets including roads. To give you some perspective, the covered stadium in Dunedin cost under half this amount for 5,000 fewer seats. They'll be lucky if we can even get to the stadium because we will have all died in our cars... not from speed related crashes either, but from boredom. The council have responded to the torrent of abuse that intolerant drivers are pouring on hapless roadworkers by posting billboards and signs on the backs of buses that roadcones = progress. I'll believe that one when my shit turns purple and smells like a fucking rainbow because one shortish road near me has been covered in roadcones and closed off continuously since September 2010.

Not qualified to administer road repairs,
but would probably do a better job.

This diatribe is obviously not about road cones themselves, rather the feeble control the council has applied to traffic control. The council famously lost its ability to grant building consents today. Perhaps the road repairs should be administered by central government as well... or by Room 3 at Phillipstown Primary School. Either would do.

Incidentally, I was not bored for a second driving around Wellington last weekend. I thought the occasional little sprigs of road cones sprouting like spring daffodils were quite charming.

Insurance Companies

Okay they're paid to be pedantic and you can understand why when you hear of the ratbag schemes claimants sometimes come up with in order to defraud them, but in my case the insurer can get fucked good and proper. Here's why:
Attila the Wife and I spent six months looking for a house to buy. The post-earthquake Christchurch market around our price range is riddled with first time buyers, people with CERA and insurance payouts and old couples looking for investment properties as the rental market is experiencing lunatic levels of demand. After the struggle we find the house we want. We make our offer and our offer beats the competing offer of the property manager who also wants the house. Yuss thinks we. Vintage champagne is opened and we sit down for a moment of restful contemplation of a job well done. We went into the home-buying process with open eyes full expecting that we needed builder's reports, EQC scopes of works, solicitor's approval and finance conditions. Tick, tick, tick and tick. We also knew that we would need to be able to insure the property.

I'm going to go into a bit of minutiae here and you'll have to forgive me, but believe me it is the condensed version of events. The existing policy on the house is with a major insurer but done through the agency of a bank. This major insurer is also the underwriter for our bank. You'd think it would be fairly straight forward for these parties to liaise and easily say "The property is with us already, we're happy to continue to insure it with these guys."*. Not so fast. I thought about calling the major insurer, but you cannot talk to them directly. You have to talk to their agency, the banks. So I call the bank and sit through the hold music, which is all the songs you were sick of thirty years ago. Eventually the phone is answered by a gentleman with a thick accent who runs off a list of hoops that I have to jump through at one million miles per hour. I catch about 15% of what he has to say but hear that he wants me to talk to my bank when we're arranging finance and they'll sort it. Sweet, thinks I. I can talk to someone face to face and we'll sort it out together. You fool, thinks my banker who tells me I have to get the policy number and contact their bank again. I do this after having to listen to all the songs we were sick of thirty years ago for twenty minutes on hold. I get through to a lovely girl who also happens to work for the bank (these factors are usually independent of each other). We exchange pleasantries and the conversation proceeds thusly:
"Sir, I can't release this information to you."
"What information? I just want a statement of intent that X insurer will continue to insure the property with us as clients."
"I see. This is a bit odd."
"Is it? It's the same insurer. Surely it can't be that difficult." I immediately slap my palm to my forehead when I realise what I have just said. Fool.
"Well, we can give that statement of intent if you are an Y Bank customer and you give us some details about the house."
"But I'm not an Y Bank customer, I'm a Z Bank customer but you both use the same underwriter who already has all the details about the house. In fact X Insurer knows more about the house than I do."
"We're going to have to sign you up as a customer in order to process this from our end. Do you have time to answer some questions?"
"Go on..." says I, looking at my watch seeing that I have half an hour before I am due to speak on air about earthquake responses and insurance companies. The resulting broadcast was less than charitable as I spent a further twenty minutes answering questions about me not being Lord Lucan, my inside leg measurement and how many were going to St Ives, which incidentally is one and it isn't me because I was getting nowhere.
"I just need you to answer a few more questions Mr BArSTewARD"
"Blow me down." I reply wearily. "Go on."
"In the last 30 years has the wiring been replaced, the plumbing been replaced, the wall linings been replaced, the roofing been replaced and the house repiled? Also is the house classified as being in a heritage area or is regarded by the council as having historic trust classification?"
"Sorry love, I wasn't in the house three weeks ago, let alone thirty years ago. I'll have to find out from the vendor, whose information you already have as well as the answers to all of those questions."
"Yes, sorry, it's a matter of privacy."
"Well, not mine, obviously."


This sorry episode is not over. I have to email our friend at Y Bank back with the answers to all these questions, a form filled in and scanned (the form incidentally raised more questions about the property that I have to find answers to) as well as the builder's report and the EQC scope of works. This means that I have to email the real estate agent who will contact the vendors who may or may not be able to provide satisfactory answers. If the answers are not satisfactory then the process will be delayed until we can find out what those answers are from another source that is yet unknown... probably the Wizard of Oz.
This blog entry will be updated, believe me.

*Except they wouldn't calls us guys because they generally appreciate that their customers don't like them and see them as a necessary evil... and because they aren't a chirpy young waitress who doesn't know any better than not to call us guys.

Celebrity Culture 2

Hayden Panettiere, Italian name, but
no sono Italiano. I forgive you.

It's fairly obvious to one and all that I am very much a man who appreciates oak paneling, a roaring fire, a sleeping labrador, a full decanter and gramophone music. But sometimes I cannot avoid being exposed to the cesspit of what's on television - as I have been a bit crook today I have been rugged up on the couch with Attila the Wife, and me wearing the trousers in the relationship, we've watched what she wants. The tableau of viewing pleasure this evening included a celebrity chat show and a television talent show... I hadn't the strength to argue. I have to say that I was impressed by the vivacious Hayden Panittiere and I also have to say that the show revealed that she has a tattoo on her back in Italian that says "Live your life with no regrets" and it is misspelled, which, with delicious irony, she regrets. Despite this flaw, she was very likable and didn't wear a bra. But the tattoo thing made me ponder the latest in celebrity buffoonery that also provokes one of my other hobby horse: appalling baby names. 

