From Brangy to Rangi

Meat and two veg

2011-10-30T18:41:00.001+13:00

It's been a long absence but circumstances have driven me back to blogging once again.

Last night we went to watch Meat Loaf at the Vector Arena and some 12 hours later I am finally able to write about it.

I must say, having never really been into watching live bands in my youth, I decided some time back that, if the opportunity ever arises, now is the time to watch all those artists you will probably only ever get one more shot at seeing. We watched The Who at North Harbour stadium a couple of years back and they were excellent. Townsend seemed to have overcome his obsession with internet research and returned to his full glory on the guitar, Daltrey was vocally as powerful as ever and I still have a wry amusement at the fact that the drummer is the son of a Beatle and older than me.

Then it was Todd Rundgren, who played a fantastic blues set in front of about 80 people at the Auckland Powerstation. That gave me a feeling of being entertained on a truly exclusive level.

After that, The Hollies at Ascension Vineyard - memorable both for the fact that we were treated as VIPs on account of the unfortunate chainsaw accident that resulted in me turning up on crutches and the novelty of sitting on the floor, sipping wine, watching a a very accomplished and entertaining performance...and definitely even more memorable for the sheer number of totally paralytic over 60 year olds staggering around the car park afterwards.

So, after three really top drawer performances, shelling out $200 for me and the present Mrs Chipshaker to watch Meat Loaf in all his glory seemed a bit of a bargain.

The doubts started to set in when I watched the You Tube clip of Meat's performance at the AFL Grand Final. To say it was a bit ropey is something of an understatement, particularly as the supporting singer on Paradise by the Dashboard Light out-performed him. But it was only a 20 minute set, in a stadium, and probably a bit windy, so no-one can blame him for being a bit rusty. I did casually try to flog the tickets at face value at that point but no-one was biting.

No matter - if nothing else, it was a lovely opportunity to have some quality social time with the Missus without the kids.

My hopes shot up when Meat cancelled the Tauranga show due to health reasons. Having seen the announcement that anyone who couldn't make the rescheduled show next Tuesday would get a full refund, I began thinking there might be a way out if he couldn't make Auckland either. I mean, how hard can it be to have a subsequent engagement on the rescheduled date? I checked the internet the whole day long in the hope that he would cancel and even turned up with the faint hope that it was still possible.

Obviously Meat is as smart as I am because the bugger cottoned on to that and was determined to be there last night.

Oh well, how bad could it be - we are here now and we might as well make the most off it. If it's going to be bad we should just revel in the badness of it. Ever the entrepreneur, the first thing I did was buy a tour t-shirt. I reckon they would be worth a fortune if he croaks on stage (430,000 people have watched Tommy Cooper shuffling off this mortal coil on YouTube).

It started pretty well actually, with Meat cashing in on the Rocky Horror connection to get the audience going. You couldn't help but notice though that his voice wasn't quite there and he was looking slightly slow on his feet but it was okay. The band were bloody good, although I suspect they were deliberately just that bit louder so that you couldn't quite pick up how rusty the vocals were. To be honest, it was a steady decline. Having "Bat out of Hell" as the third song in the set left me wondering what was being held in reserve for the encore. It seemed to surprise Meat Loaf too! Mind you, the inflatable bat covering the stage captured my imagination - shades of "Eddy the Ed" for those old enough to remember. After that, the three song set from an album that I can't even be arsed googling was probably a mistake judging by the amount of traffic tooing and froing to the bar at that point - even the die-hard fans seemed to be heading for over-priced analgesia! It certainly killed whatever interest I had left in the whole thing. Meat Loaf aficionados (probably all those stuck in the 80s, poodle permed bimbos who posted their undying love for Meat on Facebook this morning) would know what the album was - apparently something he's been touting round for years as a screenplay but no-one has yet been daft enough to take it up. We live in hope that Hollywood won't ever stoop that low.

Personally, I was up for calling it a night after about 6 songs but the need to stick around to see whether my investment would pay off was overwhelming. And, if I'm honest, it was worth it.

I have no idea what the song was anymore, but the highlight of the whole evening was the appearance of the Tellytubbies, Alice, the Mad Hatter and various other characters who had no relevance whatsoever to whether 2 out of 3 was bad or not. It also awakened my interest in the stage, and it was then that I noticed the inflatable fat lass in a pink bikini on the left of the stage (looking alarmingly like a nightmare inflatable blow up doll - they seemed unreachably exotic when I was 15 but somewhat grotesque now). The fact that the inflatable hands that presumably were supposed to salaciously represent an unseen male, were only half inflated only added to the sordid enjoyment of it.

Things were looking up and the concert was clearly drawing to a close when the opening chords of "Paradise" rang out. The first few bars actually suggested that this would be the highlight of the show (how hard can it be to eclipse so many low-lights?). The backing singer was back on, and she was good. Meat had foregone the stool he sat on for "2 out off 3" and the tearful eulogy to the people of Auckland, and we were ready to kick some ass.

Now, for those of you not old enough to remember, let me tell you about "Paradise by the Dashboard Light". I'll set the scene - It's about two kids who drive out to the middle of nowhere, to have a bit off fun. It's in the days before dogging so Stan Collymore doesn't feature anywhere in the lyrics, but the kids park up by the lake in the dark and the young fella clearly has his sights set on a bit of action. He's doing quite well, the music builds and he has managed to get a bit of the young lady's kit off. As the tempo rises you know he has certainly gone beyond "top deck" and, like David Bellamy, is looking to start exploring the damp undergrowth. At that point, the nerves creep in and the respectable young lady will only crank it up a notch if Meat promises undying love and marriage. What follows is classic teenage boy trying to get his way and teenage girl doing everything to resist. In 1977 the emotion of the song was such that you could get blue balls just imagining Meat's blue balls.

Not last night - at the point where he started rambling on, protesting about taking her out for salad and17 varieties of soup, it started to sound more like a bloody Heinz advert than a damp and sweaty encounter in a Ford Mustang by a moonlit lake, and any imagery of teenage lust was lost forever...as was my remaining interest in hearing what he had left for the encore.

Been there, got the t-shirt!

Camping: the art of getting closer to nature...

2007-04-14T18:19:00.000+12:00

... while getting farther away from the nearest cold beverage, hot shower and flush toilet.

Ah, Easter….the end of the busy season at work and time for a week off to recharge the batteries. And what better way than pursue the Kiwi Dream – the outdoors life getting back in touch with nature. So we headed off to the far North for a few days’ camping. We’d picked up a bargain family tent a couple of months back and had accumulated bits and pieces of camping gear along the way – camp beds, a travel BBQ, a mini gas burner, a whistling kettle and four sleeping bags. In fact, barring the really exotic gear your average seasoned campers had, we’d pretty much got all we needed.

So I packed up the car (note the use of the first person singular for reference later!), squeezed the kids in the back and headed off. Not having camped since we were both much younger, it’s probably fair to say Mrs C and I weren’t really sure what to expect but, after a 2 hour drive we were pleasantly surprised when we arrived at the campsite – communal kitchen, hot showers, standpipes aplenty and recreation room that young Miss C insisted on calling “the Staffroom”.

Having done one trial run with the tent in the back garden a few weeks ago, we set about setting it up for the real thing. With the instructions discretely hidden for reference by the car wheel, we actually managed to get the whole thing set up within about 15 minutes. Now for people of a certain age, my age, you'll recall that family tents used to be made of canvas - you made the frame up on it’s knees, draped the canvas over, raised it to its full glory, hung the bedrooms inside, pegged out the groundsheet and, three hours later sat back sweating. Well, not these days, this is kind of a family sized version of a kiddies’ pop-up tent. You roll it out, stick a few fibreglass poles in and hey presto, the thing magically becomes inhabitable. The only real downside was that we didn’t have a tent peg mallet. After about five pegs the palms of my hands were becoming quite painful and swollen. Undeterred, I pushed the rest in with that universal of tools, the sole of my jandal. The fact that the pegs went in so easily should perhaps have triggered a few warning signs in my mind as to the current weather situation, but I suppose I was too full of glory from the ease with which we’d raised the tent – a feat made more remarkable by the fact that I hadn’t sworn at Mrs C or the kids once during the process!!

Quite impressed with myself, I set about putting together the camp beds. Now the traditionalists out there will be pleased to note that the passage of time has not changed the basic design of these things – a series of short tubes, connected together and slotted down either side of a canvas sheet, which is then stretched by the insertion of W-shaped legs. Each bed on its own took longer than the tent to put together! After about an hour of sweating and swearing I finally managed to get the damn things looking like camp beds. After that, I treated myself to a cold beer and inspected the various cuts, welts and bruises around my ankles – it’s quite amazing the amount of damage a piece of W-shaped steel can cause when the tensioning pressure is suddenly released!

But that said, we were done – quite a tidy little campsite all set up and very professional-looking too! By this time everyone was getting hungry, so we popped open the chilly bin to survey a plethora of pre-packed meat cuts, just waiting to be BBQ’d…..in about four days’ time when they’d thawed out!! Another weather warning sign for you there folks – the meat was still frozen, despite the absence on any kind of powered refrigeration. Never mind, first day of the holidays, we’d worked hard; the least we could do is treat ourselves to a meal out.

It was after the meal and back at the campsite we noticed the first of the things we’d forgotten – it gets pretty dark around 6pm after daylight saving finishes! Still, it gave the kids chance to have a bit of fun with their head torches and we settled back for a game of cards and a glass of wine….at which point we noticed the next thing we’d forgotten. Most wine bottles in New Zealand are screw capped and I’d managed to bring the only two cork-sealed bottles in the house….and no cork screw! Now anyone who has studied physics, or has tried to open a bottle of wine by pushing the cork down with a fork handle, knows what it’s like to have a glass of cheap, cold Sav Blanc squirt up your armpit!

Oh well, time for bed, a chance to lie back and listen to the night sounds of nature – the occasional screech of a Possum, the squawking of Pukekoes as they settle down for the night and the strange call of the Ruru – a small native owl, also called a 'Morepork' because of his call…..morepork, morepork. Quite relaxed, we all settled down for the night.

And at 1am, the old body clock kicked in….the night’s intake of cheap wine was now looking for a way out. Ordinarily it’s no problem to rise and walk, eyes closed, around the bed, into the bathroom, release the pressure and tread the well worn path back to bed, almost without losing snoring rhythm. But not when you are zipped into a sleeping bag, inside a well-zipped tent in the pitch dark 30yds from the nearest dunny. After half an hour of trying to ignore the growing pressure in my bladder I finally succumbed and staggered around the tent looking for a torch and some clothes. It’s only when you exit a sleeping bag at 1am on an autumn night you realise just how cold it can be. And of course the cold does things to you! Having legged it across to the toilet, through cold, wet grass, twanging guy ropes like a virtuoso Spanish guitarist, I finally made it to the dunny…just in time. With a bladder the size of a barrage balloon, I set about trying to find the ‘Old Fella’, who rather sensibly it seemed had decided to escape the cold by shrinking inside where it was still nice and warm!

Mind you. It was probably worth the trip to see the most amazing, clear, star-filled night sky you only get to see by being miles away from any kind of urban life.

Now the thing about going to bed early, is that you generally get up early, but the fact that we were all wide awake at 6am didn’t seem to matter once we got the BBQ going and bacon, eggs and sausages sizzling away. Disregarding the fact that the only pan we had brought wasn’t non-stick, which meant we had shredded bacon, we really were quite enjoying this camping lark.

The next day, we set out for a thoroughly enjoyable trip further north to the Bay of Islands, where the sun beat down on us all day. Tired and fulfilled, we set about the hour long trip back to the campsite….towards ominously black clouds. About 20 minutes into the trip we hit the south-bound storm, and began the race to get back home before the torrential rain beat us to it. Exiting the storm about 10 minutes from home, we raced back and got there just in time to get the kit indoors and the BBQ set up under the awning. Shame the chicken still hadn’t defrosted. Mind you, there were more sausages, so they’d do. Torch in hand, hunched on deck chair like a war torn refugee I set about getting the food cooked before the downpour reached us – no such luck! It’s amazing just how loud the rain is when it’s hammering on a tent! It’s also quite amazing how much water leaks down your neck when your head brushes an, until then, waterproof canopy. With our ears bleeding, and my collar soaking, we tucked into sausages and salad before retiring for another early night.

And once the storm had passed, the local wildlife set about its nocturnal symphony. Now it could be that we were too spellbound by our first night to realise just how loud the Great Outdoors really is, or how savage it can be. It’s not so much a symphony as the soundtrack to mass murder. You’ve got Pukekoes (probably the crappest bird ever invented – they can fly - badly, they can walk – stupidly, they can eat - messily and they don’t even squawk properly) sounding like they are being strangled……squawk, squawk, honk, SQUAWgluklglukgleeeeAAYYK. The Possums were clearly having a gang fight, with a posse from over the valley mounting some kind of dusk turf challenge – Eeeeeeeech, Eeeeeecccchhh, EEEEEECCCCHHHHH. The Rurus, being somewhat pissed at being left out of the action, decided to voice their scorn over our somewhat unoriginal sausage diet…Morepork? Morepork? MOREPORK?? MOREBLOODYPORK!!!! (They were beef sausages for christ's sake!) And then, to cap it all, the cows in the next field clearly came into season at some time around 3am, much to the enjoyment and gleeful anticipation of the resident bull – mooo…..moooo….mooooo…..MOOOO ...MMMOOOOOO...MMMOOOOOOOOMOOOOOO!!! Judging by the amount of bellowing going on he must have had an erection the size of a telegraph pole! I couldn't quite decide whether to be worried he'd have a coronary or worried he'd pole-vault over the fence and onto our tent!!!

