Sir Bob's smackdown of Sir Gareth Morgan last week was a delight. A 5000m-high statue, no less, of Our Saviour celebrating his "overwhelming wonderfulness" which Sir Robert would erect on land currently occupied by his Solnet House, a building he'd demolish to accommodate the grand Gareth-the-Redeemer (a la Rio de Janeiro's Christ).
But Gareth lost his sense of humour and was offended by the suggestion. He is a humble man. He loathes publicity. Shuns fame. Hates reporters forcing comment from him. Shut up Sir Bob, and leave this shy, retiring fellow be.
There are others who deserve immortalizing in granite or marble or stone.
Mai Chen for a start: selfless in her inspiration of other women. A 5000m-high dedication to boosting the turnover of Adrienne Winkelmann, and spitting in the face of racism against Asians. Ms Chen's statue should be modelled in the manner of Rosa Parks, sitting on a corner in Dallas.
Then there's her mentor Geoffrey Palmer who loyally allows his name to remain knotted to hers, when just a bucket of water could separate the 'Chen' & 'Palmer' for ever. He would look great in the image of an Easter Island statue, as has already very kindly been pointed out some years ago by the editor of Metro magazine.
In the US Supreme Court is a famous statue of the 4th Chief Justice John Marshall, seated in a chair, right hand outstretched. Sir Bob could well do (ahem) justice to that great expert in all things legal in this country, Dr Bill Hodge, by knocking down his beloved (former Fay, Richwhite) building in Auckland and commissioning a 5000m replica of the media's go-to legal expert Dr Hodge.
But surely the one person most deserving of our total respect, the current media darling, is that cheeky fellow Arthur Taylor, soon no doubt to be Sir Arthur Taylor?
The "Goody Baddie" as folks in television like to call him.
As Labour MP Kelvin Davis well knows, what Taylor doesn't know about the inside of prisons, is not worth knowing. He is the absolute authority. And from what Lisa Owen discovered in the weekend on 'The Nation', Taylor's legal mind is the finest in the country. Can we soon expect an announcement: Sir Arthur Taylor, Queens Counsel? I think so.
There is, of course, no question that Sir Arthur is telling the truth at all times when he is interviewed by these people.
The fact he has, oooh about 150 criminal convictions doesn't give pause to the breathless ones, eager to rub shoulders with the bad and infamous. Of course they don't doubt him.
Arthur didn't kill anyone.
His only misdemeanors were theft, armed robbery, fraud, burglary, escaping custody, drug possession, receiving stolen property, conspiring to sell methamphetamine.....pah! mere bagatelles.
According to "The Hub" news site Arthur is polite, has a heart of gold, and is sort of "picaresque".
That's all right then. He's a kind of Robin Hood - in his own words he "sticks up for the underdog". He just nicks stuff from rich people, like those ones with a Coromandel holiday house. They weren't using it at the time.
And meth doesn't hurt people really.
Nobody, it seems, was harmed in the making of this new hero.
Start ordering the scaffolding then, Sir Bob.
Sunday, February 28, 2016
Monday, February 22, 2016
Why Not Have All Judges Sit Naked in Court?
Eyes. Rolling. Backwards. Such a fuss from so few over a District Court Judge shedding his clobber at a private nudist camp.
The hapless bugger was innocently raking his balls (Boules, you silly woman, it's a type of petanque, Ed.] and next thing he's before the Office of the Judicial Conduct Commission. No doubt sent there by the same busy-bodies who dobbed him in to the media.
These delicate petals (Offended-Mother-Of-Six-From-Wainuiomata; you know the kind, Catholics probably) who spotted the photos in a promotional pamphlet, or some such, have come all over with an attack of the vapours. Quick, nurse, a screen and smelling salts!
Patricia Bartlett has not left the building. (Yes, she's well dead, Ed.)
Is she? Taken too early. That's what comes from not enough good Rogering.
Must have been Mary Whitehouse then. (She's dead too, Ed.)
Whatever.
Said Judge is not now allegedly fit and proper to pass judgment on sexual assault cases, cases of indecent exposure (oh give me a break!) and other such indecencies.
Just because he chose to air his giblets.
Oh dear. Maybe all judges who drive faster than 110kph should recuse themselves from hearings over defended speeding tickets.
Actually that's not a good comparison because technically it is illegal whereas baring all in private? Well, what law does that break? Where will it ever end? Barristers must always shower with their clothes on just in case they may be admitted to the Bench and someone wanders past a window and espies them in the raw? A female judge sunbathes topless at a Mediterranean beach (and who doesn't?) then some random Kiwi tourist takes a photo which gets posted on social media, recognized, and she's then deemed unfit for office?
Tut-tut yes according to "We" the self-appointed guardians of public morals. "We" are not amused. "We" are offended.
Oh please. I saw the "offensive" photographs in an article in The Daily Mail ['Every woman needs her Daily Mail' - that was a good 70s ad campaign. Would have been even better if they'd added 'two times or more a day'.]
And apart from a smudge where normally his togs would be (and it was only a tiny little smudge), there was nothing anyone could blanch at.
I've seen more sick-making images of men cold-bloodedly beheaded by ISIS savages.
If those sensitive souls who channel Pat Bartlett don't like it they should avert their eyes.
