Swimming Pool

Saw this DVD called Swimming Pool, with Charlotte Rampling, Ludivine Sagnier & Charles Dance, & directed by Francois Ozon. And it's your typical art-house French film about naked aging & young hotties lounging around a swimming pool, except it's in English.

Honestly, is there a movie where Charlotte Rampling keeps her clothes on? But to be fair, it's a short scene & she's looking pretty flash for 60ish. Sagnier on the other hand, is naked pretty much the whole time. And looking REALLY flash for 20ish.

Rampling is a prim British crime novelist along the lines of Ruth Rendell. Her publisher gives her the use of his house in France so she can work on her new book. At first, everything is just peachy, but then, the publisher's over-sexed daughter turns up to ruin the peace with loud music & even louder sex.

The women detest each other at first, but slowly begin to warm. Then there's a violent crime. And then... there is a scene near the end that causes you to question everything (yes, everything) you've seen so far.

This is a nice easy film to critique actually, because saying anything is out of the question without spoiling it.

The pace is languid. The scenery, including the two leads, is highly decorative. The acting is great - Sagnier holds her own with the more experienced Rampling too. The swimming pool itself is... a metaphor! Yes! See if you can spot it.

Ozon also directed the amusing 8 Femmes which had Sagnier in the ensemble cast, and Sous le Sable, with Rampling.

Anyway, have a look.

So I need a new job - hire me goddamit!

Sigh... I suppose I'll have to get off my chuff & do something. Much as I hate to have to admit my wife has been right all along.

Problem is... well there are two actually: 1. I'd really like to do something that I really enjoy, can get passionate about even; And 2. it has to pay quite a lot of money, because the job I'm bored with, does & me & the bank have this symbiotic relationship thing going on. I owe them a truckload of money, and they seem to insist that I keep paying it back.

So what do I do now? Hmm... how to explain it... I run a little team of analysts that do all the statistical reporting for a largish corporation. You often see the results of my work in the newspaper. But you woudn't know it probably.

Anyway... how did I get here? Accident really.

I studied English Lit at varsity. I was not the most dedicated student, but university did wonders for my self confidence & social life... My first job was with State Coal Mines.. part of the Ministry of Energy at the time. Actually, my first job was buying & importing mining machinery. But after a a year or so, I blagged my way into their Information Unit - and there my job was producing the in-house magazine, writing speeches & press releases, a short history of coal mining in NZ which got sent to schools & for all I know might still be being used somewhere, and generally having a grand old time. When the whole gig ended, one of the Deputy Secretaries of Energy gave us all a pep talk, said he hoped we'd all enjoyed ourselves... looked straight at me & said "I know you did."

Then... we were "corporatised". I mean, I'm not going to go into the mechanics of the thing, but we were the first government agency to be... laid off essentially. I spent about 3 months lazily cruising for a new job, I imagined I'd probably end up in an advertising agency (don't ask me why) or something. I think I saw myself lunching & carousing with models & actresses... don't even bother telling me advertising isn't like that - a job's what you make it right?

What I actually did was get an interview for a rotating shift computer operator job with a sharebroking firm. It paid well, Summer was coming (it was a great summer that year) and I could see some advantages to having days off...

The sharebrokers was fascinating... when I was interviewed, they made a big thing of mentioning the lucrative profit sharing scheme. Man... it sounded great. Figured I'd get a real job in Autumn. So I signed up & started working with these flashy sharebrokers. One of my most embarrassing professional moments involved a room full of attractive female wannabee Dynasty foreign exchange dealers. I was trying to fix their computer system. I came running down from the computer room upstairs, fronted up to this room full of 80s big hair, breasts & shoulder pads, took a deep breath, and said "Sorry, I can't get it up." There was quite a long silence actually, before they all fell about laughing at my expense.

It was early October, 1987.

In some ways the worldwide sharemarket crash made things even more interesting. in about 6 months, I went from being the lowliest member of their 6 person IT unit, to being the entire IT Unit. The learning curve was steep, and in a couple of years I was marketable enough to score a Systems Team Leader position with the NZ branch of a Fortune 500 company. That was interesting too, but in a different way. And I've been stuck in the IT field ever since.

Back to the sharebrokers though briefly... our Computer Room was on the 3rd floor of a building in Panama Street (it's not there anymore), next door to the corporate kitchen, and across the hall from the corporate wine cellar. Our corporate chef was a lovely woman called Wendy - I think she's got a cool restaurant going in Martinborough at the moment. It meant that the kitchen was eminently raidable in the early hours.

