Jesus, Christchurch!

I've started to like Fridays. The Rock radio station has a Friday Fight Club where they put two people who are passionate about something (one for and one against) in heated discussion to thrash out their views. Recently, ACDC played here so not only did they have a NZ inspired spin on some Ackerdacker classics (Dirty Deeds (Done With Sheep) was one such song), but they also had two blokes excitedly discussing the pros and cons of the aged Aussie rockers.
The opening salvo was from the bloke who hates ACDC saying that for liking them, his opponent is obviously the kind of man who will sleep with his own cousin when the adults are out of the house. Things got steadily worse from there really.

I don't want you to get the idea from previous posts that New Zealand is a twee, crime free haven of Hobbits dancing through the meadows and front doors being left permanently ajar. Sadly, this isn't true, but the majority of reported crime seems to be in Christchurch. It's always in the news for something dodgy. Recently they have had a spate of people of rafts paddling away from Christchurch for a better quality of life in Antarctica.
One of the more amusing stories from Dodge City concerns a black Hummer owner who posted on a cyclist message board that he had a particular dislike of cyclists and looked forward to bouncing them off the bonnet of his penis extension. Unfortunately for him, he used the same username that he used on his TradeMe account so he was found in about thirty seconds by the cyclists who use the board, one of whom is a police officer. Once the anonymity was removed and his bravado quickly disappeared, the bellend quickly offered a grovelling apology. What a prize tool.

One of the locals was out on his pushbike again at the weekend. We first saw this guy when we moved in and it stuck in our minds because his bike doesn't have a front tire. It is just a metal rim with no grip whatsoever. I can't figure if he is poor or just likes to crush ants. If it is the latter, I might hire him to ride around the house getting the stragglers that the Raid doesn’t kill.

Finally, I have received a bit of constructive feedback after having a dig at the Welsh in one of my previous posts. I would like to say that I genuinely had no idea that I would offend any Welsh person. This is mainly as I didn't expect them to read it as computers and the electricity to power are seen as sorcery and are generally banned under the primitive leek worshipping regime...

The Mothwoman Prophecies

Nature has decided to strike back on three fronts.
The moths are back, bringing with them larvae and a renewed vigour for pissing off the cats. Yesterday the wife found they had invaded her plastic container sealed porridge oats, so the lot had to be binned. She's probably been eating them for a while but hasn't noticed any ill effects other than an urge to chew clothing and bump into light bulbs. Apparently it is not unknown for moths to get in to packaging while it is still in the supermarket, so placing the food into a plastic container is not always going to help. Chemical Calvert has ordered that moth balls will now be used in conjunction with other chemical agents to rid the house of the winged pests once and for all. Other than a strongly worded letter from Hans Blix, I think we are in the right on that one.
White tail spiders have also been able to penetrate our defences, mainly as it has been too warm not to leave the windows open. No bites as yet, but it is only a matter of time.
Ants have invaded from the basement, sending scouts into vital areas and generally giving the cats something to be puzzled over at ground level. I have decided to go down the Ant Auschwitz route and have deployed Raid in the hopes of eradicating them. Getting them tattooed might have been a step too far, though, and I'll end the madness once I ink Drone XB775968Z.
I'm not sure what purpose ants actually serve on the planet, so God must have just invented them for a laugh with the bits he had left over from pubic lice.
I was thinking of hiring the spiders to kill the ants off, but then I'd have to get in birds to eat the spiders. This madness would only end with me having a full size tiger in the house and wishing I could clone velociraptors to see them off. It would all end it tears. And blood. Lots and lots of blood.

We went out to Newmarket last night with Ian and Laura whom we met on the Egyptian Plague Felucca. Ian paints boats for a living so Clare immediately went straight in with the boat questions as she now wants one (don't get me started). Laura was the only person I can recall who didn't contract Death Shits when we were on the Nile but she did neck a bottle of cheap vodka so that probably killed off any germs. She was legally registered as blind for three days afterwards, though.
Newmarket is a very well to do area with some nice bars, restaurants and plenty of boutique shops. It is also home to one of the Cock and Bull chain of English pubs. By English pubs this doesn't mean it is full of chavvy slappers, drug dealing doormen and the small fact that you get glassed at the end of the night, but it does mean they have the same quality live entertainment. Last night it was the turn of local covers band Take Note (Of The Fact That You Will Never Want To See Us Again) who opened up to a surprisingly empty bar with Avril Lavigne before descending into the Bee Gees, the Doobey Brothers and assorted Reggae (which consisted of one of them saying "Yeah, mon" every few seconds). This was topped off by several imbeciles in the pub, mainly of Oriental extraction, dancing very badly to the renditions. One of these scored several cool points by pretending to cast a fishing rod at his girl and then reeling her in. Sadly for him she got up from her seat and went to the bar instead, which was a better choice on her part. We left in the interval, sparing ourselves the horror of part two, but it did confirm one rule. Heterosexual men should always keep their hands at chest height or below when dancing. The instant their hands go above chest height, they become homosexual. It's the law in any country.