Now don’t get me wrong, camping is great and we all thoroughly enjoyed our first trip and we learnt a lot. However, for those that haven’t tried it and aren’t sure if they’d like the Kiwi camping culture, here’s a little experiment you might try before you waste a lot of money on expensive gear – get a deckchair and one of those disposable picnic BBQs, set them up in the bathroom, stick “Good Morning, Good Morning” by the Beatles (Sgt Pepper album) on the HiFi at full tilt, turn the shower on to cold, turn all the lights off and get some sausages going – If you can drink a cold beer and still smile, you’ll do okay camping.

Oh, by the way, Mrs C asked me not to mention the fact that she wiped all the tent pegs clean with toilet paper before putting them back in the bag…..so I won’t!! I also won't mention the fact that when I packed the car everything fit in, but when WE packed the car to come home, using Mrs C's alternative suggestion, we had to unpack it again and repack it using my original method, so that we might take home everything we had brought with us!

Happy camping!!

There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed

2007-01-27T07:56:00.000+13:00

He might have been a power-mad despot but he knew a thing or two did "Old Boney", and I cannot help but think it was fate which led to my first encounter with the New Zealand Health Service.

And so begins the story.....

I must apologise in advance for labouring through the circumstances leading up to my chance encounter with the medical services, but I feel these events themselves are worthy of mention before I take you to the Medical Centre.

Firstly fate conspired to match an early-finish meeting with an unusually low tide, which provided ample time and opportunity for a spot of evening rock fishing - not the easiest or best way to catch your dinner but usually a bit of fun and a chance to watch a fantastic sunset and catch up with a couple of mates. So me and a mate head off down to the local beach for a couple of hours.

Not a hugely successful haul - two undersized snapper that had to go back - but it was certainly worth the effort and, after a couple of hours we head back to his place to to sink a quick beer and tell a few fishing lies out on his deck. After one beer - note that well, one beer - it was getting too dark and we both had work the day after, so it was time to head home. We had plenty of stuff to carry (including tonnes of plums for an imminent wine brewing venture) so my mate offered me a lift home. He gathered some stuff together and headed across the back garden towards the car. Chipshaker Junior, true to form, followed him carrying as little as possible, leaving me to gather up a tackle box, two pairs of wet jandals and an 8ft fishing rod.

With no outside lights I headed barefoot for roughly the point where the steps down from the deck should be. Having successfully negotiated the four steps I thought there should be, I set off walking to head round the side of the house. Unfortunately, the existence of a fifth step mean that my mind and body, geared to travel in a horizontal direction, were not prepared for the remaining six or seven inches of vertical drop that followed! Now I have no idea how spectacular the fall actually looked but, if it is proportionate to the pain that followed, it would have been impressive. Truth be known I don't really know what happened, except for a couple of things that were immediately apparent - the amount of blood coming from my knee meant that it had come into contact with the concrete pad at the bottom of the steps, the pain in my right foot meant that I had definitely not landed smoothly, and the air rushing out of my lungs, combined with the excruciating pain in my right testicle meant that the butt of the 8ft fishing rod had tried to break my fall...unsuccessfully. Completely unable to cry out, I lay in a ball for a few minutes, listening to my mate carrying on a conversation with me from round the side of the house that I had no hope of participating in. Eventually, I recovered enough to test out the extent of the damage and managed to hobble round to the car, where I had to try to explain what had happened.

Anyway, to cut a long story a little shorter, I was delivered home where, after packing up the fishing gear, I advised Chipshaker Jr that all I wanted was a beer and a sit down. "I'll get you the beer Dad........CRASH!". I turned round to see the puddle of beer expanding across the garage floor, with Jr stood in the middle of it, the blood slowly mixing with the beer and broken glass.

"Stand STILL!"

I then eased myself into a sitting position, and helped Jr sit down in a dry patch, so as to avoid standing on any more glass. I then began to pick up the larger pieces of glass, after first establishing that Jr had only nicked his foot.

And that was the point Mrs C returned home, to find us both sat on the floor, bleeding, in a pool of blood, beer and broken glass!!

"What the hell is going on here?!"

And so we come to my encounter with the local Medical Centre.

After cleaning up my knee it turned that, whilst being the most painful of the various injuries, it was in fact the least serious and was now being overtaken in the pain stakes by my rapidly expanding big toe! Having broken a few bones in my youth, I was familiar with that special aching, throbbing pain that comes with broken bones, and I was fairly certain I had broken the toe. I also knew there was bugger all that could be done for broken toes, so I gobbled down a few painkillers, had another beer and went to bed.

That was Thursday night and, faced with a number of meetings and a huge "To Do" list, I headed off for work on Friday morning, armed with enough painkillers to hopefully see me through the day. However, by lunchtime it became very apparent that this was probably a very silly thing to have done and by 4pm my left foot was its usual size 7 whereas the right foot was a size 9, with unattractive shades of blue and purple. On arriving home, I succumbed to the pressure and agreed to let Mrs C take me to the medical centre.

And what a truly glorious experience it was!!!

At first, it seemed like any other emergency waiting room - rather sterile, the walls decorated with posters warning me about sexually transmitted diseases and the dangers of sneezing on people, and a TV playing to itself in the background.

Then gradually, you realised that, along with everyone else in the waiting room, your attention had subconsciously been drawn to the TV.....

"and so now we are going to perform an incision around Maureen's scalp, draw back the forehead and incise around the ears. We pull up and staple into place........CLICK, CLICK, CLICK"

"Two weeks later Maureen visits Dr Smith's dental surgery.......and we remove the fillings like so, drill around the teeth [weeeeeeeee, weeeeeeee, WEEEEEEEEEEE] and insert the new caps over the top"

As if the TV wasn't enough, the nurse on duty then felt compelled to compete with these outside influences and picked up the phone...

"Yes, this is the Medical Centre, I have a woman with an amputated fractured finger and I called for an ambulance a while back......well do you know how long it will be?.......well yes, it's just hanging on by a scrap of skin....it's on it's way? Okay, thanks"

Then, turning to the gathered crowd of pale onlookers, she addressed us collectively, seeking out her next victim....

"Darryl? [big bloke with bandaged calf (the bottom bit of his leg, not a young farm animal) stands up nervously] Yes, can you come this way please....[heading down the corridor] it's just a tetanus is it? Righto. And it was a shark bite was it? Dear me, how many stitches?......27 STITCHES! My word!"

Now that's what I call health care! No drawn curtain, no patient discretion, just full-on graphic commentary for the enjoyment of all.

I went in feeling very dejected and in a great deal of discomfort, but I came out extremely uplifted, having enjoyed perhaps the greatest moments of unintentional comedy I have seen for a very long time. I was also resolved to never go there with any kind of ailment I wouldn't freely admit to others, for fear of walking down the corridor to the loud accompaniment of..... "so, it's just the penis suppurating profusely is it? We'll soon get that sorted"

And the best thing of all? The whole experience, glorious as it was, lasted less than an hour and the nurse even put some cream on my grazed knee!!

PS

As a post script to this wonderful experience, I went back to the medical centre yesterday morning for an X-ray to confirm the extent of the damage. It is indeed broken as suspected but most impressive of all was the way the doctor nonchalantly took down a book from the shelf entitled "Practical Fracture Treatment", which he proceeded to flick through before writing up his treatment notes. Now I know these guys have to learn a lot, and they can't possibly know everything, but I'm not too sure they should be learning on the job!

If we think about this carefully, I diagnosed a broken toe on the Thursday night, which was considered to be a correct diagnosis when viewed by a doctor on Friday night, confirmed by an X-ray on Saturday morning and treated by reference to a text book and use of multiple strips of Band Aid. In the past, I have also correctly predicted tonsillitis in myself and my children and successfully treated it with salt water gargles, convinced Mrs C that the children have a heat rash not meningitis, identified chicken pox, and have treated several deep wounds (in myself and close friends and family) with home-made butterfly stitches, thus generally avoiding a four hour sojourn fighting off the unwanted attentions of drunks and drug addicts in British hospital waiting rooms .

I can't help but feel I may be somewhat wasted in my current job and can see a future with the Chipshaker Travelling Medicine Show. After all, it doesn't really seem that difficult and, if anyone in New Zealand can be an estate agent, surely the conditions for being a doctor can't be that rigorous?

I wanted to do something nice....

2007-01-19T13:44:00.000+13:00

....so I bought my mother-in-law a chair, but my wife won't let me plug it in!

(If it weren't so true that old joke would indeed be funny)

Yes, as I write this I come to the end of three very long weeks in the cloying company of my wife's mother - an individual I found intolerable during previously infrequent encounters, let alone having to live with her for three whole weeks. (And I should point out that this is notwithstanding several vicious and underhand tricks she did when I first seduced her beautiful daughter some 18 years ago, which I try hard not to influence my loathing of her).

Apart from the fact that she is perhaps the most thoroughly dislikeable person I have every met, most adults of a certain age will probably admit that it is also very difficult sharing ones personal space with another adult you wouldn't ordinarily choose to live with. That said, once I had got over the initial urges to mark my territory by urinating on the dining table leg, rationalised that I was only connected to her by some tragic fluke of marriage, and that my summer holiday/Christmas was going to be buggered up beyond redemption, I have to admit that I did settle down somewhat to revel in the spectacle that was to follow.

I suppose those that don't know me may feel my opening comments are a little uncaring (those that do know me probably feel the same!), but be assured that Mrs C does in fact share my dislike of the woman, although perhaps not to the same extent, and begged me not to abandon her to her tender mercies. Undeterred by this impassioned plea, I pointed out the undeniable truth that she was in fact no relation of mine and our paths had only crossed by an accident of early 20s lust and animal attraction (to Mrs C, not her mother!!). Therefore I patiently explained that I was quite within my rights to find every excuse possible to disappear with the children, play golf or undertake marathon Playstation sessions in another room or join the Merchant Navy. And at this point, It is worth bearing in mind that the visit was only grudgingly agreed to for the sake of the two Chipettes, who mistakenly believed they were missing out on something by being 10,000 miles away from Grandma. If you care to read on, you can make your own decisions on whether they were.

As I say, at first it was perhaps just a little difficult because of the territorial aspects of three adults cohabiting. Nevertheless, it became apparent after only the first fifteen minutes that it was going to be much much more than that.

Having passed through New Zealand customs control myself a few times, I am very aware that there are stringent drugs controls in this country and a notable intolerance of smugglers. That said, The Bride of Satan managed to fox this country's trained enforcement officers and their clever dogs somehow and arrived with the biggest haul of drugs I have ever seen! Antihistamine tablets, thyroid tablets, aspirin, allergy tablets, enough Rennie to have rendered Acid Bath Haigh harmless, anti-depressants, sleeping tablets, distemper tablets, foot and mouth cream - you name it she had the lot. The only thing she was missing was the medication to treat her hypochondria!

When I was stupid enough to comment on the size of her pill box (more a travel bag than a pocket box) she regaled us with tales of how she had scourged the pharmacies of Sydney (during a 10 day stop over) because she was worried she only had enough blue pills for the next 3 months!! Not content with that, we then got a blow by blow account of her extravagant pill popping excesses.

"This blue one I have 75mg one day and 50mg on the next, then 75mg again....or is it the other way round, I can never remember? Anyway, this yellow one I have three times a day. The white ones I just take when I fancy......"

I'm assuming the white ones were in fact mint imperials, which she harped on about regularly throughout the visit (and which were later found, half sucked, in the bed when the covers were changed after her departure!!). Judging by her miserable countenance and lethargic shuffling round the house, I can only assume the blue ones were not speed! I also have a theory that her insomnia could be triggered by some kind of mad urge to get a sugar rush around 10pm every night - mint imperials, honey, assorted biscuits, Ovaltine, you name it. All were consumed as part of the going to bed ritual, accompanied by 10 minutes of exaggerated yawning and the oft repeated chorus of "Oo I'm tired, I'm worn out, I am tired you know, I think I'll go to bed". After 5 minutes of which I was fighting back the urge to scream "Well, just effing go to bed then, so that the rest of us can hear ourselves think!"

Somewhat suicidally bored and fighting back the urge to self harm, I retired gracefully to bed at the end of day one!

In the following days she displayed perhaps her only skill in life (assuming paranoia isn't considered a talent), being the ability to fill every single waking second with unnecessary noise or vacuous and inane chatter. Let me give you but one example - upon meeting her on the stairs one evening she greeted me with the earth-shattering revelation "Eh look, it's me, with my camomile tea and honey". Now Stevie Wonder may have struggled to deduce that one but I just about managed to draw that conclusion by assimilating the assembled facts (ie, it was definitely her, she was holding a cup of hot liquid, she'd never stopped harping on about camomile tea since she got there (this was before we'd scoured Greater Auckland to replenish mint imperial stocks) and it was past 10pm so there was bound to be a shovelful of honey in there!). Somewhat stunned by the enormity of this event I was fleetingly tempted to contact Sky News to advise them of this world-changing revelation but, on further reflection, opted for the wintry smile instead.