So it seems Kanye West and Kim Kardashian have named their child North West. Their next choice was Easton West. Not since the Family Court overturned the application for naming by the parents of little Tallulah Does The Hula From Hawaii has a name made me open-mouthed with sheer dumbfounded admiration. Actually, there was the parents who attempted to name their child after every single member of the All Blacks starting fifteen. The name North West could well be worse and celebrities have led the way in convincing the rest of the world to call their children something idiotic. I swear by almighty God that I don't believe in that these names are true, with the (ir-)responsible parent in parenthesis afterward:

Jermaine, you cruel, cruel bastard.

Pilot Inspektor (Jason Lee)
Blanket (Michael Jackson)
Audio Science (Shannyn Sossamon)
Diva Thin Muffin (Frank Zappa)
Moxie Crimefighter (Penn Gillette)
Tu Morrow (Rob Morrow) 
Kal-El (Nicholas Cage)
Bogart Che Peyote (David "Puck" Rainey)
Sage Moonblood (Sylvester Stallone)
Speck Wildhorse (John Mellencamp)
Camera (Arthur Ashe)
Satchel (Woody Allen and Mia Farrow)
Buddy Bear and all his siblings (Jamie Oliver)
and the kicker - Jermajesty (Jermaine Jackson)

I'll get on to tattoos at some other stage because I haven't the energy after laughing so hard while researching this list. It is quite clear that these people must be stopped.

Celebrity Culture

I'm sorry, who are you? 
Actually, never mind. I don't care.

If there's one thing that I see is the haemorrhoid on the arse of society, worse even than the Google spell checker that I didn't ask for putting a silly red underline underneath words that perfectly correct, it is so called celebrity culture. There was a time when being a celebrity meant that a person had done something worth celebrating such as the first manned balloon flight, winning a Victoria Cross and then winning it again for good measure, being a black woman who didn't give up a whites only seat on a bus or writing an eerily prophetic novel on the illegal electronic monitoring of a nation's citizenry. Now all it takes is having pneumatic breasts, bleached teeth, plastic skin and a series of half-baked opinions. The culture of fame has just about overtaken the culture of worth and the greater public has eagerly taken to worshipping these freaks with an alarming zeal that the church can only step back and admire. Let's take Nicky Minaj for example. She calls herself an artist, makes a bit of music and she is invited on to various TV shows to give opinions on things. Her speaking voice could curdle milk and set fire to small animals and her opinions are so badly constructed that they make me sick in my own mouth, but she is widely followed and has spawned a galaxy of copycats. 

So Sean Penn thinks he knows what is best in
UK -Argentine relations. Yup. He can get fucked.

It is very easy to blame the Americans for this and so I'm going to. Bastards. Also responsible is a gullible public and Simon Cowell. As a result we have a coterie of 'celebrities' with a hyper-inflated sense of worth. For example, Sean Penn is quite happy to impose himself on US diplomacy with Venezuela and Cuba as well as calling for the UK to hand the Falkland Islands over to Argentina. There are several thousand Falkland Islanders who would happily tell Sean Penn to mind his own fucking business as they are quite happy being British subjects. There is a litany of other stars who feel that the world needs to hear their opinions on subjects but I would rather listen very closely to hours and hours of recent Swedish pop music until my ears bleed and I try to take my own life by attempting to poison myself by eating tubes of toothpaste. 

The trouble is that the adoration of a guileless public only feeds the beast. We can extend this reasoning to the ruination of sport. With public attention came possibility of earning money where sport used to be amateur. With money came the greater incentive to success meaning that cheating became widespread with doping, ball-tampering and match fixing. Also the behaviour of sports stars has come under increased scrutiny as professionalism means that they have to behave professionally but when talented young men are given masses of money, a bit of personal freedom and a legion of adoring young women... well, you would wouldn't you? Because these people are heroes to the young they invariably appear the next day after their indiscretion freely admitting to alcoholism, drug abuse and sex addictions when in reality they're just doing what any reasonable person in the same circumstances would have done. They pour out their hearts and cry their little overpaid eyes out but it didn't seem to worry George Best that much though. Anyway, the point is that this beast is being fed by a public that is hungry for more: more bad celebrity behaviour, more fads, more glitzy escapism and more fucking talent shows. We live in a Woman's Weekly world but come the revolution I will implement steps to govern this sort of thing.
That and I'd sever Nicky Minaj's stupid yapping head.

Cancer

Fuck you cancer, you insidious little fucker.

There are two parts to this post. The first and most important is that cancer as a disease can get fucked. What a horribly insidious thing it is that eats away at otherwise healthy and largely blameless people. There is no rhyme 'nor reason to who it attacks and, with particular analogy to my post mentioning Professor John Hogg who succumbed to an aggressive brain tumour, it has killed some intelligent, important and wonderful people who should have had many more years to continue their work and spend time with the people they loved and love them but were robbed by a disease that ate them from the inside. The treatments we have to attempt to combat cancer are barbaric enough: removing the offending area or bombarding it with chemicals or radiation. Is it any wonder that getting the big C is feared and those who are told they have it go through a grief cycle. Cancer is a sword of Damocles that hangs over the human race and the sooner there is a cure, the better. 

The second part of this post is directly related to that dangling sword: with the revelation from Michael Douglas that his oral cancer was probably gained from performing oral stimulus on lady-parts it is official that everything in the world can give you cancer and we're all going to die. Or rather, there is a section of society who gleefully proclaim that everything you enjoy will give you cancer in the guise of offering helpful medical advice. These amateur medical experts will usually start their diatribe with "Studies have shown that (insert spurious cause of cancer here) causes cancer." I quote the off-handed response of John Clarke in his excellent mockumentary The Games: "Studies have shown that studies are crap."

"Studies have shown that eating that can give you

cancer."

"Studies have also shown that me telling you to

get fucked can also give me cancer, but I'm going

to do it anyway."