Additionally, Wendy's affable son, John, and some others (including a cute law student called Sue, and a funny guy who was involved in Canteen called Brendan), would come in in the evenings & stuff envelopes for mailouts. We'd all sit around the boardroom table, drinking corporate wine & eating left over corporate lunches, watching TV. To explain a little, my job involved endless hours of waiting for backups to complete, so I wasn't necessarily skiving off.

Wendy's son John eventually became a trainee sharebroker. then he finished his masters & decided to become a journalist. The firm's partners warned him he'd never get anywhere in journalism. You be the judge. (Actually, I used to attend the brokers' monday morning briefings & I formed the theory that if you did the exact opposite of what they recommended, you'd make a lot more money. I really should have tried to prove that I think.)

So... back to me... I need a new job. Something I enjoy doing as much as I enjoy stuffing around with these blogs. does such a thing exist? Would anyone hire me?

What can I do... well, let's ignore the IT thing for now, I'm just a technocrat these days. Staff management & checking their work (we have to be right) takes up most of my time.

Possibly I can write a little - I like to think so anyway. I'm not sure if I could do technical writing though. I'd probably wizen up & die if I tried. I reckon I could do a column... but I also reckon that market is pretty much saturated at the moment.

I CAN actually do the public speaking thing too, not so flash if I have to prepare a speech - I've found I'm boring & stilted then. But if I know what I'm talking about, it seems I can engage a group, and pretty much wing it for as long as you like.

Also... now that I think about it, I'm a great problem solver.

How does this translate into big bucks & financial security? I haven't the slightest idea.

Advice please! I throw the problem over to the floor....

I'll try not to make a habit of writing about myself. Or family & friends (although there is a short story about my mum & a guy who liked safari suits that I've been kicking around in my mind. - younger bro - does mum still read this?)

Some thoughts on that dancing show.

First up: Mrs Llew is hooked. Once we surf on in, you surf on out at your peril.

Besides, we took dancing lessons for a while. I know what I'm talking about. Trust me.

Dancing With The Stars | TV ONE PROGRAMMES | TV ONE | tvnz.co.nz

So those thoughts I mentioned.

1) It's harder for the men - they have to lead (theoretically) and think ahead. I don't know about you guys, but I find that pretty challenging.

2) Why is Bernice so crap at this? She looked brilliant last night doing those cartwheels on the beach.

3) Why is Norm so good at this? My theory (scoffed at in the confort of my own home) is that he's (or was) a professional athlete, well used to taking instruction on where & when to put his feet. His partner is a bit scary though.

4) No. 3 does not seem to apply to Bernice.

5) Who the fuck would name their son d'Artagnan?

6) I'm pretty sure Theresa Healey was in some of my English classes at Varsity. Why does she look 10 years younger than me?

7) The "They're in Foveaux Strait" comment from Tim was pretty funny.

8) That Nerida is pretty cute. Have you noticed that she's got pointy ears? Mrs Llew told me off for being rude when I mentioned it, but I wasn't. I think they're pretty cool. Nice eyes too.

9) That guy when asked who was his favourite pair, who answered "Nerida". Hah! Hope his wife was watching.

10) Who is responsible for giving work to Jason Gunn, anyway?

11) Wasn't it hilarious that Nicky got sent home first, after all the primping in the mags?

So go to the link above & download the wallpaper...

Stand the hell back, I'm gonna post it!

Apologies for the mild profanity above. I've been sitting on this post for soooo long now, and being so unable to resist tinkering with it that I was about to add in the tale, from when I was 13, of when I nearly saw my first pair of female breasts.

It may not be apparent yet, but this is part of a Wellington Blogosphere initiative to tell the world why we love Wellington, and for those of us not born here, what brought us to this fair city.

Kind of like that one guy who does a mexican wave all by himself. Or not. Alan over at Half-pie has his ready too. The Wellingtonist may very well link to everyone who has a go. So have at it Wellingtonians.

I was brought to Wellington by my parents, in January 1968. I spent the first 8 years of my life in a smallish village in South Wales.

As far as I'm aware, we emigrated from the "Old Country" because my dad got bored. I have hazy recollections of destinations being discussed: South Africa, Canada, Australia, and some place that sounded like "Hawkeland", in New Zealand, which sounded intriguing. But before we knew it, dad had a job lined up in cosmopolitan Wainuiomata.