But here's a thought.
Why not have all sitting judges dispense with all their clobber - gowns and suits - and appear in court totally naked. To be fair, we could bring back wigs so the bald-headed ones wouldn't feel discriminated against.
Lady Justice is blindfolded, so she won't mind.
It would certainly improve the aesthetic appeal of the Supreme Court, and cases in all courts would proceed more rapidly. Imagine, when a porky judge tells a recidivist, "I don't wish to see you before me again," you can be pretty assured that won't happen.
The crime rate may well plummet.
Another advantage - it would let us all clearly see how the members of our judiciary lie, which way they're stacked.
From the moment the judge enters the court to the call of, "All rise", we the public would have the chance to look around and see just how effective our judges - both men and women - really are.
Yes, I know I'm being Childish and Ridiculous. About as C and R as those huffing and puffing about the naked judge.
The hapless bugger was innocently raking his balls (Boules, you silly woman, it's a type of petanque, Ed.] and next thing he's before the Office of the Judicial Conduct Commission. No doubt sent there by the same busy-bodies who dobbed him in to the media.
These delicate petals (Offended-Mother-Of-Six-From-Wainuiomata; you know the kind, Catholics probably) who spotted the photos in a promotional pamphlet, or some such, have come all over with an attack of the vapours. Quick, nurse, a screen and smelling salts!
Patricia Bartlett has not left the building. (Yes, she's well dead, Ed.)
Is she? Taken too early. That's what comes from not enough good Rogering.
Must have been Mary Whitehouse then. (She's dead too, Ed.)
Whatever.
Said Judge is not now allegedly fit and proper to pass judgment on sexual assault cases, cases of indecent exposure (oh give me a break!) and other such indecencies.
Just because he chose to air his giblets.
Oh dear. Maybe all judges who drive faster than 110kph should recuse themselves from hearings over defended speeding tickets.
Actually that's not a good comparison because technically it is illegal whereas baring all in private? Well, what law does that break? Where will it ever end? Barristers must always shower with their clothes on just in case they may be admitted to the Bench and someone wanders past a window and espies them in the raw? A female judge sunbathes topless at a Mediterranean beach (and who doesn't?) then some random Kiwi tourist takes a photo which gets posted on social media, recognized, and she's then deemed unfit for office?
Tut-tut yes according to "We" the self-appointed guardians of public morals. "We" are not amused. "We" are offended.
Oh please. I saw the "offensive" photographs in an article in The Daily Mail ['Every woman needs her Daily Mail' - that was a good 70s ad campaign. Would have been even better if they'd added 'two times or more a day'.]
And apart from a smudge where normally his togs would be (and it was only a tiny little smudge), there was nothing anyone could blanch at.
I've seen more sick-making images of men cold-bloodedly beheaded by ISIS savages.
If those sensitive souls who channel Pat Bartlett don't like it they should avert their eyes.
But here's a thought.
Why not have all sitting judges dispense with all their clobber - gowns and suits - and appear in court totally naked. To be fair, we could bring back wigs so the bald-headed ones wouldn't feel discriminated against.
Lady Justice is blindfolded, so she won't mind.
It would certainly improve the aesthetic appeal of the Supreme Court, and cases in all courts would proceed more rapidly. Imagine, when a porky judge tells a recidivist, "I don't wish to see you before me again," you can be pretty assured that won't happen.
The crime rate may well plummet.
Another advantage - it would let us all clearly see how the members of our judiciary lie, which way they're stacked.
From the moment the judge enters the court to the call of, "All rise", we the public would have the chance to look around and see just how effective our judges - both men and women - really are.
Yes, I know I'm being Childish and Ridiculous. About as C and R as those huffing and puffing about the naked judge.
Sunday, February 21, 2016
NZ Saved From Sky Fall By Road Sign
Get down on your knees and give thanks, everybody, we have all been saved from a fate worse than death by a man (presume it's a man but I could well be wrong - whoever it is doesn't have the guts to identify him or herself publicly) who calls himself a road sign.
No Right Turn.
Why would you call yourself a road sign? Perhaps he had a crush on that Australian rock band when he was little.
No matter. This person has selflessly sacrificed his time to battle away at bureaucracy, has spent who-knows-how-much taxpayers' dollars, to bring us crucial information sent to the Prime Minister by a gossip columnist.
Is your life not a whole lot better for knowing what she wrote?
Did you not wake up so much happier last week with the knowledge that Rachel Glucina texted John Key and said (drum roll please):
"Piece of work. Massive political agenda."
No! Rachel Glucina should be shot at dawn for that.
"Massive political agenda" is a pretty heinous aspersion to cast at an innocent young woman just doing her job working hard at a café, trying not to have her ponytailgate pulled.
Nobody these days has a "massive political agenda". It's just not done. Especially when they choose to tell their story on a completely neutral bombsite blog operated by a fair-minded rational person like Martyn Bradbury.
Annette King was one senior MP prepared to speak out in favour of Road Sign's heroic uncovering of the unspeakable horrors of this text message. So let's hope we can look forward to the more transparency in the future when MPs, Ministers or Prime Ministers receive unsolicited messages to which they don't reply.