Causes of cancer du jour include eating processed meats such as bacon, salami, ham and sausages; using a telephone; watching television; drinking alcoholic drinks; too much sleep, not enough sleep and sleep apnoea; sitting. Sitting? Yes, apparently bloody sitting down for prolonged periods of time can give you arse cancer and you don't even have to be throwing back copious amounts of rotgut whisky and chewing on lung rending Dutch cigars either. Was there a greater headline ever devised to cause fear? We have reached a point where we are being sincerely teased by the media and a legion of do-gooders that everything we do has a fateful and inevitable consequence and we're going to one day have a doctor give us the news that no doctor ever wants to give and no patient ever wants to hear. It is scaremongering at its worst and I for one refuse to live a life of trepidation. An oft quoted statistic is that one in three people in New Zealand will get cancer, which means that two in three won't. I would hope that I am one of the two thirds but who knows? You have to be somewhat fatalistic about these things because there is no real way of knowing, unless you have a particularly high genetic risk toward cancer as Angelina Jolie has ably and courageously publicised. In every other case telling someone that the thing they're doing is likely to give them cancer is akin to telling them that they're possibly going to get punched in the face by someone at some stage and that punch may kill them. Offhandedly telling people that they're risking getting cancer is not a very nice thing to say I think you'll find and I think you'll also find that people who do say that can get fucked.

Hey Guys!
I'm nitpicking with this one, but as I accumulate grey hairs around my temples I am entering an age where I can legitimately be called a grumpy old man. In my state of grump I find that some things that could otherwise be considered quite minor and inoffensive cause me to brood, ponder and even become resentful. This is one of those things: Attila the Wife and I will go into a restaurant, and with us both being ex-restaurant staff, we will politely wait to be seated, try not to be too demanding or selfish and generally attempt to be pleased with being out, being served and being spoiled. This is how I feel anyway. Attila will start a one-sided conversation with me about what changes should be made to the restaurant, the menu, the drinks list, the uniforms, the layout, the seating, the decor, the location and so on. I will do my utmost to get a drink into our hands and sit quietly sometimes agreeing or mostly pointing out this particular character flaw of hers. Mid-flow a member of the serving staff will come up and say "Hey guys!" or "What can I get for you guys?" In my tiny mind there is the sound of a pane of breaking glass and a small blood vessel will burst in my brain causing a tic to occur in my right eye.

"Hey guys, can I get you anything?"
"Yes, you can go and get fucked."

You see, we're paying for service which means that we are not expecting to be treated as equals by the staff. I do not expect a grovelling deferential servitor but at the very least I do not expect to be called 'guys'. 'Sir' and 'Ma'am' is nice but not necessary. Calling us 'guys' suggests a level of familiarity that does not exist unless I actually know the person serving me well and I have the pleasure of this relationship with a number of hospitality staff in Christchurch. I like to think of myself as a bit of a champion of the cause of jaded bar staff and their struggle against the general public. I am happy to lend a sympathetic ear to their problems, share a cruel and appalling joke with them that picks on some undeserving sector of humanity that happens to be the target du jour, and I will happily sit for hours chatting after a shift about the relative merits of one style of Caribbean rum over another. I like the people that hospitality attracts - vain argumentative narcissists; bright happy socialites; sour grumpy lifelong pros who only do it because they hate everything else in the world; impressionable young idealists who are only doing it to put themselves through university. I like them and I was one of them once, thankfully no more: I like daylight too much and want to avoid alcoholism. For those service staff I don't know who bounce up and call us 'guys': I appreciate the air of youthful enthusiasm that hasn't been beaten out of you by years of anti-social night shifts and having to pander to the demands of stupid, selfish, horny clientele and profit hungry ogre-like employers who want to cut back your hours, sleep with you and avoid paying you if at all possible. However, I want just a modicum less familiarity and my glass never to be empty. That will be all, thank you.



Big Bore Exhausts and their knuckle dragging drivers

Similar to an overstretched anus, you can
always tell a boy racer because their car looks
as though it is carrying an over-stretched anus.

This is really where the crotchety old man in me comes out. Very much in the vein of yelling 'you kids get off my lawn!' at neighbourhood children, it seems the little shits have got themselves driver's licences (or maybe they haven't) and they've bought a car. It doesn't matter what sort of car - from the humble Toyota Starlet to the frighteningly 'assertive' Subaru WRX, one of the best modifications to give bang for the buck is a big bore exhaust, or BBE for the sake of brevity. These things can be measured in irritation per square inch and our friends the mouthbreathers love, love, love them. I wouldn't mind so much if the sound of a car with the BBE didn't carry so much so that you can hear them for literally miles after they have gone by, or if the sound of the car going past wasn't immediately and painfully deafening. You see, the most pointless aspect of adding a BBE is that is does nothing to add to the power or speed of the car. So the addition is purely posturing, a sort of audible comparison of genital size or a display of tribal colours - I have a big bore exhaust and I belong to a class of people who have tattoos on their necks and hands and in forty years I shall look like an inky idiot. 

Not a V12, but just beautiful.

I want to make perfectly clear that I am not against the sound of cars in general and here's why: I have a friend named Ken. Ken is a Justice of the Peace, a former RAF Wing Commander, a good egg and he and his wife Sheila are more like adoptive parents to me. Ken has a long association with motorsport. He was a regular attendee of Formula One Grand Prix in its genesis from the early 1950's until he relocated to New Zealand in the early 1980's. He has friends throughout the F1 community and his story about nearly racing at the 1955 Le Mans 24 hour race* cannot fail to bring a smile. We were having a chat a few nights ago and he was reminiscing about the sound of Formula One cars back when they were V12's. He summoned the memory and he seemed to drift off to a happier place. There was a twinkle in his eyes, a smile formed at the ends of his lips and a look of sheer love broke out on his silly old face. It was heartwarming: it was an old man looking back in time to an age of colourful road trips across Europe with his pretty young wife to watch races with picnics and champagne. It was memories of the sounds of the cars driven by courageous young men, the smell of methanol and worn tyres on the breeze. It was memories of watching history being made on racetracks at a time when Europe was finding its post-war feet and learning to feel fun again. Ken was there to experience the sights and smells, meet the people and enjoy the company. To Ken, the sound of a V12 engine brings back memories of gentlemen racers like Graham Hill, Mike Hawthorn, Wolfgang von Tripps, Juan Manuel Fangio, Giuseppe Farina, Jim Clark, Stirling Moss, Jackie Stewart, Jim Surtees and a legion of other legends that also include a New Zealander named Bruce McLaren. Back in the living room at a birthday party in Christchurch, Ken started, blinked and smiled a toothy grin at me and I couldn't help but think what I would give to have seen some of the things Ken has seen in a rich and wonderful life.