Mind you, it's a wonder she can find time to brew camomile tea quite frankly, what with the hectic social life she seems to live. After all, she seems to be on first name terms with just about every A-list celebrity you can imagine. Or at least I assume this is the case based on the running commentary she gives whenever she watches the TV (which is almost constantly). "Aw look, there's Elton, he's been going some years, eh look, it's Rod - he's nearly as old as me you know. And Shirley, she's done some stuff over the years...la, la,lelah, bum, be bum"

Now I have to confess I'm perhaps not Shirley Bassey's biggest fan, though her talent is undeniable, and I am reasonably familiar with her most popular songs. However, I couldn't for the life of me place the one that had just been attempted by Beelzebub's Bedfellow

But perhaps the greatest revelation of all, and one the New Zealand Herald would definitely be interested in was.... "Aw Diana - she's not dead you know, oh no, she'll never die, she'll live forever"

I don't know about you but after a fairly conclusive post mortem, endless media coverage, a State funeral, several messy stains in a Paris underpass and a high profile enquiry I thought it was a given that she'd shuffled off this mortal coil, but apparently not. Nevertheless, this little snippet did leave me wondering if it was all a ruse so that Di could get some respite from the media attention. Perhaps she's teamed up with Elvis and works in a burger joint in Des Moines, and only Mrs C's mum knows the secret?

By this point, we were only a few days in and I was beginning to wonder if I would stay the distance without "going postal". Nevertheless, Christmas Day was imminent, so I felt duty bound to soldier on. And what a joy Christmas Day was! We were treated to Christmas courtesy of QVC - for the uninitiated, QVC is a shopping channel available on satellite, cable and freeview in the UK. It specialises in selling chintzy, tacky crap of all descriptions to insomniacs who are too tired to venture out during the day, mostly because they sit up all night watching QVC! And the Monster-in-Law is a most avid fan - I can recall a time when Mrs C revealed how she had opened a cupboard at her mother's house, only to have a near-death experience under an avalanche of Jiffy envelopes and boxes all bearing the QVC emblem.

Anyway, given their origins, it was perhaps not surprising that most of the gifts fell apart after the first hour or so, prompting a rant about all the things that upset her the most about Christmas. Somehow, this turned into a discussion around the jewellery adorning the Monster-in-Law's crabbed hands and a revelation far greater than the immortality of Princess Di...

Mrs C, whether out of mischief or morbid curiosity - I know not which , asked "Why do you keep buying all that stuff Mum?"

"Well, I'm a collector you see. I buy it all on Easypay you know - I just pay over four months so it's a lot cheaper. And most of the things I've bought have appreciated in value".

Now at this point, apart from being in danger of losing control of my bladder, I was also stunned to realise that there was in fact a market for "Diamonique" and "Rubyite" jewellery outside those that sit up all night watching camp wannabee presenters waxing lyrical on the aesthetic and intrinsic value of a glass-and- silver-plated ring that wouldn't look out of place falling from the big end of a Christmas cracker. I naturally assumed that pieces of shaped glass were of limited value, regardless of their colour, unless made in Waterford instead of Warrington. Needless to say, when the Harpy from Hades does get the call to return to Satan's side, I'll be sending Mrs C straight off to the Antiques Roadshow with her inheritance!

Mind you, if - as I suspect - the 'jewellery' (I imagine the Guild of Master Jewellers may dispute the careless use of that word as gross misrepresentation) turns out to not be worth enough to pay off the Easypay instalments, we will still have something to remember her by. Well, that's assuming Mrs C doesn't chuck out that one of her set of her best towels her mother ruined when surreptitiously dying her hair.

And I couldn't help but marvel at the underhand way she "confessed" to this wicked deed.

Waiting until Mrs C had gone out, the MIL backed me into a corner and numbed me into semi-consciousness with a rambling account of how the sun had dried her hair and taken the colour out (Bearing in mind this is the same sun that had seemingly failed to appear most of the time......"Oh I am disappointed with the weather, it's been nice seeing the kids but I'll be really upset if I don't go back with a suntan", but that she had basked in at every opportunity, turning the uncovered parts of her body into charred flesh...."Oh no, it's not sore, look I can even do this...." [slaps horrible turkey neck violently to demonstrate lack of excruciating radiation burns]". She wasn't fooling anyone though, the putrid stench of burnt flesh and the oft applied Savlon were testament to her misery and stupidity).

Anyway, almost to the point of semi-consciousness, I suddenly realised this rambling soliloquy actually had a point......"all the grey was showing through, so I had to dye my hair. I brought an old hand-towel with me especially but it was too small and my hair was still wet. So I borrowed one of Mrs C's towels to finish it off....the stains'll come out when it's washed I'm sure...."

I have to admit, I couldn't resist mentioning to Mrs C on her return that she might want to have a quick shufty at the top quality, extra thick CREAM-COLOURED bath-towel currently residing in the laundry basket....

And so let me finish with a message to all sons-in-law out there, particularly those who reluctantly allow their mother-in-laws to stay. It may seem like a prospect worse than death but, with the right mental attitude, it can be hugely entertaining and incredibly educational - I now know much more about immortality, celebrity lifestyle and the specialist collectors' market than I could ever have imagined, and I learnt some new swear words too when Mrs C found the towel!

Oh, and I also improved my golf handicap and won prize money in the club competition two weekends running!! Not bad for a bloke who usually couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo!!

Meanwhile, fears of universal disaster sank to an all time low over the world

2006-11-24T13:07:00.000+13:00

Well Isaac Asimov may well think that but my insurance company certainly doesn't!!

Six hundred and fifty five quid they want, for buildings only insurance on an empty house! Not only that but the insurance only covers damage by lightning, explosion and aircraft damage? What about the good old stuff like loosened roofing tiles, subsidence and burning down?

I mean, we lived there ten years before we emigrated and I can't honestly remember the house ever being struck by lightning or exploding. These are the kinds of things you'd tend to notice I feel.

And as for aircraft damage, well we are some twenty odd miles from the nearest airport, in a sprawling urbanisation. But apparently aircraft damage is a major concern to the insurance company it seems. So much so that, under the terms of the policy, my parents have to visit the property at least once a week to make quite sure that there isn't a Boeing 747 sticking out of the lounge window.

One assumes that, at such an extortionate price, I at least get salvage rights over any commercial, military or recreational aircraft that should just happen to choose my house to crash into out of the millions of others in the Greater Manchester area!

I'm thinking someone has been watching too much Emmerdale! Bloody insurance? Surely the whole idea of insurance is that they assess the odds and take a gamble? Quite honestly, at nearly seven hundred quid a chuck, I can't see a downside for the insurance company!

Don't suppose anyone out there knows any dodgy pilots do they? Perhaps a retired Kamikaze veteran looking for a quick buck (assuming of course Kamikaze pilots can either be veteran or retired?)

The difference between a misfortune and a calamity is this :

2006-11-22T13:59:00.000+13:00

"If Gladstone fell into the Thames, it would be a misfortune. But if someone dragged him out again, that would be a calamity."

Quite a wag that Benjamin Disraeli, but I suppose he has a point.

Let me share with you then, my misfortunes of last week.

The week didn't start too well when Mrs C advised me casually, in passing, that her mother was coming to haunt us for five weeks over the Christmas period. Five weeks!! I only get two weeks off for Christmas and I was rather looking forward to the peace and tranquility of Christmas on the beach. As it stands, I'm more likely now to be stood in the dinner queue at Mount Eden prison for Christmas dinner. She once lived with us for three days and how I held my tongue that long I'll never know - five weeks is a feat of endurance beyond even a saint. To say I don't like the women is perhaps understating things somewhat and it's probably no exaggeration to say that I'd rather have Peter Sutcliffe use our gaff as a bail hostel.

Naturally, when I picked up an e-mail last Friday morning advising me that our house buyers in the UK were dropping out 24 hrs before the date of completion I was very slightly less than gruntled. On the assumption that these things come in threes I was also starting to look carefully around me for the next drama on the horizon, and I travelled very warily to work that day. But then I told myself that it was all a load of guff, nothing else could go wrong and I'd had my quota if such things even existed. I also couldn't recall breaking any mirrors, and you tend to notice doing that.

But I was wrong! I might as well stood under a ladder and smashed a mirror over the black cat running past!

Come 9am I'd just got my first cup of tea and was settling down to my usual Friday turgidity when the phone rang. Not content with already ruining my Christmas, Mrs C decided to twist the knife a little further. "I'm not quite sure how to tell you this.......". Turns out that a mate of Stevie Wonder's had driven his bullbar-adorned 4x4 Schoolrunmobile into our parked car and stoved in the two offside doors. I can only assume he was a mate of Stevie's because there is no other explanation for him failing to see the large, silver family saloon he crashed his front end into as he reversed slowly at an angle out of his adjacent parking space - one assumes the seeing dog in the passenger seat wasn't having a particularly good day and failed to bark his customary warning in time.

Fortunately, the dog had a conscience and scrawled his telephone number on a note (Thank goodness for the dog, because a Braille note from the driver would have had me well stumped!)

Taking a deep breath, and reassured that my third and final piece of bad luck had now arrived, I assessed the damage over the phone and concluded that the car was unsightly rather than undriveable. Surprising myself with my calmness (is there a difference between calm and abject resignation I wonder?) I left Mrs C with the words "Right, I'll deal with it when I get home, but please, please do not phone me again unless someone dies, I couldn't take anything else".

She's a grand wife is Mrs C, very bright and deeply beloved to me, despite having a mother rumoured to be the daughter of Satan. And she followed my instructions to the letter.....until around 2pm, when the phone rang again.

Now you know when you answer the phone and you can tell just by the way people breath that they are about to relay something catastrophic? Well it was like that - shaky breathing, muted sobs and I could definitely detect trembling through the ether. With the words ".....unless somebody dies" ringing in my ears, bile rising in my throat and her "I'm really sorry to phone you" opening gambit, I immediately began to wonder which one of the children's names I was going to hear!

The word "hospital" was all I heard in the next sentence!

Turns out, she'd turned around quite innocently and innocuously whilst helping out at school, and crumpled in a rather messy heap on the floor (probably with her legs firmly closed and her skirt neatly clamped between her knees, because women somehow have this reflex action for falling that way whenever they faint or collapse - or is it just me that notices these things?). Anyway, I digress. After a trip to the hospital, the conclusion is a torn calf muscle, a bill of $80 for a bit of tubigrip bandage, some aspirins and a pack of anti-inflammatories, plus $30 deposit for the crutches, which will be refunded when she returns on Friday for a check up (which will probably cost the returned $30 deposit plus another $50 no doubt!). Now I put this kind of injury either down to old age or playing football....and I don't ever recall seeing her wearing football boots!

So not only was my Friday a disaster of unfathomable proportions, but I had to spend a whole weekend of Mrs C alternating between hopping around like an amateur Long John Silver or shuffling up and down stairs on her backside like a stricken leper.

Regardless of what Disraeli says, I still haven't decided whether all of that was purely misfortune, or whether the quantum of those misfortunes qualifies it as a calamity collectively.
And all of this whilst going through the itchy and deeply irritable hell of a two week old moustache in aid of 'Movember' - an event in aid of Men's Cancer charities. I mention this a) because the itching was already making me bad tempered and b) in a shameless pursuit of cash in a good cause. If anyone would like to sponsor my flowing Mexican moustache, complete with underlip tickler. Log on to the Movember website here http://www.movember.com/nz/sponsor and quote my rego number 34760. Leave your e-mail address in the comments section and I'll send you a mo pic to laugh at/stroke/drool over (I currently hold 5 gold "Best Mo" stars, 4 red "Most Stylish Mo" stars and 4 blue "Best Porno Mo" stars to lead the office competition!)

PS, in response to the anonymous comment...Ron Jeremy? Pah. I don't think he can compete on any front! Even Merv Hughes is cacking himself

It isn't that life ashore is distasteful to me. But life at sea is better

2006-10-27T14:46:00.000+13:00

Pah, Francis Drake, what did he know about it??

Me on the other hand, I'm now a fully fledged member of the nautical community. Mind you, this elevation doesn't come easily. Oh no, you live and learn every time you go out on the Briny.

So what allows me to speak with such authority? Well, I'm now the proud owner (well loaner really ) of a boat, following an incredibly generous offer from a colleague's partner - something along the lines of "Here take mine". Never being one to look a gift horse in the mouth (being sensibly scared of getting anywhere near the flickering eyes and yellow teeth of such animals), I gratefully accepted the offer. After all, it would be rude to refuse and how hard can it be to drive a boat?

Hmm, well a little bit harder than you might first imagine!

Now being honest, the driving of them (or should one say skippering?) isn't really that difficult. You turn the key and off you go. In fact, it's the bit before you set off and the bit after you get back that are the REALLY hard bits. First of all, there's the reversing it down the boat ramp without dropping it off the side or submerging the car. For those that have never reversed a trailer before, it's a bit like rubbing your stomach and patting your head. You can learn to do it in time, but generally some people are just born with the ability. In fact I think it's a gene passed from Kiwi male to Kiwi male. For the rest of us, it's an activity designed solely for the amusement of others.

Not deterred, I was hell-bent on trying it. I mean, how hard can it be? You just turn the steering wheel in the opposite direction to the one you want the boat trailer to go.....don't you?