There must be examples from the past....like, oh I don't know, perhaps messages Hon Annette King herself received when a sexual complaint was made against poor Darren Hughes when he was living at King's house, and which caused Hughes to resign from Parliament. Yes I know, this too was a beat-up, like the above so-called Ponytailgate.
But it's vital we know about the itty-bitty details of this minutiae. Not only does it keep the morons occupied in front of their computers all day, whining about what goes on Parliament, it makes their dreadfully bland lives just that little tiny bit less dreary.
And what would they do without something to hang a gate on?
No Right Turn.
Why would you call yourself a road sign? Perhaps he had a crush on that Australian rock band when he was little.
No matter. This person has selflessly sacrificed his time to battle away at bureaucracy, has spent who-knows-how-much taxpayers' dollars, to bring us crucial information sent to the Prime Minister by a gossip columnist.
Is your life not a whole lot better for knowing what she wrote?
Did you not wake up so much happier last week with the knowledge that Rachel Glucina texted John Key and said (drum roll please):
"Piece of work. Massive political agenda."
No! Rachel Glucina should be shot at dawn for that.
"Massive political agenda" is a pretty heinous aspersion to cast at an innocent young woman just doing her job working hard at a café, trying not to have her ponytailgate pulled.
Nobody these days has a "massive political agenda". It's just not done. Especially when they choose to tell their story on a completely neutral bombsite blog operated by a fair-minded rational person like Martyn Bradbury.
Annette King was one senior MP prepared to speak out in favour of Road Sign's heroic uncovering of the unspeakable horrors of this text message. So let's hope we can look forward to the more transparency in the future when MPs, Ministers or Prime Ministers receive unsolicited messages to which they don't reply.
There must be examples from the past....like, oh I don't know, perhaps messages Hon Annette King herself received when a sexual complaint was made against poor Darren Hughes when he was living at King's house, and which caused Hughes to resign from Parliament. Yes I know, this too was a beat-up, like the above so-called Ponytailgate.
But it's vital we know about the itty-bitty details of this minutiae. Not only does it keep the morons occupied in front of their computers all day, whining about what goes on Parliament, it makes their dreadfully bland lives just that little tiny bit less dreary.
And what would they do without something to hang a gate on?
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Journey, Journey, Journey BAN THIS WORD and NZer of the Year
Much and all as Louise Nicholas is a gutsy, tough woman, I think New Zealander of the Year Awards are rubbish.
I mean for fuck's sakes, how can you compare what she does, what she's gone through, with Richie McCaw?
Naturally we're far too precious to have a NZ Woman of the Year and a NZ Man of the Year. That, My Darlings, would never do.
Obviously (and I write this before the award is announced) the award has to go to Richie if we go by popular vote. He's an international brand. He's extraordinary. Everyone wants a piece of him. Louise Nicholas just doesn't compare with all that razzamatazz. And yet.....
Then I ask, why is Rob Fenwick even in the finalists? Who is this person? Has anyone outside the Viaduct Basin heard of him, this businessman, capitalist masquerading as a Care Bear. Cleverly, yes, but an ex adman nonetheless.
If he really wanted to "normalize environmentalism" as I think he just said to Toni Street, he'd take his "journey" (that fucking over-used word and used yet again by Louise Nicholas in her interview. Jesus Wept, we're all on a fucking journey) and stand outside every KFC and Maccydunneda and order all the munters not to chuck their Happy Meal boxes out their car windows on to the street. That's pollution.
And while they're at it, he might say, why don't they think about putting their coke cans, their other cans, and all their bottles in those recycling plastic bins provided by the Council, instead of using them for fish bins?
Nah. Sir Robert would have to protect his chinos with a pair of bicycle clips to go on this here journey.
As Karl du Fresne - the one and only decent columnist with the guts to write what he feels in the mainstream media in New Zealand http://karldufresne.blogspot.co.nz/ (yes I know that's his blog but he republishes his DomPost columns there), if you analyse litter it's mostly from junk food, beer and fizzy drinks.
The middle classes put their chardonnay bottles, camembert wrappers, Nosh paper bags and La Cigale paper in the recycling buckets. Their children go to schools which ban anything in lunchboxes which can't be recycled.
New Zealander of the Year? Why don't they give it to someone outrageous for a change? Someone who's not on a journey. Surprise us. Give us a laff?
I mean for fuck's sakes, how can you compare what she does, what she's gone through, with Richie McCaw?
Naturally we're far too precious to have a NZ Woman of the Year and a NZ Man of the Year. That, My Darlings, would never do.
Obviously (and I write this before the award is announced) the award has to go to Richie if we go by popular vote. He's an international brand. He's extraordinary. Everyone wants a piece of him. Louise Nicholas just doesn't compare with all that razzamatazz. And yet.....
Then I ask, why is Rob Fenwick even in the finalists? Who is this person? Has anyone outside the Viaduct Basin heard of him, this businessman, capitalist masquerading as a Care Bear. Cleverly, yes, but an ex adman nonetheless.
If he really wanted to "normalize environmentalism" as I think he just said to Toni Street, he'd take his "journey" (that fucking over-used word and used yet again by Louise Nicholas in her interview. Jesus Wept, we're all on a fucking journey) and stand outside every KFC and Maccydunneda and order all the munters not to chuck their Happy Meal boxes out their car windows on to the street. That's pollution.