Legend has it that my great grandfather "Pop", warned my mother to reconsider the move to this "Lower Hutt": "You're used to electricity." he advised. Other, equally well-travelled relatives assumed that the Hutt Valley consisted literally of two huts, Upper & Lower, and the latter was to be our home... grass skirts not included. And don't mention the natives... luckily, my dad was raised on a diet of John Wayne, Randolph Scott & James Stewart pioneering westerns, he was confident he knew what he was doing.

We travelled to NZ on the Shaw Savill liner, Southern Cross. If memory serves, the voyage took 6 weeks, with stops at Panama, Curacao, Trinidad & Tobago, Fiji, Tahiti, and possibly some places I've forgotten too. Long voyages on ocean liners are colossally boring.

My first recollection of Wellington was as the ship sailed into the harbour & berthed at the Overseas Terminal. I remember how bright all the houses in Oriental bay looked. It must have been a marvelous Summer's day. We were met by the principal of Wainui College, who whisked us out to the Hutt, over the Wainui hill road, and dropped us at the fabulous Empire Hotel. Where we stayed for several days until someone rescued us & took us in until a house was found & readied for us..

Meanwhile, our furniture was still in Southampton & remained there for several months due to a wharfie strike.

In the first few months in our new country, Wellington experienced quite a large earthquake - I remember the clock fell of the wall at school & hit some kid on the head - while the rest of us quailed under our desks, and the Wahine Day storm. My mum asked her friends if it was always like this...

Four years later, we returned to the UK for a year. Once again by ocean liner (I did not fly until I was 25, and that was in a 4 seater piloted by a mate), this time Chandris Line's Ellinis (4 weeks), travelling back much the same way we had come 4 years earlier. I think my parents were testing the waters. Deciding once & for all where they would like to live. One year later, the choice having been made, we were sailing back once again, to NZ, stopping at Rotterdam, the Canary Islands, Capetown...

Once again, I was struck by the bright colours of the houses in Oriental Bay. And once again, we were ensconced in the Hutt Valley.

When of a sufficient age that I could travel with my friends from the Hutt into Wellington for movies & the like, it was to a Wellington much different to what it is now. For a start, there were no cafes, there were a handful of "milk bars", like the Lido, and the Paramount, so named because they were adjacent to cinemas of the same name. Indeed, those two cinemas were different places too, both specialising in it seemed, alternate programmes of European "Art House" (Ingmar Bergman), and soft core pornography (The X-Rated Adventures of Pinnochio - It's Not His Nose that Grows), although to our novice viewing tastes, there wasn't much difference between the two genres. The eponymous milk bars also did very hearty breakfasts, which came in handy in later years when suffering from hangovers... many a Saturday morning was spent consuming balck coffee & "grease" at the Lido, "brunch" being a poncy JAFA term not yet introduced to these parts.

Dining out in the evenings was usually a case of queueing for fish & chips, burgers or Chinese takeaway on the way home from the pub. Until the legendary Mexican Cantina came along, with its innovative booking system which allowed you to leave your name & number of diners on a blackboard, head to the nearest pub for 2-3 hours & by the time you got back, you were at the top of the list & seated nearly straight away. That place was the best.

Friday nights were spent at the historic Barrett's Hotel (pretty much where Michael Hill Jewellers is beside Plimmer Steps - a dodgy looking street preacher was usually outside handing tracts to passers by & calling out "Jesus Saves" even then. Goodness knows how long he'd been there). I swear to you that it was possible to get tanked, enjoy an open beef sandwich & still have the trainfare home from $5.

I eventually moved to a flat in Aro valley when I got sick of commuting to Victoria University. And I've been in Wellington city ever since. It is doubtful now that I would live anywhere else, although I flirted briefly with the idea of moving to the South of France, but had I made that move, I'm quite sure Wellington would have remained my home & that I would have returned in time.

There is much I love about Wellington. The fact that you can pretty much walk anywhere (excluding the barbarian suburbs) within half an hour. The cafes & restaurants. The Embassy Theatre, and indeed the bustling cultural life that I really don't dip into as much as I should - but I love the fact that it's there. I love where I live - about 1 minute's walk from the top of the cable car. I love where I work - about 30 seconds walk from the bottom of the cable car... not to say that I love what I do at work...

I love that the Lord of the Rings was made here, and I love that a man like Peter Jackson calls Wellington home.

I love the harbour, which really cannot be beaten on a good day. I love that it is only a very short drive to the Kapiti Coast and the Wairarapa, traditional playgrounds for city folk like me.

I love the Botanic Gardens, which I visit as often as twice a day...

I love the politics... and the possibility that you might see some errant politician punch out a journalist, or member of the public, in a pub or cafe.