So I stationed my mate (we'll call him Jimmy) within sight at the back, so that he could guide me and I set off slowly. Now Jimmy is a decent fella - after all, it was his 4x4 we were using to tow the borrowed boat (I know, I might look stupid but...) - and in the true way of all loyal mates, he turned to the nearest disinterested bystanders and attracted their unwavering and undivided attention to the forthcoming entertainment with the words "It's his first time!"

Having ensured that we now had the full attention of all present, I inched backwards down the ramp, turning the wheel slightly to the right, to account for the slight curve to the left of the boat ramp. Having quickly got the boat at right angles to the car, I then drove forward to straighten up. Start again.....and the same thing happened!! Lesson 1 - even the slightest touch of the steering wheel slews the trailer in the opposite direction!

After only four attempts I managed to get the boat down the ramp and into the water.....and nobody applauded!!!

So off we set for an enjoyable day's fishing.

Now it was a little rough, so we didn't go far and anchored out in the bay. The boat was pitching a little but nothing too serious. And then I learnt my next lesson. NEVER, EVER kneel down in a pitching boat, because when you do, the pitching suddenly becomes a WHOLE lot worse (even writing this I can feel the bile rising again!). After about 30 minutes rocking and wallowing, we decided enough was enough and it was time to 'weigh anchor'. It was only at this point we realised the anchor was fouled and, stuck fast, it 'weighed" a bloody tonne!. With Jimmy facing out of the hatchway at the front of the boat trying to pull up the rope, we began hitting every wave head on as we fought to get the damn thing up - me by driving the boat over the anchor line and him by hauling on the rope (at one point I think I saw the palm of his hands smoking!). Now I was a little scared at the thought of being stuck forever out there and have to admit I was very chuffed to be skipper, responsible for the boat, rather than the other bloke sat out on the front of the boat facing the rising sea and getting drenched with every wave. We finally got the anchor up and, as with most instances where the danger suddenly disappears, had a good laugh and a celebratory beer.

Somewhat relieved, we decided to have a little bimble about round the headland. As soon as we turned the corner, the sea was flat calm!!!

The sequel to this story came last weekend, when we took the boat out again, this time with our kids on board. Being a bit wiser this time, and noticing the number of people about, I let Jimmy drive down the ramp - he's a Kiwi you see, so was born with the trailer reversing gene and can make any boat ramp look 30ft wide. And as you might expect, our departure was a relatively unamusing and uninspiring affair. We spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon buggering about on the water, fishing, drinking beer, peeing in buckets and all the other things you'd associate with a blokes' fishing trip. Well, when I say fishing trip, Captain Birdseye we weren't. We caught a few but none were big enough to keep....except one snapper, which was a couple of millimetres over the legal 27cm. Obviously, we couldn't go home completely empty handed, so he went in the bucket and we set off back.

By this time, confidence was high and we cruised gently towards the beach, in a dead line with the boatramp, a bit like Nelson and Hardy (but without the kissing of course!). Now for some reason, the beach was particularly busy (could word of the previous week's antics have spread so far already??). Having judged we had about 1/2 metre of depth before we grounded, my fellow gallant matelot and I made preparations for the ceremonial disembarkation - he's supposed to jump off first and hold the boat, I kill the engine and then follow him overboard, so that he can leg it up the beach for the car and trailer, whilst I stop the borrowed boat washing down the beach and against the rocks.

Unfortunately, it didn't go quite according to plan - a wave caught us just as Jimmy's about to go over the side....and he went slightly faster and a little less gracefully than he intended. Soaked to the neck, he quickly scarpers pretending nonchalantly to the gathered crowd on the beach that nothing untoward had happened - judging by the faces, his performance wasn't too convincing and his sopping wet clothes clearly indicated a lack of intention! Barely able to hold my bladder for laughing, I followed him over (more gracefully) and hung onto the boat, waist deep in water, whilst the kids were under instructions to sit still as I fought the waves (which I was hoping "were fiddlin' and small", but weren't).

After what seemed like ages, I could see my buddy scrabbling about up near the car. Cursing, I turned to my son and growled "I can't believe that daft bugger's getting his dry clothes on whilst I'm struggling here."

Then my youngest starts crying - she wants to go home and doesn't like the boat rocking in the waves......then my mates daughter delivers the words that strike fear into anyone in such a situation........"I need the toilet!"

Just then Jimmy sets off back down the beach towards us. It was at this point, I learnt another lesson - car keys aren't waterproof!!!

"Mate, we've got a real problem" he says. "The keys got wet and the immobiliser's buggered!"

So there we were, a 15ft boat, no trailer, no car, one child reliving the Titanic experience, another performing the bladder dance complete with facial contortions, and half of the local population loving every minute!

Fortunately, we had mobile phones with us (carefully stored in waterproof bags I might add!!) so we phoned Mrs C, and told her to bring my car down to tow us off bloody quickly.

Now at some point during this, I noticed the two blokes in official overalls up in the car park - FISHERIES OFFICERS!!! These guys take your boat, your car and all your kit if they catch you with undersized fish, or so I'd been told by every Death or Glory Kiwi fisherman I'd ever met. And by this point, I'm convinced they thought I was spending hours in the water just to avoid them inspecting us for our one and only fish that was 27.5cm long!

Just then, Mrs C arrives with the car, so we get the trailer hitched up and The One With The Genes reverses it down the ramp - boat hooked up, winched out and we are ready to go. Being somewhat sodden, I suggested Jimmy (the drier of the two of us!!) drive up and I'd meet him at the top of the ramp. So, completely oblivious to the fact that my car is a 2.0l front wheel drive saloon, and not a 3.0 4x4, Jimmy guns the engine.....and buries the front end of my lovely car into the beach! Fortunately, a quick reverse, a lower gear selection and we get away with it.

So, at the top of the ramp, the Fisheries guy stops us, has a look over our catch (1 fish you'll recall - it didn't take long!) and gives us the thumbs up. Feeling brave, I questioned him as to whether the fish we had was borderline or not

"Nah, you're okay there. We're mostly after the fellas who take sackfuls of shellfish, or bags of undersized fish....besides, you fellas gave us such a laugh we had to let you off!!"

Swing your razor wide! Sweeney, hold it to the skies

2006-08-05T10:37:00.000+12:00

Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, not much chance of him getting on in New Zealand, far too much of a craftsman he was. In the Land of the Long White Cloud anyone can be anything they want to be over here and qualifications seem to have little to do with it. Take barbers for instance. Six months and I haven't once had a decent haircut. In fact, I'm pretty convinced that the qualifications for becoming a New Zealand barber are simply the ability to daub red white and blue stripes somewhere on the outside of a shop. They certainly don't seem to relate to being able to cut hair, that's for sure!

Now at this point, some of you are probably assuming I'm one of those sartorially elegant chaps who sports the kind of trendy haircut that makes you look like you've just jumped out of bed and dived backwards through a hedge? Well not me! Admittedly, I do like the back shaved up and a quick razor scrape to rid me of the bum fluff on the neck but I've never considered myself trendily tonsured - I'm quite happy with the regulation short back and sides with a good short trim on the roof. Back in England a quick trip to "Mad Jack's" and you'd spend more time waiting than you did in the chair - a good old fashioned barber who'd whizz round with the clippers, have the cut-throat up and down your neck and offer you "something for the weekend sir?" before you'd even had chance to comment on the weather. (By the way, why is it, whenever I hear the oft parodied phrase "Something for the weekend sir?" I immediately think of a hot black pudding and a free ticket to watch the mighty Shakers get trounced by some second-rate pub team from the wilds of Yorkshire.)

Anyway, my mind wanders, as it often does, but, to get back to the point, you wouldn't think it would be too hard to get a decent, sharp haircut of the old fashioned variety, now would you?

Well how wrong could you be?

The first mistake I made was going to a female barber. Now call me old fashioned, but women are hairdressers and blokes are barbers. Women just simply don't have the aggression needed to wield hair clippers with the required amount of venom to shave with military precision. So I spent 30 minutes (20 minutes longer than I would usually) sat in the chair, listening to inane twittering about the weather, TV and the price of shopping, whilst this lovely lady faffed and fussed around the back of my head. Granted, she did do the thing with the mirror to show me the back of my head when she'd finished. But that immediately raised my suspicions - no self respecting barber shows you the back. He leaves that surprise for when you get home! And true enough, there it was....a beautifully clipped neckline with not a trace of blood or tissue paper anywhere. And even worse, no evidence of contact with clippers whatsoever....which left me wondering just what the hell that buzzing noise had been at the back of my head for the last 20 minutes!! (Surely not!)

Now everyone knows that the standard issue short back and sides lasts you at least a month but after a week I was beginning to look like Jason Eaton!

So, with the bit between my teeth and my unwanted ponytail wafting gaily in the breeze, I set out again to find a real barber. Spotting a dingy place lurking menacingly next to a disused cafe, I thought I'd struck lucky. Surely no-one but an old fashioned barber would have Old Holborn and Park Drive tins in the window?. So in I dived and to my delight not only did I find there were only two people before me, but there was a table full of 10 year old copies of "Top Gear" magazine and "New Zealand Fisherman & Hunter". Now I really was in luck!

So, I quickly grabbed an interesting magazine and began to read the review of the "hot new 2.8l Ford Capri", knowing I would only have the briefest of moments to savour the vinyl interior as modelled by Lewis Collins, before my turn would come, I read hungrily......and after nearly an hour, it dawned on me that, not only was I no nearer getting my haircut but there was actually STILL no-one in the chair and the same two blokes were waiting before me....looking, on closer inspection, as if they'd been there for years. This guy had stropped his razor, cleaned his clippers, rolled a couple of fags (for the non-Brits out there, rolling a fag is the art of crafting a hand-made cigarette, not a George Michael courtship technique!), and sipped a couple of cups of coffee. It suddenly became very clear to me that this fella was cacking himself and doing everything possible to avoid cutting anyone's hair, presumably lest he should be found out to be a plumber or a plasterer down on his luck, and not really a barber at all !!

It was at that point, I noticed his prosthetic ear (I kid you not!!)....and I began to wonder. Maybe he wasn't a barber at all. Maybe he'd been cruelly mutilated by another amateur New Zealand barber and was now hell-bent on some mission of misplaced vengeance!

Bugger that, time for a sharp exit.....before I end up with a sharp exit!!

So I legged it....and only stopped running when I spotted "Bert's Barbers" (name changed to protect the under-qualified!) tucked away down another alleyway. Undeterred, and becoming somewhat stubborn by this point, I thought I'd give it a go, if only to save money on Alberta Balsam conditioner for long and fly-away hair.

Once again, stepping into the breach, I found myself in an empty shop, bedecked with faded Manchester United memorabilia. The chap seemed cheerful enough, as he greeted me in that cheeky cockney accent favoured by most traditional Man Utd fans. "What'll it be sir?". Now, my hopes soared at this display of traditional Uriah Heep-like ingratiating humility that can surely only truly be learned at a good barbering school. However, not being prepared to take any more chances, I opted for "a number 3 all over", on the basis of a good nagging from Mrs C for having "a bloody crew cut" was better than being mistaken for a slightly dishevelled Liza Minnelli from behind.

It was only when I got home I realised I'd had "a number 3 all over" except for various long tufts at the back!! It was at that point, completely defeated, and after a bout of expletives, I opted for the unthinkable......."Mrs C, do me a favour, get the scissors and trim some of these long bits off."

Snip, snip, snip......"Oh, oh, sorry, I think I've gone a bit close there....."

"Jesus, what have you done? Give me that mirror?"

Now I ask you, which is worse, long tufts of hair here and there or the random placing of bald patches, making me look like a feral dog with the mange??

You know I used to worry a little about going bald but I'm sure Yul Brynner never had the problems I seem to have!

A meal without wine is like a day without sunshine

2006-07-18T09:35:00.000+12:00

Okay, let me firstly say that I am in no way proud of what I am about to recount. However, I do feel the tale worthy of sharing, if only out of relief and surprise.

Someone very kindly offered us use of their holiday home last weekend on the Coromandel (unspoilt playground of the wealthy - a rural/farming peninsula running from south Auckland, parallel to the city, heading back north) and, with an opportunity like that, it seemed only right that we should make the most of it and set off on Friday.

Despite the unspoilt beauty of forests, untouched beaches and winding mountain roads that would give the Alps a run for their money we still had a few issues with Chipshaker Jr and his determination to be sullen and ruin the day for everyone, despite everything we did to make it better (I suspect this is probably lingering homesickness, even after 6 months, and he seems hell-bent on punishing us for dragging him to this wonderful place). Consequently, Friday was a challenging day to say the least and the conclusions we reached at the end of a really difficult day trying to do nice things for Junior's benefit were:

a) if we ever got divorced the custody battle would be more about who got lumbered with the kids rather than who wanted them
b) nothing we could do would make him happy
c) we'd run out of ideas

and most importantly

d) we both needed a beer

Now the day hadn't been all bad - we'd driven a fair distance to a particular beach, known for its thermal springs. And the gloom lifted briefly as the kids, turning slightly blue, bathed in steaming hot water as the freezing Pacific rollers crashed up onto the beach, chilling everything until the hot water bubbled up again. Nevertheless, once the fun was over Junior once again returned to his perpetual state of sullenness.

We were some way from our base, so we decided to stop off for a beer on the way back. After a nice "cold one" things were looking up so we decided cut our losses, relax in front of the log fire and order a meal, with which I had two glasses of a very fair local red wine, as you do.