And while they're at it, he might say, why don't they think about putting their coke cans, their other cans, and all their bottles in those recycling plastic bins provided by the Council, instead of using them for fish bins?
Nah. Sir Robert would have to protect his chinos with a pair of bicycle clips to go on this here journey.
As Karl du Fresne - the one and only decent columnist with the guts to write what he feels in the mainstream media in New Zealand http://karldufresne.blogspot.co.nz/ (yes I know that's his blog but he republishes his DomPost columns there), if you analyse litter it's mostly from junk food, beer and fizzy drinks.
The middle classes put their chardonnay bottles, camembert wrappers, Nosh paper bags and La Cigale paper in the recycling buckets. Their children go to schools which ban anything in lunchboxes which can't be recycled.
New Zealander of the Year? Why don't they give it to someone outrageous for a change? Someone who's not on a journey. Surprise us. Give us a laff?
Friday, February 12, 2016
Warning: Contains Bad Language
There have been complaints.
Swearing in my blog.
Tough shit.
This one contains worse use of language.
Such as "iconic".
Do the users of this word, the journalists and broadcasters who spread it around like explosive cow shit in an unfenced waterway, guaranteed to make a high country hiker go hyper on Instagram, even know what it means?
iconic (The Concise Oxford Dictionary) adj. 1 of or having the nature of an image or portrait. 2 (of a statue) following a conventional type. 3 Linguistics that is an icon.
This overused adjective is applied to describe everything from a Member of Parliament to some random dairy south of Timaru called Kia Ora tagged by vandals.
Please, can we have a moratorium on iconic?
moratorium n. (often foll. by on) a temporary prohibition or suspension (of an activity)
Other obscene language which is painful to the ears - "quite unique".
I am shopping for cosmetics and the otherwise very beautiful young thing compliments me on my cardigan (which is rather special) and then says, "It's quite unique".
Oh fuck please kill me now.
No. It is not quite unique. It is mass produced. If it was unique it might have been on the body of Diane Foreman. Or Posh Spice. But not me.
"Quite unique" is an oxymoron.
oxymoron n. Rhet. a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction (e.g. faith unfaithful kept him falsely true).
There is no connection between an oxymoron, and a moron who thinks cattle should die of thirst rather than briefly be allowed to drink from a river in the high heat of summer.
Swearing in my blog.
Tough shit.
This one contains worse use of language.
Such as "iconic".
Do the users of this word, the journalists and broadcasters who spread it around like explosive cow shit in an unfenced waterway, guaranteed to make a high country hiker go hyper on Instagram, even know what it means?
iconic (The Concise Oxford Dictionary) adj. 1 of or having the nature of an image or portrait. 2 (of a statue) following a conventional type. 3 Linguistics that is an icon.
This overused adjective is applied to describe everything from a Member of Parliament to some random dairy south of Timaru called Kia Ora tagged by vandals.
Please, can we have a moratorium on iconic?
moratorium n. (often foll. by on) a temporary prohibition or suspension (of an activity)
Other obscene language which is painful to the ears - "quite unique".
I am shopping for cosmetics and the otherwise very beautiful young thing compliments me on my cardigan (which is rather special) and then says, "It's quite unique".
Oh fuck please kill me now.
No. It is not quite unique. It is mass produced. If it was unique it might have been on the body of Diane Foreman. Or Posh Spice. But not me.
"Quite unique" is an oxymoron.
oxymoron n. Rhet. a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction (e.g. faith unfaithful kept him falsely true).
There is no connection between an oxymoron, and a moron who thinks cattle should die of thirst rather than briefly be allowed to drink from a river in the high heat of summer.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Lunch With Dirty Deaf Granddad
Lunch with Dirty Deaf Granddad this week.
Dirty Deaf Granddad knows a lot about life. He's been around a while, seen a lot, knows many people, but DDG doesn't know he's hard of hearing. Very hard of hearing. So bloody hard you have to shout yourself hoarse. DDG accuses you of sitting there whispering at him and there is nothing worse than trying to repeat your stories over and over because every story, even if it's not a funny story, and I don't do funny stories, loses its shine when it is told for the third or fourth time.
So you end up with DDG saying, "Why are you telling me this? What is your point?"
You begin to wonder yourself. You start to contemplate getting up and going home. But DDG enjoys these lunches so much you decide to tough it out. It's a lunch that will last all day.
DDG drinks low alc beer. You ask for a soft drink. He says no he's only got hard liquor and thinks that is terribly funny. Ha ha.
So you open DDG's fridge and help yourself to a wine. By this time DDG is on to his second beer, even though he has told you he's sworn off alcohol. And meat.
It's now well past lunch time and you still haven't eaten and DDG is raving on about Muslims, and the bloody natives, and the underclasses, and godknowswhatelseiswrongwiththefuckingworldtoday. That oaf Donald Trump. He's a buffoon.
And what's Hillary Clinton got to offer? Just Hillary. That's what.