Finally, when we got in it was time to give the new kitten her fourth feed of the day. I opened up the Whiskas box and grabbed a pouch before staring at it with incredulity. The box says "Whiskas Kitten Food" on it in large letters. It has several pictures of a kitten adorning it as well as all the nutritional information you will need to know about the furry heat-leeching sponger screaming at you from ankle height. The pouch has all the same wording and nutritional info on it as well as the ubiquitous picture of a kitten. It also has the words "Pet Food Only" and "Not Intended For Human Consumption" emblazoned on it. I can count on the fingers of one head the amount of times I have bought kitten food, gone to serve it in bowls for my human guests before slapping myself on the forehead when I see the words "Pet Food Only" mocking me in unforgiving black letters. I can only guess it is an American influence as those mooks tend to bring about legal proceedings when they eat catfood or try to make toast in the bath.
I'm now off to stencil the household appliances with the words "Do Not Insert Violently Into Rectum", just in case.

Boogie Neverland

The wife persuaded me to go to a club last night, mainly to see a friend of hers strut his stuff in his own unique style. Generally, nightclubs and I don't mix. I find the drinks limited and pricey and more often than not such places are full of the people I have spent my life avoiding social contact with. Not that I'm a snob or anything- I'm just more of a sociopathic misanthrope with acute homicidal tendencies and a low tolerance for bellends. Plus, I'm reliably informed that my dancing resembles the death throes of a man covered in burning napalm and even bellends don't deserve to witness that.
The choice of venue was a place in the centre of town called Boogie Wonderland and the first thing that struck me when we went in was the small number of clientele (I've seen more crowded bars in Saudi Arabia) and the fact that the DJ booth was contained within a large cup being held by two equally large hands. I was trying to get my head around this bizarre image while the DJ was going through his inane chatter and all I could think of was that it was meant to represent some sort of post-modern vegetable soup. There was certainly a cabbage involved, anyway.

In the Mixmaster Mug, DJ Crouton was playing a selection of the 30 songs known in Auckland's drinking holes. I swear to St Angelina, that the same songs followed us round all night. We went to three bars before the club and we heard the same tracks again and again. It's like every pub and club in Auckland has the same copy of "Now That's What I Call Utter Shite" that they pump out on an endless loop as some sort of Gitmo-esque punishment for being members of Al-Quoholic. While we are on the subject of bars, a stag party turned up at the Irish bar we started at. Every stag do I have been on has followed that trend. Is it a universal law that all stag parties, no matter where in the world they happen, have to visit an Irish pub?

Back in Disco Hell, when I spotted the Saturday Night Fever style light tile floor I was immediately reminded of the scene in Airplane with the bar full of rough freaks dancing to the Bee Gees. Sure enough, 20 minutes after, the Brothers Gibb squealed into life on DJ Crouton's decks and the freak parade began in earnest. All that was missing from this scene were two girl scouts kicking the crap out of each other and a man gesturing to a knife protruding from his back. Although, given recent events in Auckland, the latter could easily have shown up.

Finally, I spotted the behatted simpleton pictured posing above. With my very own peepers I've seen some surreal messed up shit over the years including genocide in Rwanda, objects moving across the room by themselves and several male family members dressed as women, but my jaw was agape as Brokeback Maori took to the podium.

He was dancing (if you can call it that) quite camply while at the same time performing some imaginary karaoke, which mutated into him pointing at various things on the ceiling, paddling an invisible canoe (though he did get bonus points for unfurling an invisible map, studying it and peering through a likewise invisible spyglass), some robotics, swimming and a moonwalk (where he just took strides backwards) before settling on whirling an imaginary lasso around his head and then pretending to haul in something at ceiling height (possibly an invisible llama stag on his way to meet the rest of the party at O'Hagan's Irish Bar). While performing all of this, he was smiling at friends across the room and occasionally winking at them.
One of my companions then pointed out the flaw in this process in that he didn't actually have any friends there and he was smiling at incredulous strangers, thin air and the back of people's heads. He was also drinking coke and nothing else, so alcohol isn't to blame this time. In any case, booze would probably interfere too much with his anti-psychotic medication, which obviously needed upping.

By the end of the night, he was still giving it his best and as we left I saw him start the lasso process all over again. He's probably still dancing along to the songs in his head as he waits in line for his meds.

In conclusion, there are some things the eyes should never have to witness, so I'm going to petition the local council to have the place renamed Boogie Neverland. For just like the late Michael Jackson's paedo palace, this is a place to be avoided if you don't want to lose your innocence.

Vote Saxon

We have had two celebrations here in Auckland recently. Firstly, it was the Auckland anniversary, which saw the harbour replete with seafood festivals, drinking, buskers, drinking and boating. There was three days worth of that, and I was quite impressed by how well the council did to set it all in motion. And had sufficient manpower to clean up the vomit from this deadly combination.