By now darkness had fallen so I had a "fun" time driving through winding forest roads in the pitch dark, trying hard not to run over kiwis and possums - the former a protected species and the latter a pest. Whilst it is considered good form to run over any possum you spot, they do rather make a mess of the front of the car. We didn't see either but we did nearly run over some farmer's dog.....twice!! Not content with wandering into the road the first time and near choking on the blue tyre smoke, the daft bugger did the same thing again just as I was about to set off!

Nevertheless, we eventually got to the village before the one we were staying in. Clearly a farming community, it became immediately apparent from the sight of two or three bars bursting at the seams that all the farmers knock off at 5pm on a Friday to sink a few cold ones. As we were passing out of town, it also became apparent that the local copper parks his car in the middle of the road at 7.30 and stops every driver in the hope of catching miscreants driving home full to the gunnels.

At 7.45pm, he caught one such miscreant!

"Evening" said I
"Evening sir, could you state your name and address please" said he, as he pressed a breath testing machine to my mouth
"Thank you sir....oh....it's a fail, have you been drinking?"
"Yes, I had a couple of glasses of wine with a meal"
"Where was this?"

At which point, anyone who isn't a native who tries to pronounce some of the local names is heading for disaster, drink or not!

"Er...er...just up the road in Whitty...er...wanger"
"Ah, right, I think you mean Whitianga" (pronounced fittyanga) "When was that then?" says he, looking at Mrs C and the kids
"Well it was about an hour ago, eh love?" said I looking to Mrs C for corroboration, and setting the kids with a steely death stare, daring them to speak
"Yes, about an hour ago"

Having watched a few episodes of "Motorway Patrol" I was well aware of the dim view the NZ police take of drinking and driving and, at the point I saw the police car in the road I knew I was heading for a night in the cells at least, and probably a hefty fine and a ban - and all before I've even got my NZ driving licence!

As I said at the outset, I don't condone drinking and driving, and I'm sure abstinence is the only sensible policy when driving, but I'm sure most of us have had the odd beer, or a glass of wine or two with a meal before heading off home. Knowing I had to drive, I'd deliberately moderated the intake, had a coffee and killed a bit of time before we set off home.

Nevertheless, I suppose I knew from the outset that I was on thin ice. So, as you might imagine, the next event took my breath away somewhat

"Okay sir, no problem, thank you and have a nice evening"

I drove the rest of the way more stunned than I would have been had I downed a bottle of scotch!. No cells, no fine, no ban, no marigolds. Not even a patronising British bobby-style spiel about how irresponsible it was to drink and drive, particularly with kids in the car, and how I'd better watch out next time!

Unbelievable!!

Now this was the first time I'd ever been stopped in all my years of driving but I've since learned that it is fairly commonplace over here. I've also learned from several people I have spoken to since that I was very...very...lucky!

We commend to Almighty God our brother.....

2006-07-13T13:19:00.000+12:00

So, I wake up every weekend and I look out the window to see that winter still hasn't come to this part of New Zealand. Oh aye, it rains occasionally and it's been pretty cold of late - in fact the coldest winter in Auckland for a couple of dickheads (about 20 years), and there was even frost on the golf course last weekend - but we still haven't seen that traditional sopping wet, bucketing down New Zealand winter that everyone keeps threatening me with. So every weekend, we do our best to make the most of it, and we get out 'tramping' or get in the car for a 'tikitour'.

And this weekend was no exception, although it did have some slightly unusual qualities to it!

Having finally found a bookshop that sells road maps for less than a king's ransom I gladly parted with my $7 for a shiny new tourist map - the fold-out type designed to add excitement to any trip as the passenger wrestles with it across the driver's field of vision, trying unsuccessfully to re-fold it along the original lines, and occasionally uttering from behind it the words "who's doing all that honking?", not realising the car is careering across the central reservation as the driver steers by gut feel and intuition. (I can't help but feel there is a market for opaque maps by the way!).

Anyway, I digress....I had planned out an adventure to take us out to the wild, west (that's 'wild, west' as in rugged coast, not 'Wild West' as in lawless gunslingers).

Unfortunately, what I didn't do was fully appraise Mrs C of the route. Rashly adopting a male outlook to any kind of trip, I vaguely traced a finger along what I thought was a fairly simple route indicating the general direction, and left Mrs C to shout directions out rally co-driver style at relevant points. Unfortunately, these points were usually just after the relevant turnoffs, which invariably meant much hard breaking, blue tyre smoke, reversing and the occasional straying over the white line as I tried to point to our current location on the map and drive at the same time.

Having spent a few hours driving up a relatively uninhabited peninsula we got to a point where what was initially a tarmac road suddenly becomes a dirt track. Now even though I'd only paid $7 for the map, it had so far navigated us perfectly through recognisable landmarks (which is more than can be said for Mrs C), so I kept my faith, with only a nagging concern that the track would suddenly lead to the front door of a farmhouse and we'd be greeted by a grinning farmer and the words "Hehehe, another one eh?".

But got there we did, and we found the (near vertical) path down to the beach....just as it started bucketing down with rain! We did a quick traipse down to the beach, passing a couple of stray walkers along the way, and I was only mildly puzzled by the way they were puffing and blowing. But their apparent breathing difficulties were explained when we set off back. Slightly heavier now due to the downpour, I realised that what seemed invigoratingly steep on the way down was calf-burningly, lung-busrtingly vertical on the way back, made all the more challenging by having to drag a rain-sodden, dead-weight five year old behind me, wailing the "Are we nearly there yet?" song all the way.

Feeling somewhat virtuous at the feel of all that lactic acid cramping up our calves, we all piled back into the car, and headed down to Muriwai, and the famous gannet colony. Now that place is impressive. Not the gannets, there's only about two dozen of them, but mind you it was early in the season and most where still on their way back from their holidays in Australia. No, what was impressive was the rugged scenery....and the howling wind!

You can't help but feel that the wind starts out as a mere breeze across the Tasman on the east coast of Australia, a light zephyr caressing the golden sand, but by the time it gets uninterrupted all the way to the west coast of New Zealand it's strong enough to press your eyeballs forcefully through your brain and into the back of your cranium! We had an enjoyable half hour watching gannets make numerous attempts to land on a nesting rock, cruising gracefully on the hurricane-force winds, lowering their feet, and then backpedalling like fury, only to be blown back out to sea just as their feet were about to touch dry land. One gallant fella tried about five times before finally scrabbling his way onto the rock, inches before falling off the other side. Probably a little perverse but I found the whole thing hugely amusing. And my how we laughed....except you couldn't hear any guffawing. Oh no, instead, it was like some strange silent movie with exaggerated facial movements as we tried to talk to each other with every word being snatched away on the wind.

And then the third leg of our tikitour took us down to Bethells Beach. Now Bethells is a fairly remote beach, with nothing there except a scattering of ramshackle beach homes, a surf shack that's closed in winter and four port-a-loos that, on brief inspection, appear to be emptied once a year whether they need it or not! But that said, it has to be my favourite place of all the places I've visited in the world. The word "barren" was invented for this place. It is a huge expanse of black, blue and purple sand (coloured by iron-ore) with huge waves crashing onto the beach. And when the wind blows, as it does with aplomb, it blows all the lighter brown sand underneath across the surface,leaving the most amazing patterns and effects. And at one edge of the beach, an ice cold, fresh water river courses along the beach to the sea, where the huge waves crash against the flow causing a turmoil of water.

And it was at this meeting of waters we made our most bizarre discovery of the day....

"What's that Dad?" says young Chipshaker Jr

"No idea mate, probably just some rubbish washed down the river"

So we wandered down to where the little blue box was tumbling backwards and forwards from river to sea and back again. At first glance it looked like a discarded shoe box but for some reason, I couldn't work out why it seemed to be fully enclosed and didn't seem to have a lid as such. So, captivated by the progress of this detritus we followed it back on its journey upriver, where it was cast upside down onto the edge of the sand by a rogue wave. Having spent a lifetime in an office environment, I'm pretty proficient at upside down reading so I hunkered down to read

"Necropolis"

Hmm, funny name for a shoe brand, I thought, until I read on

"The cremated remains of Li Ting Su" (name changed to protect the innocent)

Now I'm thinking if I'd bequeathed my ashes to my near family with the wish that they be cast to the tumbling waters of one of the most beautiful places on earth, I'd rather hope the buggers would be bothered to take them out of the waterproof box first!!

Instead someone had hoyed poor Li Ting into the water in his original plastic overcoaat (aye, not even an urn!), for him to spend the rest of eternity washing up and down a five yard stretch of beach. I only hope that was the intention, because if it was the intention to give him a burial at sea all I can say is they didn't consider the tides and the currents!

Mind you, that's assuming Li Ting escapes the attention of passing kids...because I spent the trip all the way back up the beach trying to explain why we couldn't keep him!

"Aw go on Dad, let's take him home....aw why not Dad? But it's a real, live dead person Dad, I've always wanted one of them....aw why not?"

Get thee behind me foul demon

2006-06-24T08:20:00.000+12:00

G'day folks. I'm back - apologies for the lengthy absence but I've been rushed off my feet doing bugger all, and enjoying it immensely!

Now, having been in New Zealand nearly six months, I guess I've lost the rose tinted spectacles and I'm starting to see beyond the white beaches, swaying palm trees and wide open spaces. Oh don't get me wrong, I still love the place and I'm still generally at peace with myself and the world...well most of it anyway.

But it's at times like this that you do enjoy the refreshing taste of reality from time to time. So yes, I'm already starting to drive like a psychopath, I get cold from time to time and I'm hooked on fishing. But I still don't miss England and I have as yet not felt any urges to visit "The British Shop" - a local retail outlet where you can buy icons of traditional British culture - llike Paxo and Wotsits - at exorbitant prices.

But England seems to be following me!

This week a brand new, much awaited, shopping centre opened on the Southwestern suburbs of Auckland. Phase 1 currently comprises of a 'Warehouse' (kind of like an upmarket Wilkinsons) and a Foodtown. It's not even finished and already the car park is too small to cater for the expected number of punters, the police had to shut roads to ease congestion on the motorway, and motoring chaos reigned...because yes, you've guessed it, the centre is situated right next to one of the busiest motorways in Auckland. And if that's not bad enough, in true British out-of-town-shopping style, there is only one motorway exit on and one off, and the motorway heads somewhere important, like the airport. It also heads to Hamilton, but don't be fooled by that, no-one goes to Hamilton intentionally - people only go there by mistake (but therein lies another story)

Now you've got to admit, that has British Town Planner written all over it!!

At the risk of losing you all here, let me share a theory I have held for as long as I can remember. Now I'm not a particularly religious man, in fact I'm not at all a religious man. However, I do have this firm conviction that Hell exists, and the folks that populate the place have a LOT of fun with their eternal competition. It's a very simple competition - we humans have a reserve of things like care, consideration and goodwill, all wrapped up in the Milk of Human Kindness that courses through our veins from birth. And what determines where we end up is how much of this leaks out during life. And that's were Hell comes into it!

In the true ways of all despotic places, there is a very strong and thriving competitive hierarchy down in Hades - Naturally Lucifer is the boss, with a plethora of Earls, Dukes, Archdukes, Barons, demons and imps all jostling for position below him. But it's a flexible hierachy, with advancement dependent solely on achievement. Picture your average demon, harbouring dreams of greatness. So he sits plotting away for his crowning glory, when suddenly he's hit by an inspirational thunderbolt......"Hellfire and damnation, I've got it....Milton Keynes! Let's create a place with two-way roundabouts, streets with only numbers - no names, and we'll make them all look exactly the same. If that's not going to drive the humans mad, what will?" You've got irate businessmen getting lost and stressed out - heart-attack material or what? And then mums/dads screaming at innocent kids when they ask "are we there yet? what do you mean we can't get home?". Plus the obligatory few American tourists wandering around, looking confused as they stare at maps and mutter words like "dawgonne, I'm sure we've been here before." (Mind you, that's probably a coincidence. Most American tourists wander round looking confused. I think they are struggling to work out why they aren't in Boisie, Idaho).

Anyway, I digress - Within days, the Milk of Human Kindness is leaking out everywhere (adding to the traffic chaos no doubt) and souls are cascading down to Hell faster than ...... whatever it is that goes really fast. Anyway it's not long before they know they are on to a real winner. Add a few concrete cows and hey presto, our humble demon is now the dark Baron Degvond of Hades.

By the way, it's a well known fact that the demon who came up with the Milton Keynes idea was a little lacking in confidence. Not wanting to go out on a limb, and being a sensible chap (in as much as demons are) he made a scale model first....and called it Warrington!

So what has this got to do with a new shopping cente in Mt Wellington? Well, you can see how it works down in the Underworld now - advancement by achievement. So you can imagine just how pissed all the other ambitious Underworld high flyers get with this. There's only one thing for it...they need to come up with an idea better than Milton Keynes.