And on it goes while I keep returning to the fridge to fill my wines and DDG keeps going out to have a pee. He comes back to explain why. When we get old, DDG says, our bladders lose their stretch and don't go back into a nice little elasticised bag like they used to. He uses his hands to demonstrate. So my old bladder, he says, is like a hard-skinned basketball - don't screw up your face like that girl, he says to me, this is scientific - and I have to empty mine all the time.
I don't want to think about DDG's bladder so I talk about the newspapers. Mistake.
On and on and on he complains until finally we go and eat. Chicken.
DDG talks about roots he has had. Ewww.
The waitress has a nose ring, purple hair, shaved at the sides, and is wearing tiny black shorts with stockings underneath. Good God Girl says DDG what happened to your nose? She just smiles and takes his order. She's from Lancashire. She knows her chops. At least you don't have tattoos, he says. Not where you can see them, she says back.
He pays the bill and leaves a big tip. Make sure the owner gives it to you, you clever girl from Lancashire, DDG tells her, and I take DDG back home to his seat by the window overlooking the sea. It's five o'clock. Time for his nap.
Dirty Deaf Granddad knows a lot about life. He's been around a while, seen a lot, knows many people, but DDG doesn't know he's hard of hearing. Very hard of hearing. So bloody hard you have to shout yourself hoarse. DDG accuses you of sitting there whispering at him and there is nothing worse than trying to repeat your stories over and over because every story, even if it's not a funny story, and I don't do funny stories, loses its shine when it is told for the third or fourth time.
So you end up with DDG saying, "Why are you telling me this? What is your point?"
You begin to wonder yourself. You start to contemplate getting up and going home. But DDG enjoys these lunches so much you decide to tough it out. It's a lunch that will last all day.
DDG drinks low alc beer. You ask for a soft drink. He says no he's only got hard liquor and thinks that is terribly funny. Ha ha.
So you open DDG's fridge and help yourself to a wine. By this time DDG is on to his second beer, even though he has told you he's sworn off alcohol. And meat.
It's now well past lunch time and you still haven't eaten and DDG is raving on about Muslims, and the bloody natives, and the underclasses, and godknowswhatelseiswrongwiththefuckingworldtoday. That oaf Donald Trump. He's a buffoon.
And what's Hillary Clinton got to offer? Just Hillary. That's what.
And on it goes while I keep returning to the fridge to fill my wines and DDG keeps going out to have a pee. He comes back to explain why. When we get old, DDG says, our bladders lose their stretch and don't go back into a nice little elasticised bag like they used to. He uses his hands to demonstrate. So my old bladder, he says, is like a hard-skinned basketball - don't screw up your face like that girl, he says to me, this is scientific - and I have to empty mine all the time.
I don't want to think about DDG's bladder so I talk about the newspapers. Mistake.
On and on and on he complains until finally we go and eat. Chicken.
DDG talks about roots he has had. Ewww.
The waitress has a nose ring, purple hair, shaved at the sides, and is wearing tiny black shorts with stockings underneath. Good God Girl says DDG what happened to your nose? She just smiles and takes his order. She's from Lancashire. She knows her chops. At least you don't have tattoos, he says. Not where you can see them, she says back.
He pays the bill and leaves a big tip. Make sure the owner gives it to you, you clever girl from Lancashire, DDG tells her, and I take DDG back home to his seat by the window overlooking the sea. It's five o'clock. Time for his nap.
Monday, February 8, 2016
What About Cruelty Against Vegetables? Ever Considered That?
No, they're pushed aside and forgotten. It's all about the animals.
There was another kind of protest last Friday down our way - a band of nosey parkers trying to stop other people's fun.
What was it H L Mencken once said about puritanism? The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, must be happy?
Across the country some people who have got it into their heads that rodeos should be banned because bull riding, and making horses buck, constitutes cruelty to animals. This is the same mentality which thinks boxing is on par with thuggery. It's ignorance.
Undoubtedly there have been, are, always will be, individuals who are cruel to bulls and horses, whether they love the sport of rodeos or not. But these days vets must be in attendance. Standards must not be breached. It is rough and tough. Hard and fast. Sometimes animals are injured, just like on farms; in real life. And yes, it's cruel and painful - to the men and women crazy and gutsy and skillful enough to participate.
But a bunch of townies think this fun should be ended.
They won't stop at this, believe me. Once they succeed with rodeos, they will get polo banned. They will then move on to thoroughbred racing. Trotting and pacing. Then gymkhanas and pony clubs.
Why stop there? Take this to its logical conclusion and is it not cruel, in a do-gooder's eyes, to break in a horse to wear a bridle with a bit in its mouth, a saddle, nail iron shoes to its hooves, and put a human on its back with a whip, kicking its flanks and bending said horse to his or her will?
I loathe cruelty to animals - it's one of the finest examples of cowardice but these protestors are picking easy targets. Do we see them standing protesting outside the gates of gang houses where half-starved, unloved, non-exercised fighting dogs are chained up 24/7?
And is it nice to keep a dog cooped up in a high-rise apartment all day, let out to pooh on the balcony perhaps, occasionally feeling the grass under its feet if the owner has time a couple of times a week?
Perhaps not, but that's not my business. I don't like it but I'm not going to interfere in someone else's companionship when I'm fortunate enough to live on a farm.
If these busy-bodies don't like rodeos where no cruelty is taking place they should look the other way.