Bailiff, take him down and go and get some CDs
of Roxette, Ace of Base, Aqua and throw in some
Abba. That'll learn him.

A roar of an engine is a thing of purity in a Formula One car. It is the very pinnacle of technology and a model of economy of design - there isn't a thing on the car that doesn't make it faster barring the sponsor's decals. The same cannot be said for the pinhead trollop in the pink Nissan Silvia or the mutton-brained bogan in a clapped out Corolla with a skull stencilled on the rear window, both with an exhaust wider than their heads. There was a heroic person going around the streets of Blenheim filling in BBEs with Selleys Space Invader - a liquid that expanded into a foam that hardened into a concrete-like substance that was nigh-on impossible to get out. If I ever find out who that is I will make them my Minister of Transport, but come the revolution when the sensible people take control I am absolutely certain that Ken would agree to sentence noise polluting offenders to a week in the stocks next to a speaker turned up to 11 playing recent Swedish pop music. An additional sentence of a week of hard labour will apply to those who have also fitted a blow-off valve.

*Ken was going to be driving a Jaguar at Le Mans in 1955 when the team's backer, who also happened to be the father of the one of the other drivers and a Viscount, pulled out threatening to disinherit the son. In that race a Mercedes ploughed into the crowd killing 84 people. Jaguar finished first, second and third.

The Telephone
It taunts me. Every time its stupid face lights up and it starts chirping my cellphone interrupts my flow of thought or whatever activity I am doing at the time. I can assure you that if I could get away with ignoring it, I would... which is not strictly speaking true. My wife is the only driver of my absolute necessity of even owning one but even then I am not a die hard devotee of the mobile phone. I will often put my phone on silent if I am in a meeting or a lecture and forget that I have so and then spend a happy day without its constant interruption. Other times I have the sound on and I can see that it is ringing but with insouciance borne of over a decade and a half of cellphone-caused irritation I look at my phone and willfully ignore it. 

The cult of the mobile phone has reached the stage where there is an expectation from callers that the person they dial answering a phone is the most important thing in the world and those who are called seem to accept this. I see it constantly where people will interrupt important or pleasurable activities to belt over to answer a telephone only to find that the person on the other end is a completely new source of irritation. I point to the phone call we've all had during dinner, when you're on the toilet, when you're about to find out who shot JR or when an immediate family member has died from the survey company. There is every reason why you do not want to talk to the voice on the other end who will not let you interrupt their pre-prepared paragraph of opening speil* but for some reason we're compelled to answer. I say 'we' but I don't actually mean 'me'. I'm over it.

I would make it legal to grievously assault this person.

Attila the Wife is driven to rage at my inability to answer my phone or instantly respond to text messages. You see, I view my phone as a device for my convenience and no-one else. It is rare that I will answer a call first time because I am involved with something much more important (even if it isn't). Since when did answering a phone become more important than talking to someone face to face? Answering a phone in mid-conversation is effectively telling your companion that you value their time less than that of the person calling. I saw it all too often in my former occupation at the bottle store where customers would come up to the counter on their phones, not say a word to me and expect service with the same promptness as the person who engaged me in conversation beforehand. Some cellphone users have become supremely indifferent to their surroundings and this irks me - from the overly loud person in the public place to the person who has to send a text during a movie in a theatre, covering their immediate surroundings in an infuriating sepulchral glow. I am just praying for that taser I asked Santa for. What's worse is that I regularly saw people using their cellphones in the restaurant when they were obviously on a date. This is an act of breathtaking and selfish ignorance. How are people so oblivious to common courtesy? It really amazes me.

Do you want to know why I'm really irritated? Because I was just having a sneaky pint on the way home and my phone rang. I stupidly answered it and it was my wife.

*I no longer get calls from telemarketers or survey companies. I weathered the initial introductory storm and asked for the details of the company's address and financial officers so I could send them a bill for my time at $350/hour. I then told them I would be happy to answer any questions they had for me on this basis. You've never heard someone backpedal so fast.


Teaching
I doubt I have ever written a more heartfelt entry than this one. I hate teaching. I hate it like the most intolerant racist, the most fundamentalist religious nutter and the most outrageous sexist can hate. I loathe the obsession under which teachers feel themselves drawn to their classrooms, I cannot abide the unbelievable mania that forces teachers to talk about their classes, their schools and teaching systems constantly and without foreseeable end. I hate teachers for being who they are and I hate it with deep insight and decades of personal sufferance. Worst of all, I hate teaching because those who are drawn to it are drawn by no fault of their own - they want to pass on their love, their enthusiasm for what they do and they do it ostensibly from a misguided sense that they want to change the tiny minds that they deal with, however hopeless the case.

"Fuck fuck fuck! I could have been a midget
pornographer!"

First of all, I shall elaborate on why I feel this hate so keenly. My beloved mother was a teacher and solo parent. Teaching was the saviour of the family in that she gained a job in an economic climate when teaching jobs were as rare as rockinghorse shit and it enabled us to live and somewhat comfortable circumstances (no teacher is ever paid enough I might add). The con side was that my beloved mother went to school at 7.30am and would often not leave the building until after ten at night. This was extended whenever she was faced with an Education Review Office inspection or she had been coerced into performing some other administrative duty that had dangled a sad, skinny looking pay-based carrot in front of her. I would finish my classes just after 3pm. I would potter around in her classrom until about five when I would start to moan that I was hungry, or more often bored. At around six, my mother would relent and I would be sent on an errand to get some food.  The work-related vigil would continue until we were interrupted by the cleaner and we would suffer maybe half an hour of inconsequential prattle from the lady who smelled of Rothmans. Eventually she would look at her watch and realise that no person in their right mind would hang around a moment longer. We would then be tied to the classroom until my mother heaved a sigh of exhaustion and we would face a quarter of an hour of packing up before I would be forced to carry a million tons of books, papers and equipment. We would get home, my mother would have a coffee and then work until silly o'clock in the morning. I kid you not, she would often work on her computer until around 2-3am. Thatcher's work ethic had nothing on my mother's.