So a bit more of eternity trundles by and months, years, decades go by until suddenly.....young Krazvon (until now something of an under-achiever) comes up with the idea to top it all.....Out of Town Shopping!! And here's how it works, you build a huge complex, preferably indoors where you can control the flow of oxygen. You site it somewhere just off a key arterial route (so not only to you get to the people who go by choice but also those just trying to be somewhere else) and ensure there is only one way in and one way out. Chuck in a food hall selling various forms of artery-hardening muck purporting to be from all four corners of the globe, but in reality is just a multi-coloured range of monosodium glutamate and guar gum. You do your homework and try to predict the number of visitors, then you divide my say four to determine the number of cars and you design the car park to hold approximately two-thirds of your predicted number. Even better, you design the car park in the shape of some mysterious satanic sigil which constantly flexes and changes....then place arrows strategically so that they say "EXIT" but really they point back to the entrance. And there you have it - CHAOS! People honking at each other, kids crying, parents screaming, dads fighting in that daft, posturing middle-aged way that dads fight ineffectually, lost kids, traffic chaos, overheating cars, innocent passing traffic missing their holiday flights......

Something like that makes Krazvon a dead cert for a Dukedom as a minimum.

The thing is, and this is what I really love about New Zealanders, they are just too nice to get it quite righ. They take a perfectly good (in the satanically bad sense of course) idea and they don't quite do it properly. You see, as soon as they realise they've been a victim of some satanic horseplay and folks are suffering, they try to fix it to save your soul. So within a day of the place in Mt Wellington opening, there are announcements on the radio and notices in the press.

"Please stay away from our new retail park, don't come here".

Now it could be me, but I'm not sure that's how PR is supposed to work in retail!!

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die.

2006-03-29T13:53:00.000+12:00

I've lost count of the number of times people have asked me "So what made you choose New Zealand?" and invariably the answer is a variation of the theme "It's a nice place to bring up kids and it's one of the few countries that would have me"

Aside from that fundamental issue of getting through Immigration, one of the other reasons is that New Zealand is generally a pretty safe place when it comes to wildlife. This is particularly true when compared to, say, Australia, where just about everything is evolutionarily designed to kill you by either sting, bite or swallowing you whole in one bloody mouthful. However, what they don't tell you is that New Zealand is FULL of things that want to share your bed, eat your meal, or just generally take over your house.

For the first couple of weeks we were in an apartment in downtown Auckland, in the middle of summer. It's hot, it's near the sea, it's humid at times, so generally, you are pretty geared up to dealing with tenacious mosquitos and the occasional housefly. Being used to Mediterranean holidays, this isn't a problem - you shut the blinds, you plug in the mossie repellents and you cover yourself in mossie spray.

However, nothing prepared me for moving to a house 40kms out of town in sleepy suburbia. For a start, the house had been empty for a few months before we moved in, so quite obviously various bits of wildlife were a bit upset at the intrusion. You kind of expect that and, whilst I'm not a big fan of spiders, I can usually get along with them. I do, however, take exception to opening the kitchen cupboard to be confronted by a behemoth in serious need of a shave, with more knees than an Oxford Boat Race crew. Being a rufty tufty bloke, I did the only thing possible. I took a deep breath, composed myself, then screamed and swore like buggery! Having got that out of my system, I calmed down somewhat and, after a moments logical thought, realised all was well because we had some fly spray.....in the kitchen cupboard!! Opening the door again, I soon realised it was going to be a battle of wills because our friend Harry the Spider wasn't going anywhere. Grabbing the fly spray, I whipped off the top and gave him a shot in the eyes. Not feeling very gruntled at my lack of hospitality, he buggered off down the back of the cupboard to tell his mates and form a posse!

Just about every time I went in any of the cupboards, one of Harry's mates would be thee, grinning and staring at you with more eyes than an old potato. Even worse, you settle down for a night in front of the telly and all of a sudden you get the arachnid equivalent of the incontinent old lady at the cinema wandering past your telly!! Somewhat disturbed by procession of arachnid antagonists, I thought it would be useful to check a few wildlife facts on the internet. Basically, the advice seems to be that none of the spiders are truly poisonous but some may bite. Now I'm sorry, but that's splitting hairs in my book and there is no place in my house for anything that can get up the stairs quicker than I can! I was also in no way reassured by the little snippet of interesting information proudly advising me that all of the spiders used in the film Arachnophobia where rounded up in New Zealand!

And as if the spiders aren't bad enough, there's the crickets. These buggers are the catburglers of the insect world. No matter how securely the house is locked, they can find their way in, and once they have, they tell all their mates. They are sneaky buggers too! You can search the house and there are none in sight anywhere, but you nip off for a quick pee and by the time you get back, there will be one of the buggers sat in your chair, drinking your tea and flicking through the channels with the remote.

Being somewhat naive, It's only now I have realised why the spiders are as big as they are - it's because there is an endless supply of crickets to munch your way through when there is bugger all worth watching on my TV. Not only that, but having now eradicated most of the spiders - certainly the very big ones anyway - the crickets are having a field day! I spent one of our first evenings in the new house with all the windows open, letting the tropical breeze caress my heat-weary bones, listening to the hypnotic and haunting chirruping of all the nocturnal critters. Little did I realise that all the noise was a thousand little crickets passing on the message "Hey lads, the daft bugger has left all the windows open, let's go!" Jesus, turn on the light in any one room and there were dozens of them! The house was a seething mass of brown shiny bodies, and the crunching sound as I went into the kitchen to make a brew was like a troop of Morris dancers tap-dancing on rice crispies!

As you might imagine, I'm not an insect person and our house is now well stocked with insect spray. Mrs C thinks its highly amusing that I shake my clothes out and turn my shoes upside down and give them a few hard taps before putting my toes anywhere near. But she'll be laughing on the other side of her face when some cricket-gorged spider has her foot off!

Mind you, one or two people I've met can't quite understand my sensitivities. Most people can't see what the fuss is all about. "Oh don't get worked up over the crickets" they tell me, "It's the wetas you need to worry about."

Wetas, people take great delight in telling you, are like crickets on steroids. Having seen a specimen at the museum last weekend, I can't see me and wetas hitting it off somehow. Even the dead ones look menacing - about the size of your hand with the crazed and spiky look of a thrash metal junkie.

And now, a word from our sponsors......

2006-02-26T10:33:00.000+13:00

Okay, so I have to admit, not everything in New Zealand is perfect - the television over here is pretty poor, but I think even the Kiwis will tell you that! Programmes that were scheduled for 30 minute slots in the UK are on for an hour here, with commercial breaks peppered everywhere. Sit down to watch a film at 8pm and you are still there at midnight!! And the more you get towards the climax, the more adverts they throw in. As if that's not bad enough though, they don't even put the adverts in the right places. The last 15 minutes of a film will be so full of commercial breaks that it last 40 minutes, by which time, they must have run out of adverts, so the film ends and they go straight into the next programme. This leaves you sitting there for 5 minutes trying to figure out the ending, until you realise it's actually a different programme you are now watching!

And the best scheduling cock up ever? We sat watching the Winter Olympics the other night. We spent 30 minutes watching blokes in spangly suits ponce about around an ice rink, on the promise that the downhill snow boarding would follow afterwards. Cut to commercial break, make a brew get comfortable, back to the Olympics, only to find that some idiot had put the wrong tape in and the programme was showing the same gut-wrenching rubbish over again.

Now clearly the director or someone must have noticed this, but you just get the feeling they hope no-one out in TV Land will notice - perhaps they think we are so numbed by the figure skating that we'll just think our minds are playing tricks?

"Really sorry boss, I've put the wrong tape in - we are now replaying the last 30 minutes all over again! What shall we do?"

"Aw jeez, you've really buggered up this time... we can't change it now, just keep it rolling and hope no-one notices!"

But, as with everything in New Zealand, the good far outweighs the bad, and most of the adverts are far superior to the programmes they interrupt.

There's the drink-driving add that graphically shows what happens when a half-cut teenager trashes the car. Personally, I'm all for this kind of shock ad and the slogan says it all really

"If your mate's pissed, you're screwed!"

But I think best of all are the radio ads, particularly those on Radio Hauraki - probably the most anarchic radio station I've ever heard.

There's the insect killer that is rather aptly names "Bugger Off!". You get some bloke promoting the virtues of the product, in a machine-gun style rapid tirade for around 20 seconds, then the cheerful jingle follows......"bugger off, bugger off bugger off!"

Then there's the door handle company that advertises its product in song........"get your hands on our handles, get your fingers on our knobs"

And the windscreen company that promise to repair cracks without a trace......"show us yer crck, show us yer crack, show us yer crack!"

Probable the best though, only because it is so bad, is the guy who advertises his own audio and speaker company. He's clearly so pleased that he had reached the intermediate reading level that he feels the need to proclaim it to Radioland - you can practically hear his finger sliding along the page as he - reads- each - scripted - word - in - an - expressionless - stilted - monotone!

In fact, he's only just outdone by the countless downtown Auckland massage parlours and knocking shops that advertise the variety of their products at various times through the day.

You just don't get that kind of quality from the BBC!!

And before I go, I just thought you'd be pleased to know that I'm really picking up the language now for sure. I learnt a new word today but it's still taking me a minute to register the fact that Kiwis swap all the vowels around. "Dickhead" is apparently a period of 10 years. I nearly spilt my coffee when a very nice lady told me "Oh, I've been doing it like...er....a dickhead now". It was only a second or so afterwards I realised she was talking about the length of time rather than the quality of performance!

Gone Fishing

2006-02-26T10:32:00.000+13:00

Unfortunately, my finances don't yet stretch to the purchase of a boat so, I've opted for the other mandatory acquisition of every serious minded New Zealander - a sea fishing rod.

I now while away my free time sitting down by the marina, surf casting to absolutely no avail whatsoever. Having fished a bit as a kid back in the UK, I'm used to having those days where you spend all day catching bugger all, and I know that, even on those days there's still entertainment to be had when fishing.

Never more was that proved right than yesterday! Having soldiered through my five year old's birthday party, with eight screaming juvenile banshees running around, I decided to treat myself to an hour's relaxation with the fishing rod. And what a treat!!

I was sat there minding my own business when two oriental lads turned up with the longest fishing rods, and the heaviest fishing weights I have ever seen. Now these guys were serious fishermen clearly, as denoted by the jovial tinkle of little bells at the end of each rod. They baited their hooks and the first guy cast out - yep, he'd definitely done it before, a masterly cast, with the huge weight taking the line sailing waaaay out into the bay.

And he's just sitting down for his watching vigil when his mate also starts casting out. Now something tells me this guy perhaps hadn't fished to often. It was the little things that gave it away, not the way he stretched his arms, arched his back, whipped his rod behind his head in preparation for a monster cast.....but more the way he smacked his mate right in the forehead with the huge fist-sized weight on the end of the rod! As you might expect, this sent his mate down like a sack of spuds. The best bit then was when he picked himself up and they started wrestling and arguing volubly in some unintelligible language. I haven't a clue what they were saying to each other, but I think the gist was that the guy wasn't too chuffed at his mate braining him with a huge piece of scrap metal.

Things settled down a bit and they both lit a cigarette, had a quick chat about technique, and our hero tried another cast. This one wasn't quite as spectacular, but he'd definitely improved his backswing. Whipping the rod back like a true professional, he sent the line through the open passenger window of his car and deposited the squid off his hook onto the inside of the driver's side window. How he failed tom smash the windo with the weight I'll never know! He was clearly puzzled when his hook came back empty, and I didn't have the heart to point out that his bait was currently rolling down the inside of the car window. Fortunately, his mate found it when, clearly still stunned, he decided to finish his cigarette in the comfort of the car.....cue further unintelligible and noisy rantings when he realised he'd sat on the squid.

Whoever said fishing was boring!!

G'day, how's it going....

2006-02-15T21:55:00.000+13:00

....which is Kiwi for "ey up"

Only five weeks and already I'm picking up the lingo!

Got to apologise but this is going to be a long one - first chance I've had to do any kind of real update.

So, where to start when it comes to writing about this fantastic country? Well, I could start with the car salesman who sold me a car AND allowed me to drive it away for only a $50 deposit, and not batting an eyelid when I told him it would be five days before I was able to pay him. I'm still trying to find the catch but, quite honestly, the car is well, just sweet, as they say in these parts. Fair enough, the sat nav will only guide me around Japan but hey, let's not be picky now!

Then there's the estate agents - they seem to come in all shapes, sizes and styles, but basically fit into three general categories. First there's the bog-standard, common-or-garden bloke in a suit. Then there's the Rita Fairclough type that come in all shapes, but generally only in the general colour scheme of rich auburn, permatan and gold - this breed is the most prevalent it seems. But then, and this really blew me away, then there's the piece de resistance that is Brett....pronounced Britt. Brett is far and away the most fantastic and fascinating estate agent I have ever met. So where to begin describing Brett? Well, start off with your average Hell's Angel...imagine a multitude of artwork that is a testament to the skills of the various tattoo artists of Auckland - initially striking to me were the tribal tattoos crafted into his scalp, until of course you noticed the flowing dragons writhing down his neck under his mullet cut and into the expanse of chest (pronounced 'chist' that was on show. But surely the most captivating of all was the colony of penguins on an Antarctic glacier situated on the vast, and barren icy tracts of Brett's under forearm. Now I have to admit, I don't normally stare, but I have been pretty fascinated by the array of tattoos on display around Auckland, including in the office. However, all of this paled into insignificance when I caught the flash of gold in Brett's mouth. Initially, I dismissed this as nothing more than the kind of flashy dentistry frequently sported by 'gangstas', but I was shamed by my initial superficial dismissal when I realised that the two gold fillings on either side of his two front teeth, appeared to actually be some kind of design. After a couple of minutes holding a conversation with Brett's teeth, I realised that they were in fact two small golden scorpions! Now why can't all estate agents be like Brett? The world, I am sure, would be a much happier place!