I love my family, and my faithful dog... these are Wellington for me. And the 10 year collection of projects that comprise our (will be one day) lovely house.

I love the (periodically) magnificent Summers. Summer here gets bad press on the whole, I think, but by late January, you can pretty much be assured of a couple of months of long, barmy days. Sometimes it starts earlier, sometimes it lasts longer. And I don't think it can be argued that we have very mild Winters.

I could do without the wind at times. Particularly that evil nor'wester that whips in & around the city & tests my patience. That nor'wester is a sod in my opinion. At least Southerlies know what they're doing - blowing from the South! I can dress up warm, or stay indoors for those.

I'm sometimes dubious about the quality of our mayors & councillors. But you get that I suppose, in cities, with mayors & councillors. Someone should do something about her hair. And I can't really see the point of The Bypass. 90 seconds off a trip to the airport? Woo-effing-hoo.

Best & worst times? To be honest, I'm a glass half full guy & I can only remember good times. I daresay there were bad days... when my dog or cat died, the first few times I got dumped from a relationship (then I got pretty practised at getting dumped, pretty darned good at it in fact, I hesitate to claim that I could have been dumped for my country - World & Olympic Champion Dumpee!!, but I may have been the Beckham of breakups - except he scored (a lot) more. I'm so over it now though. YOU BITCHES!!. The point being that it didn't seem to matter so much as it did the first few times). So...the bad days didn't last long. Ahem, anyway...

What does Wellington mean to me? It's home, where I've spent most of my happy life. It holds a good portion of the people that I love. It is a pleasure, with or without V8 car racing (get over it already!).

Welcome to Blackball.

I only link to this because the editorial in this week's Listener by Bruce Ansley discusses this affair & ends with the following words:

"One protester declared: "We don't want to be known as a bunch of vigilante morons."

Too late."

And I thought that was worth a blog.

STUFF : INSIGHT - STORY : Welcome to Blackball

19-21

So... first loss of the season. T reckons it's not bad to have a loss early on, stops the girls getting overconfident. Also... since it looks like the team we lost to is the one to beat this year (they've positively caned everyone else they've met), it was a good result. And since we lost by less than 5 goals, we do get a point. Depending how the other teams went, we should be 2nd equal on the table. Can't complain about that.

A draw would have been fair - it was one of those games where neither team ever got more than 2 ahead of the other & it swung either way. Very exciting... If the hooter had gone a minute earlier, we'd have won!

Oddly, the same crap umpire that presided over last week's game, presided over this one. We don't know how that came about since it wasn't her team this week... but she was marginally fairer this time, which probably reflects that she was neutral. But we will find out why that was, as we'll be seeing the other team's coach at the rep tournament next week & I will ask :)

Now we're waiting to see what the organisers do with the draw for the next few games, theoretically, we should now have a string of relatively easy games, as we've played the top 3 teams already. Theoretically...

Conversations overheard.

I'm on hundreds of overseas visitors holiday videos. And in thousands of their holiday photos. I don't think any of these people know me. I wonder sometimes if, by some cosmic coincidence, they'll get home & show their holiday pictures to someone who does. That would be cool. I'm also waiting for myself to appear on Foundphotos.com (see link to the right). All this from regularly catching the Cable Car up the hill.

Kind of reminds me of a beautifully composed (IMHO) photo I took at the Palace of Versailles. When it was developed, it seemed entirely dedicated to this Japanese guy who was smiling broadly at the lens. I swear he wasn't there when I pressed the button.

But anyway... conversations.

1) "Oh no!.... Noooooo.... Oh no..." etc. All the way down.

This was this morning actually, I was late & forewent my usual stroll down the hill. The lady in question was looking at the front page of the World section of the newspaper. I had a look, but I can't figure out what the offending item was.

2) Pretty girl: "I've just been to listen to Dr Cullen present the budget"

Pretty girl's friend #1 "How was it? Anything for students?" there ensued several minutes of very comprehensive coverage of the budget. Then some banter that revealed that the three people conversing were political science students. All three...

Pretty girl's friend #2 "What is "The Budget"?"

Well it amused me. And it was yesterday.

3) Man to elderly german tourist woman just before journey began, "Hang on! It's like a roller coaster!"

Maybe you had to be there...

4) 6 very fat young women. Very fat. Talking at the top of their voices in a packed car:

"...so Brian came round last night & I f*cked him stupid"
"Yeah? Was he any good? I did Ewan last week. He was OK"
"Awww... I was going to do him, maybe I'll f*ck Jimmy instead."
"Jimmy's got a really big dick"
Etc.