We clean up graffiti, vomit, excrement, and urine but
thank God we aren't teachers.

If the preceding paragraph reeks of exaggeration then think again: this was everyday life. When my mother began teaching prior to the first world war, it was all about teaching. Toward the end of her career and more recently it is more about administration, managing the clients (read children) and managing the expectations of the psychopaths that masquerade as their parents. Couple this with the expectations of the ERO and the Ministry of Education and you have a situation where a teacher's job is never likely to be done. Ever. I write this from another tortuous viewpoint. I was once the son of a teacher, now I am bloody well married to one. The cycle repeats and my wife only barely scratches the surface of my frustration. She thinks I am overreacting at times, but I can assure any reasonable spectator that my reaction is genuine, heartfelt and entirely reasonable. Attila the Wife leaves the house at 7.15am and returns home around 6pm. She does this for an average sort of salary and she does it because she is irredeemably drawn to impart her knowledge on other people. I want to underline that she does it for a salary, which means she would get paid the same if she turned up at 9am and left at 3pm... which as any teacher will tell you is not an option. It seems most likely that she, and thousands of other teachers, get paid around about the same as a Bangladeshi garment worker but with more legislative demands upon them. I would also hasten to add that my beloved wife fought tooth and nail to get her job in an employment climate for teachers that has seen the government announce the closure of a raft of schools, established teachers hold on to their jobs tooth and nail and schools be ever reluctant to employ starting teachers because their registration is an extra expense that they should not have to be bothered with. Anyone with a teaching job will hang on it like fingernails embedded in a cliff edge. 

My diatribe is based squarely upon my experiences being attached to teachers: it is diabolical watching someone you love being hanged, drawn and quartered by the profession  - their time eroded into nothing, their stress based outbursts lashing their nearest and dearest and ultimately driving away those who love them. The people who do this thankless career have little choice. Their loved ones have even less. The expectations of teachers reached unrealistic long ago. I am surprised more don't go postal and I would not be surprised that next to Room 3's homeroom teacher up in the water tower feeding them belts of ammunition is a less than sympathetic relative. Teachers don't even have the cathartic outlet of being able to beat children anymore. My urge to those thinking about a career in teaching to reconsider is futile - it is a calling. But the message from me to anyone who will listen, is that it is a calling that can get fucked.

Bad Weather

One can only presume these are people going
to or from a pub somewhere.

Surprisingly, this post is all about love. I love bad weather. It carries many benefits that I rather enjoy: It allows me to break out some of my more stylish attire and accoutrements such as my beautiful cloth steel tipped umbrella; it forces people indoors into the warmth of the bosom of their pubs and livingrooms; it suggests snuggling up on the scratcher with a lush elegant stout, a full-bodied tannic red or a rather regal peated whisky with a labrador snoozing on your feet to the soft crackle of a nice warm fire and rain lashing the windows. I love foul autumn and winter weather. It is as much a part of time and place as humid, sparkling summer days. What brings forth my ire is, not surprisingly, people who don't like it.

While at university I worked in a bottle store and occasionally the weather would be inclement. A customer would struggle through the door bundled up like a small child dressed by an over-vigorous parent and the first thing out of their filthy mouths when you say hello to them would generally be "It's cold isn't it?" or "Christ it's wet!". Yes, that would be that winter thing that happens from time to time. It happens every year around this time and I cannot believe that you are surprised by this. Inclement weather brings out the moaners and I cannot for the life of me understand how they cannot put up up with a bit of rain, snow and cold when it is an unfailing part of the weather cycle where we live. They could do something about it by buggering off to live somewhere else but that would be too hard. They stay, rooted in place like a pot plant doomed to suffer the elements and unable to take shelter... except that they aren't. The moaners can take cover, embrace the cold by going where it is warm and take blissful shelter. 

Looks cold doesn't it? You have absolutely no fucking idea.

I feel this way because there was a time when I couldn't take shelter. I was a soldier in a previous life and the Army has a mantra that it operates in all seasons, weathers and terrains. Generally this means that irrespective of whether it is 45⁰C and blazing sun or -15⁰C and sleeting, a soldier can expect to be ordered to remove themselves from the safety of the truck and go and dig a trench by hand for the next 20 hours and more often than not in New Zealand it involves cold and rain. I tell you, there is no greater sensation in the world than finally laying down that E-tool, taking off your boots and getting into a sleeping bag for a few snatched hours of sleep listening to the rain doing its worst against your hootchie/tent/truck canopy. I have had hypothermia before and it isn't fun but it demonstrated to me the very essence of simple pleasure: I will never forget the feeling of getting under dry cover and getting a hot brew inside me. It ranks alongside the greatest moments of orgasmic bliss. The only thing that would have made it any better was if it had been a pub. So to the moaners who say "It's bloody cold", go and put on some proper clothes, get a warm brew inside you, take yourself off somewhere and get fucked.

Supermarkets
At dinner the other night the conversation, after leaping through the hoops of teaching (which may well appear on this list) and a few other topics, wound up on supermarkets. Where do you shop? Do you buy your vegetables from such and such a place? That place is pretty cheap but I like having someone pack my bags for me. I was asked what I thought and despite the desperate effort of Attila the wife to suddenly change the subject I was away:

"I fucking hate all of you."