And then there's the car number plates - It took me a couple of days to realise that there is no rationale to New Zealand car registration plates and, for a small fee, you can have absolutely anything you want, so long as it doesn't go beyond 6 digits. So, 2L8 FU is perfectly acceptable. as is DEVIL, SATAN, HOTGAL, SXESU, SUKYOU - all real number plates seen whilst driving around Auckland. It's a wonder I haven't crashed so far, I spend most of my time trying to fathom out what the number plates are trying to tell me! (Perhaps more puzzling though is finding from a search of the main registration plate website that"BuryFC" is not available!! And here's me thinking i'm the only bloke in New Zealand with a Bury FC window-sticker in the back of the car!)

And if that's not enough, there's the bungy jumping. Now from what I can make out from looking around me and a couple of conversations with coleagues, most Kiwis seem to have a death wish and will jump off anything that is more than 10ft above sea level. Not only that, but they seem happy enough to do this with nothing other than an industrial strength elastic band attached to their legs! (Which leaves me wondering - who first discovered the elasticity required to avoid a) collision with the fast approaching earth and b) ripping your feet off at the ankles? But I digress)

We had a trip up the Skytower -the tallest tower in the Southern Hemisphere, and something like the 13th tallest building in the world. You can whizz to the top in glass elevators. And at the top of the tower you can walk on glass floors, or look out on a 360 degree panoramic view of Auckland.....and watch complete idiots jump off the top before your very eyes, reaching the bottom in only 16 seconds, attached to nothing more than a larger than life office supply!

Marvelling at this spectacle, one thought came to my mind.....WHY????

And some general stuff? Well, this is a place where people kayak to work, where people wear flip flops (jandals) everywhere...that's when they wear shoes at all. Nobody looks at you oddly if you walk round the supermarket barefoot. and fashion is something that is set by everyone - you can wear anything, any time, to any event. For instance, after spending the first two weeks in shorts and sandals, we had an appointment to see the school principal to register the kids - not being too sure what to expect, I made an effort and wore a polo shirt with cargo pants. The principal arrived in shorts, sandals and a t-shirt. At least he had the decency to cast me a sympathetic glance when he realised the sweat was running down my body and collecting in my shoes! He briefly explained the school uniform policy but confessed his greatest difficulty was getting the kids to keep their shoes and socks on for longer than first registration! Even better was to come when we found out a bit more about the curriculum. My four year old daughter has four lessons a week at the beach learning surfcraft. Seems here they put a lot of emphasise on being safe around the water. Where I come from, if you fell in the water there was a good chance you'd die of concussion from hitting a Tesco trolley before you had chance to drown!

And then there's the commute - five weeks ago, I was crawling down the East Lancs Road at an average speed of 15mph, dragging my sorry soul the 12 miles into Manchester. Now, I hop on the ferry for 45 minutes and watch the world go by. Even better, on the way home, I sit on the outside deck, nursing an ice cold beer. NOW THAT'S COMMUTING!! Awesome...as they say in these parts.

Ah well, enough for now - got to conserve my energy for the yachting trip on Saturday!

Catchya (which I think means ta-ra)

Day 1, Part 2...a new beginning

2006-01-23T09:04:00.000+13:00

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away......

Well we finally got here, after visiting more countries in 26 hours than I have in the last 26 years! The flight isn't for the faint-hearted although we struck lucky quite by accident. It turned out that our trip would be a series of short hops via Dubai, Singapore, Brisbane and finally Auckland. I seriously think I would have gone mad if we'd have had the 2 thirteen hour trips that most people seem to take.

Anyway, it really is a fantastic place, although the experience hasn't been without its ups and downs. Things were going really well from the airport - we were fast-tracked through Immigration after being directed to the "families with young children channel"!! and two chic, sleek white taxis were there outside to meet us as arranged, to whisk us off to the apartment. The drivers was very nice, and very welcoming, although that could just have been because he knew in advance that the fare for a twenty minute trip would be nearly NZ$200!! Not to be deterred, we got into the apartment, jeglagged and somewhat unwashed, ready to relax and clean up.

"Arrrrrrrrgghhhhhhh, oh my God we can't stay here!"

Somewhat taken aback by Mrs C's initially reaction at what is a beautiful and spacious apartment, I calmly enquired as to her concern. She just pointed...to the floor-to-ceiling, single glazed windows that looked out four stories above the park. Being slightly less tired than me, she'd already assessed the potential and likelihood of our two offspring tear-arsing around the apartment and crashing through the windows at full tilt.

Thinking quickly, I suggested that things might look better after a cup of tea. However, after a thorough search of every cupboard, it soon became clear that we had no provisions whatsoever. After gazing out of the window at a vista of high rise office blocks, it was also apparent that this was not an area likely to be populated by many supermarkets or corner shops!

The next reaction, only fifteen minutes after arrival, was shared by both Mrs C and me at exactly the same time..........what the hell have we done?? We are on the other side of the world, in a new city, where we know nobody. Panic started to set in! However, a very quick call to the office of my new employer sorted things out.

"Hi, we are here but a bit stuck, do you know where the nearest supermarket is?"

"Oh, I am so sorry, I never thought - I'll be right over!"

An hour later and things were starting to look so much better. Despite one bag of essentials - tea, coffee, milk, cereal, bread and biscuits - costing more than a weekly shop in the UK, things had calmed down a little.

It also quickly became obvious that people here are polite, friendly, helpful and generally very very nice.

It's also a bit of a strange place - more later about bungy jumping, car number plates and estate agents.....

(Finally, for those of you that know me and read this, I haven't got access to your e-mail addresses (Andrew, Lesley, Jean etc). Send me an e-mail and I'll reply

Life's like a box of chocolates...

2006-01-07T10:07:00.000+13:00

Well, it's been a while since I've posted anything, which is largely due to the fact that I've been pretty busy getting stressed out (to the point where Mrs C has commented on the alarming amount of my hair left on the pillow each morning!).

First of all, our second visa application was rejected just before Christmas on a couple of technicalities. Having gone through the rigorous medicals, it seems the the hugely likeable doctor had been so engrossed in the length of my legs and the quality of my wife's "jugs" that he completely forgot to tick the box that said I was a fine specimen of human health. In addition, the nice people at the High Commission took a dislike to my passport because it was starting to look a little battered - a bit like me really!

So, since we last met, I've spent a day in Liverpool freezing my bahoogies off whilst waiting for a new passport, and a day in London freezing the rest of me off waiting for the High Commission to reopen after Christmas.

Which brings me back to Christmas itself - a largely unwelcome affair this year when most of our time was spent worrying what we were going to do with all the toys that were now filling the spaces we had cleared of old toys in preparation for the big move! Other than the entertainment of listening to the mother-in-law's deeply fulfilling tales of persecution by imaginery nocturnal noises and her resultant midnight spying missions, Christmas was something we agreed we could all have done without really. Nevertheless, for the first time ever, I did manage to watch 'Zulu' right through from beginning to end - largely thanks to Mrs C taking pity on my New Year's Day hangover and volunteering to cook

On the plus side, Christmas now over, whilst most other people are flocking back to work, I am now officially unemployed. In the run up to this lifetime first, I had dreamed lovingly of basking in a brief, but carefree, period living as an unshaven, workshy fop, cultivating the odour of a geriatric badger. However, instead I now find myself having to come to terms with a distressingly accurate body clock that seems to rouse me from peaceful slumber at 8am EVERY morning in preparation for the sacred vigil of watching for the postman, expecting him to skip gaily up the drive waving our passports and visas invitingly.

Now I don't know about you but our postie arrives punctually every day any time between 8.45am and 11am, and by the time of his arrival I'm a caffeine-crazed Nick Jr junkie. Generally, I can't get near the TV even if I wanted to but my four year old is wallowing in the novelty of having Dad at home - She hijacks me on the landing every moring as I attempt to sneak downstairs for 15 minutes of tranquity in the company of Sky Sports News - but how can anyone resist the request "sit with me Dadda and watch 'Mick Jr' "?

I've come to the conclusion that there have only every been three episodes of Fifi and the Flowertots ever made, and I've seen all three of them fifteen times! As if that isn't bad enough, you then get Kevin the Scouser dancing about in a green pullover every morning asking you "Or ey, der yew want ter play Blews Clews wit mee?". Now I know I'm getting older but I don't ever remember kids' TV being that bad when I watched it. Brain soup the lot of it!

Anyway, after over a week of this, I succumbed yesterday and sent a sickeningly polite e-mail to those nice people in Immigration to try to get a status report, only to be told that our applications were shortly to be allocated a caseworker. ARRRGGGGHHHH!!!! Despite taking my money over two weeks ago, and promising me that a trip to London would get me the visas there and then, I now find the applications hadn't even been looked at!

This morning, consciously knowing full well that the postie wouldn't be bringing anything interesting, I manfully fought my body clock and rebelliously slept in until 8.35am! After ritually meeting my four year old on the landing and traipsing zombie-like down stairs to make coffee and take my daily dose of Fifi, I decided there was nothing else for it - I put my foot down with a firm hand and insisted we switched to CBeebies staight after the Early Worms and immediately before Kevin the Scouser made his appearance. You know, there is something strangely soothing about Tikkabilla.

I also decided it was time for a beer with a few old work colleagues this lunchtime.

On reflection, it was clearly the right thing to do - turns out, Mrs C had a phonecall whilst I was out - those nice people in Immigration are sending the passports AND VISAS special delivery first thing on Monday. I should go for a beer more often I think!

OHshitohshitohshit. Now it's really happening and I've got to start all the cleaning, tidying and throwing away I've been putting off for weeks, to avoid getting my hopes up. Oh, and I suppose it would be a good idea to start looking for some flights, because the house will be devoid of all furniture come Friday!!!!

Looks like we are on our way

Whakawhiti te ra

Seeing is not always believing

2005-12-17T04:08:00.000+13:00

Ah well, today is the day of our second attempt to convince the immigration authorities that we are worthy of a visa.

Having trawled through mountains of paperwork, I am now convinced of the following:

a) we are married,
b) I bear all the financial risks

Despite that realisation, and the trauma of knowing that today was THE DAY, I did manage to get some sleep last night.

So, everything went in to the High Commission today and finally I got the call I was waiting for

"Your applications are being processed, and you should hear back within a few weeks.......but there is just one thing"

Why do these things never run smoothly? Turns out there's something funny in our medical reports that the visa people might, only might, refer to their specialists, but they won't say what. A quick call to the surgery where we had the medicals and I learn that the radiographer/radiologist (can the experts out there explain the difference to me?) has eyes like a shithouse rat. He's detected a shadow on Mrs C's X-ray that is approximately 0.3cm big! It could be a blood vessel but is more likely to be a scar from a chest infection.....or mild TB!

So I phone Mrs C....."There's good news and bad news, the visas are being processed, but you've got TB!"

The thing is, she tells me she doesn't recall ever being treated for either - the irony of this is that she relays this information whilst coughing down the phone like a Victorian workhouse consumptive! I'm thinking, if NZIS ever phone our house and Mrs C answers the phone, we won't need a medical second opinion! Just my luck to marry a lass from 'Oop Valley' where the summer sun rarely penetrates and the weather forecast on any one day can be summed up with the word "DANK"

Today is also Chipshaker Jr's last day at school, so this morning was a little bit hectic, trying to get together Christmas cards, e-mail address cards to pass on and an extra shirt to get signed. Anyway, we eventually get into the car, and have a chat whilst we are on our way.

Isn't it amazing how your heart breaks for your kids?

We are driving along happily and he suddenly says "[horrible scrote in my class] says I'm only going to New Zealand because you aren't rich enough to pay the school fees and I'm not smart enough to stay at this school"

This from a 10 year old, and one that, at best, struggles to get grades anywhere near my lad's!!

This particular kid is already known to me for regularly expounding publicly his views on how well off his family are and how poor some of his classmates are, but this comment in particular stopped me in my tracks a little bit and brings home the fact that, despite paying a small mortgage in school fees to get a decent kid a decent education, you still get insensitive and arrogant scrotes, no matter how good the school is. I can't begin to put into words how strong was the urge to stay in the car park and wait for this particularly nasty little turd to turn up with his mother, but I eventually dismissed it, knowing I'd only be rising to the bait. I advised Chipshaker Jr to do likewise, and make the most of his last day.

But let me put this into perspective, another boy yesterday gave Jr a very inexpensive compass and said "With that, you will always know where you are going, and which direction to take if you need to find your friends in Bolton". I have to say, that very nearly brought me to tears. How do you explain to a 10 year old that five minutes with a friend like that is worth a hundred times more than a lifetime with the first vicious little tosspot?

Now people have told me that kids in New Zealand aren't nearly as vicious as British kids. I can't begin to tell you how much I hope that is true! If there is only one thing that kids deserve, it's the chance to be kids for a while without rushing headlong into the nasty cesspit that is society in the North West of England.

I so look forward to joining a society that apparently isn't nearly as nasty and self-centred as ours.

Tenei te tangata puhuru huru
Nana nei tiki mai

Winston, if I were married to you I'd put poison in your coffee...

2005-12-15T10:17:00.000+13:00

...Nancy, if I were married to you, I'd drink it!