Quote of the day went to the rodeo organizer who said the protestors didn't even come from Wairarapa; they're out of an Auckland vegan restaurant, he said, wouldn't know one end of the bull from another.
And who knows how the veges feel about being killed and eaten? Remember, cabbages have hearts. Scarlet beans can run, and spuds have eyes. That's why my Dad always said never have a root in a tuber patch.
There was another kind of protest last Friday down our way - a band of nosey parkers trying to stop other people's fun.
What was it H L Mencken once said about puritanism? The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, must be happy?
Across the country some people who have got it into their heads that rodeos should be banned because bull riding, and making horses buck, constitutes cruelty to animals. This is the same mentality which thinks boxing is on par with thuggery. It's ignorance.
Undoubtedly there have been, are, always will be, individuals who are cruel to bulls and horses, whether they love the sport of rodeos or not. But these days vets must be in attendance. Standards must not be breached. It is rough and tough. Hard and fast. Sometimes animals are injured, just like on farms; in real life. And yes, it's cruel and painful - to the men and women crazy and gutsy and skillful enough to participate.
But a bunch of townies think this fun should be ended.
They won't stop at this, believe me. Once they succeed with rodeos, they will get polo banned. They will then move on to thoroughbred racing. Trotting and pacing. Then gymkhanas and pony clubs.
Why stop there? Take this to its logical conclusion and is it not cruel, in a do-gooder's eyes, to break in a horse to wear a bridle with a bit in its mouth, a saddle, nail iron shoes to its hooves, and put a human on its back with a whip, kicking its flanks and bending said horse to his or her will?
I loathe cruelty to animals - it's one of the finest examples of cowardice but these protestors are picking easy targets. Do we see them standing protesting outside the gates of gang houses where half-starved, unloved, non-exercised fighting dogs are chained up 24/7?
And is it nice to keep a dog cooped up in a high-rise apartment all day, let out to pooh on the balcony perhaps, occasionally feeling the grass under its feet if the owner has time a couple of times a week?
Perhaps not, but that's not my business. I don't like it but I'm not going to interfere in someone else's companionship when I'm fortunate enough to live on a farm.
If these busy-bodies don't like rodeos where no cruelty is taking place they should look the other way.
Quote of the day went to the rodeo organizer who said the protestors didn't even come from Wairarapa; they're out of an Auckland vegan restaurant, he said, wouldn't know one end of the bull from another.
And who knows how the veges feel about being killed and eaten? Remember, cabbages have hearts. Scarlet beans can run, and spuds have eyes. That's why my Dad always said never have a root in a tuber patch.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
TPPA, Waitangi Day & Other First World Problems
Today a whole lot of people in Auckland will stroll along in the sun to the Convention Centre, singing songs and waving their gladioli, to welcome visitors to Aotearoa.
Further up the line about a dozen Tangata Whenua are a bit hot and bothered - again! - about the Prime Minister visiting Waitangi.
Meanwhile dozens and dozens will enjoy the day - and ignore the Prime Minister - but in turn their enjoyment will be overlooked by the media.
Many of us don't care what John Key or the Government - or any politicians - do on Waitangi Day.
Plus ca change plus ca meme chose (and please excuse the lack of accents but I don't know how to do them on the blog).
That's those issues done and dusted then. If you want to get up to speed on the TPPA with facts as opposed to speculation, I suggest you read Stephen Jacobi's article from Monday's Herald:
http://www.nzherald.co.nz/business/news/article.cfm?c_id=3&objectid=11582655
Why are these first world problems? Go to Vietnam and see how thousands of people will be lifted out of poverty by their country being able to trade freely with 11 other nations. That's if it finally eventuates.
We are the lucky ones. We don't desperately need this deal, with our fridges, tap water, stoves, sanitation. It's a nice-to-have.
Enough lecturing.
Tomorrow is (cough cough) a day when I hurtle startlingly closer to heading down to WINZ and signing up for Winston's Gold Card. So tonight Mr C is whisking me off over the hills and far away to a secret destination, I know not where.
I have only been told to scrub up out of my vineyard tar, wear something posh, be ready and waiting in the capital city at 8.15 where I know I shall be given a right royal.........spoiling, you dirty minded you. What did you think I was going to say?
We won't be taking any notice of this lemon-lipped tart:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/health/12136938/Do-as-I-do-think-about-cancer-before-you-have-a-glass-of-wine-says-chief-medical-officer.html?fb_ref=Default
You may not hear from me for a few days. It's my birthday. It's all about me.
Further up the line about a dozen Tangata Whenua are a bit hot and bothered - again! - about the Prime Minister visiting Waitangi.
Meanwhile dozens and dozens will enjoy the day - and ignore the Prime Minister - but in turn their enjoyment will be overlooked by the media.
Many of us don't care what John Key or the Government - or any politicians - do on Waitangi Day.
Plus ca change plus ca meme chose (and please excuse the lack of accents but I don't know how to do them on the blog).
That's those issues done and dusted then. If you want to get up to speed on the TPPA with facts as opposed to speculation, I suggest you read Stephen Jacobi's article from Monday's Herald:
http://www.nzherald.co.nz/business/news/article.cfm?c_id=3&objectid=11582655
Why are these first world problems? Go to Vietnam and see how thousands of people will be lifted out of poverty by their country being able to trade freely with 11 other nations. That's if it finally eventuates.