"I fucking hate supermarkets! I hate the stupid ads, the stupid music that I was sick of twenty years ago, the brainless mouth breathers who can't help but get in your way. I fucking hate the carparks, the pedestrians who think that somehow the rules of the road don't apply to them. I fucking hate the cardboard cutouts of shitkicker 'celebrities' peddling crap that I don't want. I fucking hate being detained by some poorly paid arsehole who wants me to try some vile sugary crap that I will never buy. I fucking hate having to queue at the checkout and having to have my stuff examined by some pimply teenager item by item. I fucking hate supermarkets. They're a repository of shitkickers, old people and the unemployable!" I had to take a deep breath because I had gone a slight purple colour and I was in danger of bursting a blood vessel in my temple.

To say I hate shopping in supermarkets isn't strictly speaking true. I quite like having a potter around a supermarket but I'll do it when the supermarket is as near empty of customers as it can get and I'll be wearing headphones to block out the Wank FM that is invariably on the store radio. A crowded supermarket is as close to hell as I'm prepared to willingly envisage and you can look under my traffic entry as to why. It is as much the proximity of masses of other people that gives me the squirts as much as being subjected to the embuggerance of having to spend hours looking for what I really want only to find they either don't have it, have never heard of it or have just that minute sold it. Mainly it's the people who incite me to murder by dawdling slowly in front of me, blocking me with their stupid selfish trollies full of rubbish that I wouldn't buy or by being in front of me in a queue. Ideally, I could take a cattle prod with me or a sack full of decent sized rocks to hit people with but the pathetic namby pamby laws of this country prevent me from unleashing the fury of justice that a supermarket full of old ladies, grossly overweight chavs and pointless idle drifters desperately needs.
I might need a little lie down after writing this one.

Christchurch Blue Star Taxis
I can't believe I haven't written this entry earlier. Get yourself a cup of coffee and a biscuit and make yourself comfortable for I am about to tell you a tale of woe: It was the day before my wedding day and I was sat on the couch with Bride To Be and Bridesmaid. "We'd better sort out a taxi to get us from the venue after the reception." says Bride To Be. "I'll ring and book a taxi." says bridesmaid, "What's the number of a good one." says she, an out of towner. "Blue Star's a good one." says I, "3799799." Bridesmaid dials the number, speaks to the operator and books two taxis for midnight under the name Bride and Groom and for a couple of other out of town guests. Sorted we think.

If you book a Blue Star taxi there is absolutely no guarantee 

it will come to pick you up even if you book it under 

'Bride and Groom' and expressly mention it is for a wedding.

It is midnight and Bride and I have said farewell to our guests after a successful wedding day. We're worn out and it is still a hot evening. There's no taxi. We're still waiting at 12.10am when Bridesmaid dials the number to check where our taxi is but has to hold for five minutes - not altogether unreasonable when you consider that it is late on a Saturday night during wedding season. When she gets through she is told that there will be a thirty to forty minute delay, making our waiting time an hour because "It's a crazy, crazy time." says the operator. Well fuck me. We're furious. The one immutable rule of any service industry that deals with weddings is DON'T FUCK WITH THE BRIDE. We offered a booking, they accepted the booking and so a legal contract was created. A very pissed off bride and groom have to be taken away from the venue in Marshlands by the new mother in law along with the out of town guests who have to be dropped off first at their motel in Papanui as they have early morning flights back to Singapore.

I write an email outlining my complaint written in language that is much more reasonable than how I was feeling about it at the time. To be fair, I receive a response from the assistant to the manager who was immediately apologetic. Her manager is away and I have to go on honeymoon, so we let things lie until the pair of us get back. A few weeks later we're home replete with the happy memories of the tropical idyll and armfuls of duty free. We take up the banner of the pissed off punter once again. I receive the response:

Thank you for your e-mail regarding the late/non arrival of your booked taxis at your wedding.

I have spoken to the call centre Shift Supervisor that was working on the night in question.  The problem was that vehicles were reluctant to travel to the venue when there was so much work going on around the central city.  It is the responsibility of the operator to get a car to your booking.  They were unsuccessful at getting a car to you at the time you required.    I would have expected the supervisor to have made your job a very high priority, given the circumstances (which they did), and I am very disappointed that we failed to have a vehicle waiting for you.

Two vehicles did arrive at the venue 45 minutes after the booked time and both took passengers away although by this time you had already departed

On behalf of Blue Star I would like to apologise for the inconvenience that the late arrival of the taxis caused and wish to assure you that we take our service standards very seriously.*

I'm sorry, what? You take a booking under bride and groom and yet you are unable to complete your end of the contract because your operators are reluctant to travel to the venue? It isn't as if it is in the middle of the fucking hood and the driver is facing any risk to life and limb. Were the drivers reluctant to pick up the bride and groom because they would rather have been driving around some pissed up wanker who is likely to vomit in their taxi? It wasn't as if this would have been a job that wasn't worth their while either. We weren't so far out that it may as well have been the moon, but it wasn't a five minute journey either.

I appreciated Blue Star's frankness in detailing what had happened that night from their end, however I wasn't satisfied that they had not made any undertaking that they would prevent this sort of thing from happening again. Blue Star were placed in a position where their subcontractors put them in breach of their contractual duties and they had no machinery in place to prevent this. As far as I am aware they still don't because my email was not responded to. The correspondence trail dried up and I am left with a simmering fury that is manifest in the form of this blog post and my willingness to tell anyone who will listen not to use Blue Star Taxis. Why should they not use Blue Star? Because Blue Star Taxis can get fucked.

*The Blue Star email contained a footer that prevented the unauthorised use or dissemination of the contents of the email. By including it in my blog post I may be in breach of this warning but if they want to take me to court for breach of confidence they are fucking well welcome. They can just see where that gets them.