The rest of the car was abnormally quiet & averting their eyes. I mentioned this when I got home & we had a little discussion about what was the ickiest thing about the whole incident - was it because they were loudly & graphically describing their sex lives in a crowded public place? Or was it because they were loudly & graphically describing their sex lives in a crowded public place & were all really fat & ugly? Would it have made a difference if they were loudly & graphically describing their sex lives in a crowded public place & were hot? And I chastised myself mentally for clearly being of the opinion that fat & ugly people should not even have sex lives.

To tell the truth, we came to no conclusion. But regardless, it was definitely icky.

McWTF?

Personally, I think that instead of getting on the health conscious bandwagon with the McCaesar Salads & McDeli Rolls or whatever they're called. McMumbles should be positioning themselves to a niche market who care nothing for such things.

Welcome to McDonald's New Zealand

I mention this, as I just toss away the wrapper & environmentally friendly cardboard box in which came my McLumpoLard with extra butter, fries, & diet coke.

IBM - one hit wonders!

So I dunno... it'd be Wellington, New Zealand, circa 1991.

I'm at work. The phone rings. I answer.

"It's your mum here."
"Hi Mum!"

"What are you doing tonight?"
"Depends what you've signed us up for"

"Have you heard of IBM?"
"(pause)... yes"

"I got a call from your cousin Alan, from the Forest o'Dean. He works for them now"
"Cool"

"He's here. They're playing at the university tonight and he'd like us all to come along & see them. He's their roadie."
"(pause)... let me just check the newspaper & call you back."

"Hi mum, it's me"
"That was quick"

"They're called EMF. They're kind of famous at the moment"
"Alan said that. I'd never heard of them"

"OK, we're in. What time?"
"He said 8pm downstairs. There'll be tickets for us with the bouncer. Do you know the Student Association building?"

"Know it? I lived there for several years"
"Well see you there at 8"

So we arrive... me & my wife. And we're met by my mum & my sister & her hubby. And I'm at least twice the age of the average fan there. My mum stands out, despite being tiny. Actually, we all stood out. It's like The Waltons came along that night...

And the bouncer has never heard of us... Mum says "Can we speak to Alan the roadie please?" The bouncer tells us there is no roadie called Alan.

"No, that's right" says mum "He said his name is Buddy now. He's got a pony tail."

So we sit tight as hordes of teenagers swim past us & up the stairs. We look especially hard at anyone coming down who has a ponytail. No-one pays us any attention.

Then this guy comes down, and he looks all around, right past us sticking out like... really old conservative people at a hip concert... and he's got a top knot that sticks up approximately 2 feet in the air. Suddenly recognition enters his eyes, "Auntie!" he shouts.

And to be fair... they were quite good, in a loud & obnoxious sort of way. the kids loved them. My mum & my sister lasted half a dozen songs, then mum fought her way to the front of the hall like she'd been doing it at Rolling Stones concerts for years, caught Buddy's attention, asked him to give his mum her love & told him they were off.

We stayed right until the end. Buddy caught up after it was all over. Gave me the drumsticks as a souvenir (which I still have actually) & bade us farewell.

I had to ask though: "Where are the drugs & the groupies?"
He laughed "They'll be along soon I expect"
My wife added "But we won't"

Darn it. Although on the way out some cute teenagers offered us a good time for the drumsticks. I declined & directed them back upstairs "Ask for Buddy, say his cousin sent you".

The best dressed dogs

This season's must have accessory on the dog circuit:
It's actually quite handy, because it's pitch black by 6pm these days, and dogs do disappear from view very quickly.... This particular model blinks two different colours & the effect is quite nifty. Wilma's model blinks green & red.

Dog owners who have not kitted out their dogs with a Pet Blinker (available from New World Thondon & Animates - please do let me know if you've seen them anywhere else) are so last year.

There are variations available - the mad Staffy Havoc has a fantastic blinking collar, that blinks a dozen or so red LED lights whenever he moves. You can get those from Cranfields.

Only problem is that the batteries do not last very long. So note to Pet Blinker manufacturers: something that either requires no batteries, or is rechargeable, or solar powered even, would be a good enhancement.

I'll keep you posted.

And while we're at it, a range of lit up dog accessories would be great - luminous tennis balls, luminous tug ropes... etc.

Have at it guys. I'll buy.

Who cares about Scotland? Wrote Mark Riley of London

This made me laugh. The BBC have just adopted NZ TV1 style weather graphics & received a "storm of complaints", most whining that the depiction of the curve of the Earth means the graphics emphasise Wales & England at Scotland's expense.