Secondly, there was Waitangi Day. I wasn't completely up to speed on the Waitangi Treaty but I've since read up and it seems that despite it being in existence for over 150 years, it has never been ratified, mainly as the Maoris got stiffed on the deal.

They're really quite relaxed about legal stuff, the Kiwis, but I'm sure they'll get round to it some time after watching the rugby.
Anyway, Waitangi Day fell on a weekend this year so despite that fact that everybody was upset that there was no day off, all were united in their hatred for the cafes and restaurants who were permitted to throw on a 15% holiday surcharge to add to the misery.
The two things that struck me about the day were the quality of the local festivities and the flag debate.

The local festivities for us took place down near the beach and (to paraphrase the missus) made the Craggy Island fair in Father Ted look like Cirque De Soleil. It was really, really awful. Mediocre grub, bad bands and thrilling rides that would be hard pushed to scare an Amish with a nervous heart flutter. The only good thing about it was the amount of Maori speech I heard. It's a remarkable language that when you hear it reminds you of a beautiful, lilting song. When you see it written down, though, it is something else entirely. It looks like the alphabet has just vomited.

The flag debate has been an interesting thing in that there has been pressure for the Tino Rangatiratanga (see what I mean?) flag to be displayed alongside (or sometmes instead of) the NZ flag. As an outsider, I don't know enough about it to make a decision, but if it was down to me I'd stick it to a public vote to either keep one of the existing flags or design a new flag incorporating both elements. While both exist in competition there is going to be grief. I doubt that will happen though as it is far too sensible.
There was also some fierce debate about who have the right to celebrate anyway. Some of the Maori rightly see the later settlers as immigrants. I can see their point as they only showed up a few hundred years ago with a bottle of Scotch, a firearm and promises of a great future together. A few years down the line and it all gets one sided and there are tears, bloodshed and a flurry of sexual diseases. Actually, this sounds like a few of my early relationships. I'll move swiftly along...
Being about as Anglo Saxon as it gets with my fair skin and lack of moles, I know that my lot have pretty much taken over every country at one time or another, mostly at three o'clock in the morning and using the "seduction" technique described above. We're naturally very good at nation theft and I can't visit Wales without wanting to cleanse half of the country with fire and enslave the remainder. I'm fairly sure everyone feels that way about the Welsh, though.
The Maori themselves aren't actually native to NZ either, having arrived here from Polynesia around 700-2000 years ago, so that has added fuel to the fire about who should be claiming the land. However, if we're going on that rule, then the Celts were in Britain before the Anglo Saxons built the place up, so by squatters rights we should let the dirt worshipping heathens from Cardiff run the place. What a nightmare that would be. It would be a like a chimp's tea party only with unibrows, leeks and severe genetic mutation.

Finally, these festivities have been able to quash the belief I held that, like the filthy Welsh, the people of New Zealand are a nation of sheep shaggers.
It's rubbish. From what I understand they rarely get to third base with their livestock.

A Tale of Two Sh*ttys

Attached are eleven images of Birkenhead. Five are from the suburb of Auckland with that name, a place I visited very recently. The other six are from the place I grew up in which I can only describe as a World Heritage Shithole filled with rain, rape and murder. Cunningly I have mixed them up and now task you to use your skill and judgement in discovering which picture belongs to which Birkenhead.
As a starter for ten, I'll inform you that only the Birkenhead I used to call home (and also the one point on earth from which all human misery can be viewed) would have a fire evacuation sign in a cafe that requests you assemble at the Wetherpoons next door. After all, you're burning to death in the Seventh Circle of Hell, why miss out on half price doubles?

To further aid your quest I have added a small description so you can hopefully distinguish between the two Birkenheads.

Birkenhead, Auckland- Located on the North Shore of Auckland, Birkenhead was settled in 1883 as New Zealand's only sugar refinery and quickly gained a reputation as an area where the successful middle class set up home. These men, usually professionals or business owners, would commute via ferry to the city. Today, Birkenhead is popular with soccer moms who drive their sons to football practice. The climate is warm temperate with humid summers and mild, damp winters. It last snowed in Birkenhead in July 1939.

Birkenhead, Merseyside- Settled by British hooligans in the 12th Century, Birkenhead is a lush and diverse crime scene with over 900 distinct types of scumbag, 600 varieties of mugger and most of the surviving members of my family. It boasts a startling array of criminal life sure to take your breath away, but only after first taking away your phone, wallet and kidneys. It no longer suffers from crippling unemployment since the local council made burglary a recognised occupation and today it is popular with twoccer mums who steal a car to drive their sons to community service or mugging practice. The climate is rainy with a strong chance of more rain, depression, pissing it buckets and glassing. The people of Birkenhead are a victim of crime every 26 seconds, though this is impossible to verify since everyone in Birkenhead has now had their watch stolen.