It's Like, And I Was Like
I went to university recently as a so-called mature student. I thought this was a rather amusing tag given that I was only 29 and I gain enormous enjoyment from toilet humour but then I realised that there is a genuine distinction to be drawn between mature students and the rest. It's like the word like. Prior to a lecture when the theatre was awash with chatter, it peppered the air like birdshot. All of a sudden it was everywhere: every single youngish person I spoke to used the word like as a verbal crutch and so I took action. I was working alongside an 18 year old who was a similar addict and I took to counting out loud how many times he used it in conversation. He was genuinely stunned by how much he used it. Then he was genuinely irritated as I kept on counting. Then he made a genuine effort to stop. The trouble was, he couldn't. He was addicted. The last I heard, he had gone to live in Levin to hide from his shame but overuse of the word like is beyond shame. It is perverse and unnecessary and I wish I could get away with throwing rocks at people who do it. My own sweet wife sometimes commits this sin and I leap into indignant action. 
Who is to blame? The obvious answer is American television but the users themselves are responsible for its viral spread. Every individual shares the responsibility for passing this on and so like they like can like get fucked. In the High Court, Justice Jono the BArSTewARD presiding, being found guilty of the pernicious and gratuitous overuse of like carries a sentence of being pissed on in public.

Traffic

Aaaaarrrgh!
Note how the person holding up two lanes is in a BMW.

This probably involves you but don't take it personally. I don't actually think you should get fucked but if you're in a car and you're in front of me then you are the target of my ire. You'll recognise me because the interior of my vehicle is blue with bad language. This does not manifest itself as road rage, just a string of invective that infuriates my wife (who is no shrinking violet herself in traffic either). Why? Why am I like this? I was born and raised in rural New Zealand where traffic just doesn't happen. Put me on a road where there is even one other car and I feel that my personal space has been invaded. Put me in the worsening Christchurch gridlock and there is no limit to my fury. I will lambast those around me, I will vilify the person who thinks that the yellow light doesn't apply to them, I will verbally crucify whoever thinks they can make it across an intersection but ends up sitting in the middle of it because their exit isn't clear and I will implore the almighty to murder any BMW, Porsche or Audi driver because they invariably deserve it. This situation isn't helped by the fact that Christchurch's streets are undergoing works to repair broken sewers, cables and water mains and as I write Bealey Ave is down to one lane. 
The alternative to road rage is road bliss: I will be sitting my motorcycle licence soon and as I breeze by the lines of frustrated people who aren't me on my bike I shall go "Wheeeeeeeee!"

American Factor's got X Idol Talent
Oh the screaming! Screaming and booing, the crowd bay for their favourites and the candidates turn up in their multitudes to be either told to go home and never come back* or to each be told that one of the judging panel loves them. "I love you. you're very special to me" sneers Nicki Minaj (herself a candidate for this page) to the successful candidate who she has never seen before in her life. She probably also loves chalk, jerusalem artichokes and tarmac. Once Stephen Hitkicker or Fiona Uckwit gets selected they have to go through a farcical elimination process until just a handful of empty headed wannabes are left. For each and every person involved it is the most important thing in the world. It is so important that no-one can remember who these people are once the next season rolls around. And there will be a next season because it is a raging hit with us suffering not just American versions, but also Australian and New Zealand editions.

You! Yeah you. You can get fucked.

"Why can TV talent shows get fucked? Surely you can just turn off the TV?" says the voice of reason but there is one nullifying argument against and that is Attila the Wife is addicted to them and so they invasively assault the calm of home life**. I hate them, I hate the judges, I hate the audience and I hate that I cannot have them murdered by a troop of brown-shirted fascist thugs. There is one notable exception and that was one of the winners, Scotty McCreery. He looks about twelve but sounds as if he has twelve testicles and gargles with a mixture of engine oil, testosterone and bits of Hemingway's beard. Attila the Wife even bought me the CD and it wasn't even a joke! The rest of them should be pissed on in public.

*Frankie Boyle is a real bastard. He once said to an audience member at one of his shows "You there, Gigantor. I don't want to be mean or anything but I think you should stick your face in a meatgrinder and go and live in the forest. Honestly, I could watch you get raped and not show a flicker of emotion." Imagine one of the judges saying that.
**Calm of home life. That's a good one. I must remember that.

Dietitians
There is a queue to get in to hell because before entering you have to consult a dietitian. I want to make perfectly clear that I would prefer not to lump all dietitians together and send them down for a lengthy spell in prison, but as a type-1 diabetic I hate you all. I am forced to consult fairly regularly with a dietitian and the moment you walk through the door you can feel the joy being extracted from your soul (they have a little machine that does it, then they bottle it and sell it to Disney). "Mr BArSTewARD, you're a naughty boy aren't you? You know you cannot have food with sugar because it sends up your blood/glucose, you cannot have food with fat because you'll put on weight, food and drink with gluten because we think you're a coeliac, food with cholesterol because your levels are slightly elevated, drinks with caffeine because you have sleep apnoea, bread and rice because it is too high in carbohydrate and drinks with alcohol because you might have a bit of fun. Instead, I recommend that you eat sawdust." All said in a singsong voice with a condescending smile.

The only exciting restaurant opportunity a dietitian
 sees is a chance to ruin the menu. Bastards

I like to think I have fairly good control over my diabetes and enjoy making my own food from scratch, not just so I know what is in it, but also because I find it rather satisfying. I adore cheese, love cured meats and you will only pry a pint from my cold, dead hands but dietitians have resolved to take the fun out of food and out of life. They're very good at telling you what you can't eat and crap at telling you of foods you can eat that aren't flavourless. Handfuls of bran you can eat as much as you like but biersticks, nice sharp cheddar or stinky rich Roquefort and 568ml of best bitter are off the menu. On the plus side though, if you follow their directions you'll shit like a horse... you'll also die of cancer or get mown down by a truck. 
Incidentally, my dietitian is lovely - I just wish she wasn't a dietitian.

This link is a rather good commentary.

Taggers
Dear Santa, 
I have been a good little bastard this year and I would like a taser for Christmas. I won't taser people I shouldn't. All I want to do is find a tagger and send a million volts through them so I can see them writhing on the ground in shit-inducing agony. Yours sincerely, Jono the BArSTewARD.

Taggers. What a pack of pole-smokers.

If there is one thing that unites society it is a shared to desire to see Taggers pilloried. You never see them in the act but they're everywhere: greasy hoodied louts who leave their mark like a dog pissing on a post. "I'm expressing myself.", "It's street art." No it isn't. It isn't even remotely artistic, you're not Banksie and I hope you die in a housefire. 