Some, however, praised the new graphics, including Mr Mark Riley of London who wrote in saying "Who cares about Scotland? It's always raining there anyway." Brilliant!

Many also complained that the graphics are confusing. And look, I have to agree, based on TV1's weather graphics, I can never figure out where & what the hell I'm looking at. Nor when - was this today? Yesterday? Tomorrow?

NZ Met Service developed & installed the system apparently (no offense J). And way to go the sale, but really, if it's like TV1... not that TV3 is any better.

STUFF : NATIONAL NEWS - STORY : Storm of Complaints over NZ BBC Weather

So... Scotland is the Northern Hemisphere's Chatham Islands? TV ignores the Chathams I think, but you can get their weather from Radio NZ. I always have to suppress a giggle when listing to the Nat Radio long range weather forecast. It runs about 15 minutes. I start listening intently. I tune out around about Whangarei, miss Weliington's weather completely & wake up just in time for "...and rain in the Chathams". In fact I defy anyone to listen to the entire broadcast.

The one exception to Chatham Island's weather that I can remember was December 31 1999. While the rest of the country was cloaked in cloud & rain, the Chathams were bathed in summer sun. Go figure.

A great hoax

Somewhere, possibly not too far from Palmerston North's Massey University, someone is shitting themselves.

Their's is not the great hoax. Their's is proof that there is a fine line between fantastic jape, and abject stupidity. And proof that Foot & Mouth disease does not come near the top of popular comic subjects in an agricultural economy like New Zealand.

But this is not their story.

In April 1999 it came to light that a 4.5 metre python skin had been found in Wellington's Botanic Gardens.

Pretty much everyone realised it was an April Fool's joke. Experts raised doubts - if there really were a 4.5 metre snake in central Wellington, neighbours bordering the Gardens would have noticed their cats & dogs & possibly children going missing. However, they said, to be on the safe side... if the snake existed, it would most likely spend its rest time wrapped around someone's hot water cyllinder.

The possibility caught the public's imagination. Snake hunts were organised through the gardens at night.

In May that year, Mrs Llew & I bought a nice sunny house just a few doors up from the gardens. I can admit now, that when inspecting the hot water cyllinders in that house, it was with some degree of trepidation. Mrs Llew had been warned that if I wasn't back in 5 minutes, and if a lot of noise indicating a mortal struggle was heard from the back of the house, she was to ring 111, and then bring me a large knife.

This, was a great hoax. A magnificent jape. And I confess to some disappointment when the news broke that it was indeed, not true.

Great Wellington Python Mystery Solved

The Full Monty

19-17

In the first major upset of the season, M's team came back from a 4-0 deficit in the first few minutes, against what are considered one of the two top teams in their grade, and were never trailing from there on in. It was a hard fought game, with the opponents drawing even on several occasions.

Near the end we were willing the full time whistle to blow... the opposing umpire, who is also their coach was getting rattled, some of her umpiring is dubious anyway, and parents from her team have been known to apologise to opponents' parents for her blatant bias... at one stage she told T (our umpire) off for what was a very reasonable call & one of our vocal supporters shouted "Don't argue with the ref!"

Anyway, we won. The girls were stoked & some wore their team tracksuits for a post-game shopping trip through town.

Next week... it's an even harder team judging from their record so far. Beat them & we're the GREATEST! On past experience, we can also then expect the draw to be rejigged to stack the odds against us. Not everyone likes the underdog it seems.

That might sound paranoid, but some very odd things happened last year & we ended up playing the same handful of very hard teams all the time instead of the rest of the field... I'll keep you posted, because regardless, we aim to prevail! To FIGHT! WIN!

And we've started the right way.

Thinkers anonymous

This just in by email. I'm afraid the sender will have to remain anonymous...

THINKERS ANONYMOUS
Do You Think Too Much?

It started out innocently enough. I began to think at parties now and then to loosen up. Inevitably though, one thought led to another, and soon I was more than just a social thinker.

I began to think alone - "to relax," I told myself - but I knew it wasn't true. Thinking became more and more important to me, and finally I was thinking all the time.

I began to think on the job. I knew that thinking and employment don't mix, but I couldn't stop myself.

I began to avoid friends at lunchtime so I could read Thoreau and Kafka. I would return to the office dizzied and confused, asking, "What is it exactly we are doing here?"

Things weren't going so great at home either. One evening I had turned off the TV and asked my wife about the meaning of life. She spent that night at her mother's.