We are the lucky ones. We don't desperately need this deal, with our fridges, tap water, stoves, sanitation. It's a nice-to-have.
Enough lecturing.
Tomorrow is (cough cough) a day when I hurtle startlingly closer to heading down to WINZ and signing up for Winston's Gold Card. So tonight Mr C is whisking me off over the hills and far away to a secret destination, I know not where.
I have only been told to scrub up out of my vineyard tar, wear something posh, be ready and waiting in the capital city at 8.15 where I know I shall be given a right royal.........spoiling, you dirty minded you. What did you think I was going to say?
We won't be taking any notice of this lemon-lipped tart:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/health/12136938/Do-as-I-do-think-about-cancer-before-you-have-a-glass-of-wine-says-chief-medical-officer.html?fb_ref=Default
You may not hear from me for a few days. It's my birthday. It's all about me.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Mrs C's Recipe for Coping in the Modern World
Do you know there is a condition called FOMO?
Furthermore, those who reject this affliction have invented their own suffering, that is, FOBI (it may be something else but I simply don't have the energy to Google such nonsense).
FOMO stands for Fear Of Missing Out, though why an acronym is used instead of all four words beats me. Then again I think I do know. This select herd of paranoid -ists, clamouring to be included, these deluded social gagas deliberately use an acronym so others ARE (that's not an acronym) left out. Hence they create their own little clique.
Clever.
But rude.
FOBIs have a Fear Of Being Included.
Really? Invite them to something and they make sure there's free booze before they accept then they're the last to leave.
It's so very chi-chi now to dispense entirely with words and use the first letters only - have you noticed? It's an outbreak - Bureaucratitis. Margaret Chan could declare this, in her best Queen Elizabeth II voice, A World Wide Emergency.
RATFLMFAO. Yes, took me a while to work that out too; about the same time it takes me to send a text saying, "I'm on my way" - that is, ten minutes. And don't allow your children to mock your tardiness while they execute the Gettysburg Address on their I-phone in ten seconds using two thumbs. Just remind them you once taught them to use a knife and fork and tie their shoelaces.
Oh, but we don't teach toddlers to use knives and forks these days do we? Too controlling.
Once, a long time ago when Mrs C was a teenager the only acronym was SWALK. No teenager would even know how to write a letter, put it in an envelope and post it these days.
And when these young things aren't UTTTST or RATFLTFAOATP; OIJSOMMWHSB or WDJKJSTFU they are typing very odd letters for their employers.
To wit.
A friend is always telling me I need to find a new, younger husband (he's mad) but to humour him, while on holiday in Samoa last week I sent this photo of a strong, polite, handsome 24-year-old I met.
As my friend was out of town, his personal assistant replied saying "if appropriate" he would respond upon his return.
"If appropriate"? The corollary to this was my letter could be deemed "inappropriate", like picking one's nose, scratching one's bum, or farting in church.
Needless to say the letter was strewn with spelling mistakes and apostrophes were scattered about like sparrow poos.
Sigh.
I find only one way to cope with this. You must not try to compete. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to join this ridiculous trend and try to look hip. Mrs C will share with you her recipe for the Modern World.
Go to the cellar. Choose a good bubbly, Viognier, or a red of your desire - Syrah or Pinot.
Gently remove the cork, or screwcap is fine (we are not snobs), pour yourself a glass or three, and put your feet up.
Furthermore, those who reject this affliction have invented their own suffering, that is, FOBI (it may be something else but I simply don't have the energy to Google such nonsense).
FOMO stands for Fear Of Missing Out, though why an acronym is used instead of all four words beats me. Then again I think I do know. This select herd of paranoid -ists, clamouring to be included, these deluded social gagas deliberately use an acronym so others ARE (that's not an acronym) left out. Hence they create their own little clique.
Clever.
But rude.
FOBIs have a Fear Of Being Included.
Really? Invite them to something and they make sure there's free booze before they accept then they're the last to leave.
It's so very chi-chi now to dispense entirely with words and use the first letters only - have you noticed? It's an outbreak - Bureaucratitis. Margaret Chan could declare this, in her best Queen Elizabeth II voice, A World Wide Emergency.
RATFLMFAO. Yes, took me a while to work that out too; about the same time it takes me to send a text saying, "I'm on my way" - that is, ten minutes. And don't allow your children to mock your tardiness while they execute the Gettysburg Address on their I-phone in ten seconds using two thumbs. Just remind them you once taught them to use a knife and fork and tie their shoelaces.
Oh, but we don't teach toddlers to use knives and forks these days do we? Too controlling.
Once, a long time ago when Mrs C was a teenager the only acronym was SWALK. No teenager would even know how to write a letter, put it in an envelope and post it these days.
And when these young things aren't UTTTST or RATFLTFAOATP; OIJSOMMWHSB or WDJKJSTFU they are typing very odd letters for their employers.
To wit.
A friend is always telling me I need to find a new, younger husband (he's mad) but to humour him, while on holiday in Samoa last week I sent this photo of a strong, polite, handsome 24-year-old I met.