Taggers don't confine themselves to scrawling illegible nonsense with just spraypaint either. The mouthbreathers will get something metal and etch their tags into glass and plastic surfaces, irreparably damaging them. The cost of replacement is astronomical and when hauled before the courts the bastards don't have any money to make reparations. They'll have money for party pills, cannabis and skateboards, but not enough to pay back the shop-owner whose massive front window now has an etching of the Pak N Save stickman with a massive erection. Bring back the pillory and let members of the public have a go on them with a tattoo machine is my verdict (as it is perfectly clear that Santa won't be bringing me a taser anytime soon).


I would however like to make a distinction between this and cleverly written toilet graffiti. Now that's art. You see some of the wittiest and cleverest humour on toilet walls and long may that tradition continue.


Taggers however, can get fucked.


Marmite - or in particular Sanitarium:

Shut up Ted and get back to work.

There was an inordinately large public reaction to the Marmite shortage. Sanitarium announced that due to the earthquake damage to the Papanui factory where it is made, Marmite would be off-line for the foreseeable future... probably about three months. Headlines screamed, supermarkets were stripped bare, every man and his dog was canvassed for their opinion (even the PM) and then we waited. June 2011 rolled over and Sanitarium admitted it could be longer, probably another six months. Six months later came another headline-grabber from Sanitarium - sorry everyone, it'll be October 2012 before it can appear on the shelves as we need to clean out the pipes and get the recipe right. Hang on. Eighteen months and you haven't purged the pipes? Why have you not had a test batch run through another system to perfect your recipe? You see, it isn't the waiting that has landed you on this list, although it contributes to the overall whole, it is the continual promise and fail to deliver strategy. The CEO fronts a radio show and several tv spots declaring it'll be ready and then it isn't. The latest date is in two days time and it may finally be back on supermarket shelves nation-wide and if it isn't I intend to shoot the CEO, Mr Pierre van Heerden with a blunderbuss loaded with shit.

Pierre Van Heerden
CEO, Sanitarium

'Marmageddon' sparked a thing I detest, a fad. Charity organisations did well out of trademe auctions for the stuff and I would imagine a number of other people took avaricious advantage of Marmite lovers stupidity as well. But the hoo-hah with the adverts, the pointless current events and news spots, the gushing on the Marmite facebook page? Honest to shitting God, how did it come to this? Marketing and brandwank probably. When faced with a shortage, you look to an alternative: I used to buy Marmite and preach its praises in the manner of a sectarian Northern Irish religious figure because I liked to stir people up (namely Alf, whose blog you should also peruse), but when the Marmite ran out, I went to Vegemite and I doubt I'll be going back. I shan't be bound to a fad, especially when it is run by a company that doesn't pay tax because it is owned by a religious organisation; a company that took legal action against a small shop in Nelson who chose to defy their convention with the creators of the original English marmite and import the original for a handful of clients. Sanitarium are vile, self-serving and two-faced* and they can get fucked.

*Go on, take legal action against me in defamation for that I dare you. Comes under the heading of honest opinion and is not actionable.

Yeah, fuck you you fucking little fuck.

Sandflies
Sandflies are proof that God doesn't exist. Like wasps (who can also get fucked), they serve no purpose but misery. Endemic to the West Coast of the South Island of New Zealand, Nelson and Fiordland, these tiny little fuckers love a bit of warm, sweet blood just like mine. Every year thousands of people are lured to the walkways, beaches and forests of New Zealand and if you haven't taken insect repellent with you, you're due a maddening dance every time you stop moving for even a moment. I say insect repellent  you actually need to swim in kerosene to get rid of them as commercial repellents don't work. They come in clouds that get in your hair and eyes and the first thing you know is a needle-like sensation, usually around your toes, ankles, elbows, wrists or fingers. Thankfully you'll be able to kill the culprit quite easily, but sadly you'll be left with an itchy lump with a pinprick hole in the middle that you will be stuck with for days. Even growing up in Golden Bay, there was no escape from these sadistic little fuckers and I have no tolerance for them. Sandflies, all of them, can get fucked.

Hone Harawira's Tie

Would you buy a used car off this man?

When I was sent away to school by my relieved and exasperated mother I had to learn how to tie my tie. Up until that point I had no idea but quickly learned the favoured half-Windsor of Christchurch Boys' High School students of those days. I got good at that one to the point that I could tie it in about one and a half seconds in the dark while holding seven bits of hot buttered toast in one hand and drinking a pint of milk with the other. These days I favour a full Windsor and am much more measured with my time, taking care to get the length just so and the knot looking just right. Then I loosen it, unbutton my collar, roll up my carefully ironed sleeves and go and pretend to work. A tie is a symbol of gentlemanhood and as much a symbolic gesture of respect to the observer than a statement of elegance on the part of the wearer. Professionals have worn ties for generations as symbols of their position in society, as guardians of sartorial and ethical standards. So Hone, why the fuck can you not do your tie up? Loosen the knot and tuck it under the horizontal piece and stop making yourself look like an idiot. Lord knows politics needs a rabble-rouser, but I refuse to take you seriously until you can demonstrate you can use a tie properly. Or don't use one at all. 

"You're on the air caller."
"Yes, hello. Get fucked."

Dick.

Talkback Radio
Colleen from Wanganui, Jack the taxi driver from Dunedin, Mike the plumber from Johnsonville, Steven (retired) of Nelson. You all have a phone, a mouth and an opinion and you're all wrong. You're also likely to be horribly bigoted, outraged by nothing and breathe through your mouth and yet it is big business for radio networks to have you put your rantings upon other people. Riddle it with ads, pepper it with half-arsed advertorials and finish it with the cherry on top of a host who should be locked up in a cellar designed by Josef Fritzl with Josef Fritzl. You have a phenomenon that I find absolutely intolerable. This is not democracy in action and it isn't even a tool of democracy, it is democracy for tools. It is a public platform for the ill-informed, the easily led and the dullard. If the world was run by talkback callers we would have declared war on every country in the OECD, half of the population would be put to death by hanging and the only party in parliament would be New Zealand First. Nope. Not for me thank you.