I soon had a reputation as a heavy thinker. One day the boss called me in. He said, "Skippy, I like you, and it hurts me to say this, but your thinking has become a real problem. If you don't stop thinking on the job, you'll have to find another job." This gave me a lot to think about.

I came home early after my conversation with the boss. "Honey," I confessed, "I've been thinking..."

"I know you've been thinking," she said, "and I want a divorce!"

"But Honey, surely it's not that serious."

"It is serious," she said, lower lip aquiver. "You think as much as college professors, and college professors don't make any money, so if you keep on thinking we won't have any money!"

"That's a faulty syllogism," I said impatiently, and she began to cry. I'd had enough. "I'm going to the library," I snarled as I stomped out the door.

I headed for the library, in the mood for some Nietzsche, with a PBS station on the radio. I roared into the parking lot and ran up to the big glass doors... they didn't open. The library was closed.

To this day, I believe that a Higher Power was looking out for me that night.

As I sank to the ground clawing at the unfeeling glass, whimpering for Zarathustra, a poster caught my eye. "Friend, is heavy thinking ruining your life?" it asked. You probably recognize that line. It comes from the standard Thinker's Anonymous poster.

Which is why I am what I am today: a recovering thinker. I never miss a TA meeting. At each meeting we watch a non-educational video; last week it was "Porky's." Then we share experiences about how we avoided thinking since the last meeting.

I still have my job, and things are a lot better at home. Life just seemed... easier, somehow, as soon as I stopped
thinking. I think the road to recovery is nearly complete for me.

Today, I registered to vote Republican.

Talking TV penis gets chop

The story to go with this excellent headline is surprisingly boring. But who am I to turn down a headline like that.

Talking TV penis gets chop | ENTERTAINMENT | NEWS | tvnz.co.nz

Yoohoo!! We're over here!

Shameless Plug sorry:

wellingtonist

Dentists are cool.

I don't mind dentists. Maybe I have a high pain threshhold (my wife would disagree, but I think, forms contrary opinions to the available evidence at times).

But dentists solve urgent problems for me, toothache (very infrequently), and sharp edges irritating the insides of my mouth after old fillings fall out. My dentist & I agree that I have my share of fillings. In fact, I think there must be more fillings than tooth by now.

I spent my early life in the UK, growing up in an area that did not add fluoride to the water.

My earliest visits to the local dentist involved exchanges like this:

"Take a seat."
"This one?" - I still ask this, it never fails to amuse me. No dentists have ever been amused by it though.
"Open wide... How are you today?"
"Gnnnnfff"
"Don't try to speak."

"Ohmigod!... you have teeth! I'm afraid I'm going to have to drill most of them away & fill them with unstable & poisonous metals. because frankly, I'm just out of dentist school & I need the practise."

When I came to NZ, the metal to tooth ratio was increased slightly by the school dental nurses I encountered. But not so much.

For the last 3 decades however, I have had almost no problems with my teeth, except for ancient fillings falling out & needing to be replaced. Oh.. and a couple of crowns as a result of their not being enough tooth left to fill, and one or two root canals.

My tolerance of dentists is such that I rarely even have an anaesthetic. They usually hurt more than the drilling. My current dentist was amazed by my tolerance when he was diagnosing the root canals. But then he discovered the nerves in the teeth in question had been drilled away years ago by some enthusiastic predecessor.

My dentist also has pictures of his latest overseas trips displayed around his surgery. As if to say "Look, you paid for this!" (See also: Veterinarians' sportscars). These photos have changed, every visit. (At least the vet keeps the porsche for a few years before upgrading). He even has photos on the ceiling, so you can admire his picaresque lifestyle while supine, with a lot of instruments in your mouth, and an old man's face about an inch from yours, with some really weird looking magnifying devices strapped to his head, and a bright light shining in your eyes.

That's the other thing, dentists have some very cool & inexplicable looking gear. Just those seats for instance. An old flatmate & I always wanted a couple of those seats. For watching TV from. Or possibly other recreational activities that might occur, since they recline like that. (Hey, you're reading the blog of a man who once bought a Fiat Bambina because he fancied the sister of the seller & could vividly imagine her & him in the back seat. Or dying trying anyway. And it never happened sadly. Although I was saddled with a derelict bambina for several years anyway). But I digress...

My dentist is a very sharp dresser. Those suits did not come off the rack. He lives not far from me (in the same overpriced street as the vet, actually), and so I run into him a lot & he can manage with just a "Hello" and a lift of one eyebrow to convey the same old message everytime "Been a few years since I saw you & your rotten, dirty, decaying teeth, Sonny!"