As my friend was out of town, his personal assistant replied saying "if appropriate" he would respond upon his return.
"If appropriate"? The corollary to this was my letter could be deemed "inappropriate", like picking one's nose, scratching one's bum, or farting in church.
Needless to say the letter was strewn with spelling mistakes and apostrophes were scattered about like sparrow poos.
Sigh.
I find only one way to cope with this. You must not try to compete. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to join this ridiculous trend and try to look hip. Mrs C will share with you her recipe for the Modern World.
Go to the cellar. Choose a good bubbly, Viognier, or a red of your desire - Syrah or Pinot.
Gently remove the cork, or screwcap is fine (we are not snobs), pour yourself a glass or three, and put your feet up.
Monday, February 1, 2016
Bitchin' With the Mista & Missus
Don't you hate it when couples bitch with their little private passive aggressive agendas in company?
You know the scenario. Women are especially good at it because they play games so well. Men are pretty straightforward (having only been in heterosexual relationships that's all I'm qualified to comment on, and I've been in a few, so I know a bit about it). Men will just say, "Sorry, you're wrong." Or, "You stupid bitch, you're wrong." Or, "You mad ignorant fucking c*** you don't know what you're talking about." Depending on their level of intelligence, subtlety, and how much they value a) the relationship and b) their balls. Not having them kicked, that is.
Women, on the other hand, will cut in to his conversation and say, "Now sweetie [note the sweetie, which means he is anything but her sweetie] remember, you went that way and bought the tickets and I distinctly recall that I was sitting chatting to Blah Blah and you came back and asked me what I thought and I looked up the catalogue and I said it wasn't $300 it was $400 and you said you could have sworn it was $300 and it was like the time you were mistaken about the colour of that car which you cut off when we were driving along the motorway and you swore at him and I said no you were the one who cut him off and you said a rude word at me and I said would you kindly refrain from using language like that in front of the children they are in the teenage years now and their brains are very vulnerable and you muttered under your breath at me and I asked you to repeat what you said, share it so we could all hear it if it was so important and you were extremely rude and said if I carried on like the woman in the Big Wednesday advertisement then you'd be forced to behave like the poor henpecked man who revved the engine of his boat....."
You get my drift.
Why do they stay together in such a toxic relationship? Perhaps they don't notice they're doing it, like the How To Boil a Frog Without Him Jumping Away theory - you know, first you put the frog in cold water then very slowly turn up the temperature without him realizing it's getting hot in there.
I looked up "Ask Aunt Daisy!" for help but she had no handy hints on this one, nor any on relationships or marriage. None on sex at all, though she did have this to say about meat:
To Sweeten - If meat begins to go slightly sour, place out of doors in the cool air overnight.
Can't see that helping. Put the dog out on the porch, and he's gonna stray. Just ask Hillary.
Why does this trouble me? Because I find it exceptionally rude and I don't like discourteous behaviour. Save your dirty linen for your own washing line. We're not interested in your petty quarrels; they're boring.
Yes, he might be wrong. She might be talking toss. But think on this, do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?
You know the scenario. Women are especially good at it because they play games so well. Men are pretty straightforward (having only been in heterosexual relationships that's all I'm qualified to comment on, and I've been in a few, so I know a bit about it). Men will just say, "Sorry, you're wrong." Or, "You stupid bitch, you're wrong." Or, "You mad ignorant fucking c*** you don't know what you're talking about." Depending on their level of intelligence, subtlety, and how much they value a) the relationship and b) their balls. Not having them kicked, that is.
Women, on the other hand, will cut in to his conversation and say, "Now sweetie [note the sweetie, which means he is anything but her sweetie] remember, you went that way and bought the tickets and I distinctly recall that I was sitting chatting to Blah Blah and you came back and asked me what I thought and I looked up the catalogue and I said it wasn't $300 it was $400 and you said you could have sworn it was $300 and it was like the time you were mistaken about the colour of that car which you cut off when we were driving along the motorway and you swore at him and I said no you were the one who cut him off and you said a rude word at me and I said would you kindly refrain from using language like that in front of the children they are in the teenage years now and their brains are very vulnerable and you muttered under your breath at me and I asked you to repeat what you said, share it so we could all hear it if it was so important and you were extremely rude and said if I carried on like the woman in the Big Wednesday advertisement then you'd be forced to behave like the poor henpecked man who revved the engine of his boat....."
You get my drift.
Why do they stay together in such a toxic relationship? Perhaps they don't notice they're doing it, like the How To Boil a Frog Without Him Jumping Away theory - you know, first you put the frog in cold water then very slowly turn up the temperature without him realizing it's getting hot in there.
I looked up "Ask Aunt Daisy!" for help but she had no handy hints on this one, nor any on relationships or marriage. None on sex at all, though she did have this to say about meat:
To Sweeten - If meat begins to go slightly sour, place out of doors in the cool air overnight.
Can't see that helping. Put the dog out on the porch, and he's gonna stray. Just ask Hillary.
Why does this trouble me? Because I find it exceptionally rude and I don't like discourteous behaviour. Save your dirty linen for your own washing line. We're not interested in your petty quarrels; they're boring.
Yes, he might be wrong. She might be talking toss. But think on this, do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?
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