He sends quite cool & funny cards to remind me that I heven't been in a while "Missing you! Haven't seen you in ages! Can't remember your face!" etc. And so when I do get around to seeing him, he can pretty much be relied on to say "How are you? Haven't seen you in yonks? Whereabouts did the old filling fall from this time? Take a seat."

"This one?"

And he barks some really weird, dentist jargon at his lovely assistant.

That's another thing too, my dentist always has a lovely assistant. Usually a different one every visit. Maybe he picks them up on his overseas trips?

Can't wait for my next visit! (Tuesday).

Basra, 1991

"Bet you 6 goats against your camel that the monsoons will begin before Ramadan" said the curiously ageless man holding a copy of the Quran.

"I have no need of goats, my camel is already spoken for, but I will wager my baboon." Replied the woman.

Contact established, the two made their way to a discreet coffee house to talk.

With his dying breath, the Fez had told the preacher of a plot to disrupt the pipelines feeding oil from Basra, to the USSR. Armed with new orders to assist the anti-Saddam rebels in any way possible, the man made his way South from Baghdad in the company of thousands of refugees. It would be a bonus for his masters if his efforts bore fruit & inconvenienced the Russians.

On arriving in Basra, which had been largely untouched by US bombing, but still bore the ruinous marks from the Iran/Iraq war in the 80s, the man set about establishing his cover. It actually paid to make his face known a few days before getting down to business.

Firstly, he found a good, central place from where to begin his preaching. Secondly, he made sure his primary & backup escape routes were in place. Thirdly, he prepared a secondary disguise, "Luck favours the prepared.", he always said.

The woman, Soraya, had been born Barbara Billingsworth, to a wealthy family in Ohio nearly 35 years previously. Educated at Yale, she'd grown up with attitude, and a reckless father fixation. She'd been recruited after a Led Zeppelin concert at the backstage orgy, by a roadie affiliated with the CIA. Stoned out of her mind & wrapped around the bass player, she'd signed on the dotted line & been shipped to the Middle East the following month.

Her missions had initially been of the "honeytrap" variety, staged to seduce wayward Iranian clergy. She was very good at her job & after the beginning of the Gulf War, had been promoted to "insurgency consultant" & Iraq.

At the coffee house, the preacher paused to take her in like a long drink of ice-cold water after 3 parched weeks in the desert. Then got down to business, "By Allah", He thought, " she's built like a brick minaret!"

"I'd like a long drink of ice-cold water", he said to the waiter. "I've just spent 3 parched weeks in the desert".

Soraya meanwhile, viewed the newcomer with interest & a little suspicion. He didn't look like much, but this man had quite a reputation & not just for business. Agency rumour had it that this preacher man would as soon as looking at you, give you the last rites while applying the garrotte. "Efficient" she thought, "Definitely not a time waster." In addition, more than one of her "honey" colleagues had spent post mission extended vacations in las Vegas with him. He was known as a high roller & generous tipper. Besides, there was something about his creased face & sly smile that was charming.

"Have you ever been to Vegas?" he asked.

Ignoring him - for the moment anyway - Soraya suggested they return to her place not far away to get him cleaned up & brief him on the plan. On the way out the preacher noticed Kiwi journalist Peter Arnett at another table, and it made him homesick for Lambton Quay...

While he bathed, Soraya sat beside the tub & filled him in. The attack was scheduled for slightly more then two weeks away, but there was to be a meeting of all concerned in about 8 hours time. She described her fellow insurgents & detailed their backgrounds.

"There's only one problem we have" she said, "We need to know the movements of the secret police before during and after the operation, and we have no spies to rely on at the moment"

"Got it covered" he replied "I have a steel plate in my head, a souvenir from Burma a few years ago. Before I came here, the boffins managed to tune it to the secret police radio frequency."

He suddenly surprised her by standing up & motioning for a towel.

"Oh mummy" thought Soraya, "he's built like a brick minaret!"

"There's more to you than meets the eye" she finally quipped.

"Oh indeed" twinkled the preacher "Now how can we entertain ourselves over the next 6 or 7 hours...? Without standing up."

Where is he now? - Alasdair Kincaid

He's here... another reason to watch Maori TV by the looks of it.

Christchurch Star

The trouble with public transport.

It's all crystal clear now...

The no. 17 bus to Karori that runs by after school finishes is completely out of the question for a young girl travelling to netball practise.

It is full of Wellington College boys on their way home.

Plan B is needed.

T & I decided this is fair enough, & we'll worry when she gets a short skirt on & actively campaigns to catch the bus.