And after a really bad night of vomitus velocitus frequentis I'm beginning to wonder if Mrs Chipshaker hasn't been getting ideas from Lady Astor.

Several times during the night, I made the dash to shout for Huey down the big white telephone - an affliction I'm sure in this instance came from my darling wife's attempt to poison me. At least I've managed to convince the kids that was the case anyway. Chipshaker Jr is now watching every move Mrs C makes. Seems reasonable to me, and, for a 10 year old, he has a remarkable grasp of the concept of circumstantial evidence - I ate the same food as everyone else, but I ate it two hours later and I was the only one chucking up all night, ergo, it must have been tampered with.

Admittedly, he was doubtful at first, and rightly so - no 10 year old should think such things of his Mother, but I managed to convince him eventually

"Who came to see if Dad was okay when he was being sick at 4am son?"

"err me Dad"

"That's right, you're a grand lad, and where was your Mum?"

"err asleep in bed Dad"

"Exactly son, she hasn't even got a guilty conscience - keep an eye on her for me eh?"

It's really rather amusing now to see him taking such an interest in his Mum's culinary skills, and even more amusing when I get the dark looks for corrupting the kids - even the most unpleasant of illness can have a humorous side!

But joking aside, a bit of further research has led me to take my initial jest more seriously than I perhaps did at first......

After an evening of traipsing through mountains of paperwork, the visa applications went in yesterday, only to be promptly rejected. Turns out that, despite me sending in a marriage certificate, a joint bank statement and all the passports, those nice people at the High Commission want more evidence that we are living in a sustained marriage. Fair enough, there are some very dodgy people about these days. So, I dig out all the paperwork I can find to prove that everything is in joint names. Bank account number 1 - statement shows joint names, bank account number 2 - statement is in joint names, same goes for account number 3. Things are going well so far and it's on to the utility bills. Gas bill - statement is in...my name. Electricity bill - statement is in....err my name, Council tax - statement is in......my name. Telephone bill - statement is in......my name! I can see a pattern developing here. Television licence, water rates, cable TV.....everything in my name!! Even the joint credit card is in MY NAME!

Turns out, all the money coming in is in joint names, but everything you can be blacklisted or go to prison for not paying is in my name!! So not only am I being slipped the odd dose of hemlock in with my spinach and ricotta pasta, but I'm also in danger of going to debtors gaol if it all goes badly wrong on the money front!

You have to admire that kind of subtle ingenuity!

Anyway, you can imagine I wasn't especially gruntled this morning to find out that the Immigration people weren't overly happy with the applications made. As well as the marriage thing, it seems my complete lack of any professional qualifications, and only having A Levels to my name isn't particularly impressing them at the moment. Dear me, I can remember the days when not everyone who worked in the accountancy profession had a degree in microanalytical zoology, or other such irrelevant subjects awarded simply for spending three years drinking copious quantities of dark mild and smoking roll ups!

Then there is the question of references - they want some of them as well, particularly from my current employer, to testify that I have obtained a little bit of specialist knowledge after spending in excess of half my lifetime doing the job. Quick call to the faceless minions in the dark underworld of HR and I find that 17 years only entitles me to a two line letter stating my start date, my leaving date (which hasn't come around yet) and my current position! Mad Frankie Frazer got better references than that after serving 20 years in HMP Parkhurst! What price loyalty eh?

Not a good day really - it kind of came home to me today...if I don't get the work permit, I don't have a job in New Zealand.....and I no longer have a job in the UK either!

Haha te whenua, haha te tangata

Education is the progressive realisation of our ignorance

2005-12-08T04:31:00.000+13:00

.....or so said Albert Einstein.

Now when I landed this job in New Zealand, I took great pains to point out that I had neither a degree, nor professional qualifications. However, what I did have was a wealth of practical experience from doing the job for nearly 20 years. I think that qualifies me as either "time-served" or just bloody lucky to have never been found out! to be honest, the only letters I'll ever have after my name are R.I.P.

Imagine my surprise then when the employment contract arrived and the conditions of employment stated that I had to have a degree and recognised professional qualifications in the field. A quick telephone call and we agreed that this was just standard wording, and that I'd never misled anyone. I annotated the contract and sent it back. Anyway, that's all in the past now, but the reason for mentioning it is that I now have to submit my work permit application. After reading through the forms, it became very apparent, very quickly, that I'm missing some important stuff from my prospective employer...like a supporting application form and a letter testifying that, after a thorough recruitment search, the best they can find is me, and they'll have to make do!

So, another quick phonecall to New Zealand and I am assured the necessary paperwork will be completed and couriered to me urgently...apologies for forgetting and all that, so no real harm done. Yesterday, I came into work to find copies of the relevant documents had been e-mailed to me in advance.

"The minimum requirements for this position are a Bachelor's degree, a recognisable professional qualification and X years' experience. We are employing Chipshaker because SHE fulfils all of these criteria"

Er, I think not!! Something tells me it might not be a good idea to send that letter with the work permit application. If the immigration Service doesn't question the sex change being omitted from the medical reports, they'll almost certainly query the overly inflated claims my prospective employer is making to my educational achievements, particularly when I don't back it up on my application form!

Is it me.....?

A upane kaupane whiti te ra!

A brief excursion.....

2005-12-03T09:52:00.000+13:00

Well, more a diversion from talk of New Zealand really.

We've never quite worked out whether Chipshaker Jr is terribly forgetful or just plain lazy (although we suspect the latter). Whichever it is, he is forever leaving taps running, lights on and the toilet unflushed. So, not long after I'd got in from work today, I heard Mrs C upstairs, getting ready to go to work. Next, I heard her go into the bathroom then shout in that weary voice parents know so well..... "Junior, come here now please!" - He trots upstairs and I'm vaguely aware of the conversation

"You've not flushed this toilet again?"
"Yes, I'm sure I did this time, I swear I did Mum, honest"
"Well what's that then?!"

then I heard

FLUSH

"MICHAEL....MICHAEL.....COME UP HERE QUICK!!"

So I abandoned my warmed up evening meal, dashed upstairs to be confronted by the toilet absolutely brimming with not totally liquid, and not very clear water...and I do mean brimming - it was very much in danger of overflowing. For the scientifically minded of you out there, never before had an upper meniscus looked so threatening! After 10 seconds it became very clear that the bowl wasn't emptying, not even fractionally. At that point, like the faithful wife she is, Mrs C announced that she was late for work and was leaving!!

I then spent what felt like a lifetime, but was probably only 30 seconds, looking at it, and being bombarded by a rapid series of thoughts along the lines of.....

"Jesus, we are trying to sell the place and the bathroom looks like a Calcutta backstreet"
"As if I'm not spending enough money at the moment and now I'm about the fund the Dynarod Christmas party"

and, most terrifying of all

"Right....how the hell are we going to solve this without resorting to the unthinkable?"

I tried everything - jabbing a stick around, getting a piece of hosepipe up round the U-bend, I even (very carefully) blew down the hosepipe....I only did that once, for fear of backwash, or eventually forgetting which end had been submerged!

Sadly, there was nothing else for it other than to don the old yellow marigolds and go hunting. Having fished around a little, it became very apparent that the water was very full of .....lets just say....solid matter! The water level wouldn't go down and putting my hand in any deeper would have taken the water over the top of the gloves. So, there was nothing else for it but to start baling.

Once the pan was empty, it seemed safe to get my hand right under the U-bend but there was bugger all there, except the biggest collection of turds I'd ever encountered. I was retching heavily by this point but nothing was shifting and I couldn't believe that it was just the obvious blocking the bog. Something else had to be down there, so it was time for the heavy questioning.

"Right, what have you dropped down there?"
"Nothing Dad, honestly...nothing. I've just been to the toilet that's all"

Now either the kid has some weird bodily functions or there's a bit more to this than meets the eye. Time for the sink plunger. Initially, plunging just got the turds zipping around in the water, making the stench even worse. Then toilet paper started to come up. Thinking I'd cracked it, I flushed again.....and the pan brimmed once again! After at least four repeats of this process - bale, plunge, flush, brim, panic, bale, I finally got an almighty GLOOMP, and the whole lot shifted, nearly taking my arm with it.

Then the inquest resumed and, after some careful questioning, I got to the cause.

Turned out, Junior had had a really bad cold for most of last week, with Friday being particularly bad. Rather than sniffing, he'd at least done as he was told and spent most of the day blowing his nose. Unfortunately, after each blow, he'd left the toilet unflushed. Then, whenever he or anyone else went to the toilet for the usual, it would get flushed but he'd carry on blowing and blowing, eventually getting through two toilet rolls by using the juvenile dispensing method known as 'The Virtuous American' (ie a damn good yank), as opposed to the measured "two sheets" methods used by most adults.

To make it worse, it appears that, being inexperienced in the laws of work, the youngest had eschewed the time honoured method of "going on the boss's time" and had waited till she got home from school before undertaking her daily ablutions. Consequently, the loo had seen a lot of traffic that day. To make matters worse, Young Ms Chipshaker is more of a master of the Virtuous American method than her brother. She yanks as hard as she can, then gathers it all up from the floor and chucks it into the pan without even worrying about whether there's an Andrex puppy in there somewhere.

In effect, they'd spent most of the day filling the toilet with wadding in a way that a veteran gunner on HMS Victory would have been proud of, only for them to crap like the very devil on top of it and then compact it with more toilet paper on top.

Turns out, Junior hadn't left it unflushed as such, but rather the last flush had compacted it so much, it blocked solid and the last deposit had made a reappearance for Mrs C to discover.

So, after a long and dull week at work, I spent most of Friday evening up to my elbows in shite and fighting a losing battle to retain my evening meal. I didn't feel much like a drink after that!

Ringa pakia, Uma tiraha

The wonders of modern medicine

2005-12-01T04:33:00.000+13:00

So, more money spent to confirm what I already know. First of all I pay out £10 to Her Majesty's Constabulary for the privilege of being told I've never been caught, and now it's £25 quid for an optician to tell me I can't see out of my left eye...something I was vaguely aware of in the first place.

Mind you, it is amazing to realise how much methods have changed over the years. It seems now that they can judge the level of your eyesight from sound alone! At least that's what I am assuming - the optician in question covered my right eye, the good one, and asked me to read off a chart reflected in a mirror. Standard stuff you might assume but apparently she couldn't quite judge just how defective that eye was, so she asked me to stand up, walk three paces, turn around, and read the letters off the lightboard. She then deduced from the clatter of expensive instruments as I fell over a table that I really can't see anything at all out of my left eye. An innovative but slightly expensive technique I would have thought!

Then there's the report my wife had to get from the doctor's to testify to a minor operation she had 18 years ago. Another £10, this time just to press the print button on a computer it seems, to produce a copy of her medical record. Having dropped the request into the doctor's surgery last Friday, she was informed by Attila the Receptionist to "phone on Monday and check if it's available".

On phoning on Monday as instructed, she was politely informed that they had been too busy to deal with the request as they had "lots of NHS patients and they come first". Oh aye? Firstly, as a contributing member of the British population, I thought she was an NHS patient, and secondly, doesn't paying money then elevate you to the ranks of the private patient, who jumps the queue merely by virtue of the fact that you are paying? Seems like double standards to me, but then again, even Ivan the terrible wouldn't offend this receptionist!

Anyway, the medical history was duly picked up this morning and read with interest....particularly the bit that stated that Mrs Chipshaker had had her varicose veins removed last June. Now this is remarkable for two reasons......

1) she's only 38 and therefore perhaps a little young for the condition, and
2) she has no recollection whatsoever of anything leading up to the diagnosis, or of ever having been present whilst the operation was done!

Isn't it amazing what they can do with keyhole surgery these days!!

For some reason, on hearing of this remarkable and somewhat improbable event I immediately thought of the Monty Python sketch set in the Zulu wars, where the frightfully British bloke was lying on the bed, minus his leg, and the doctor says "Well, this is nothing to worry about, there's a lot of it about - probably a virus"

A upa ne ka upa ne

Wide-eyed and legless....

2005-11-25T10:26:00.000+13:00

Well not quite, but an interesting day nonetheless. Today was the day of the long awaited medicals, or nearly not quite. Started off pretty well, with a lie in until 8am! Then the usual mad rush of trying to get four people ready to go out at the same time, two of whom aren't really that keen on the idea. The morning was spoiled somewhat by a phonecall from the doctor's surgery just before we left, to tell us that the doc wouldn't be in, and the appointment would need to be rescheduled again.

Arrrrrrggggghhhhh!! I don't need this. A bit of quick talking and the receptionist agrees to get us in for the X-rays and phone around to fit us in somewhere else for the medical bit. So we get there, and get a bit of good news - we can have the X-rays straight away and the doc feels so bad about cancelling our appointment to deal with his wife's broken dentures that he agrees to come in at 1pm to sort us out.

So, we get called in for the X-rays and everything goes without a hitch....then a commotion breaks out - turns out we are the first ever people to be X-rayed on the new digital machine, and the radiologist is a bit chuffed with himself. "Would you like to come in and see the pictures?" Well, I'm not one for watching other folks' home movies but it seemed such a shame to spoil the party....so we all four troop in to look at my perfectly formed ribs and clavicles. I was even reassuringly shown the shady outline of my heart, lungs and other assorted grillocks......"That bit there is your Dad's diaphragm"

We got a bit of a tour round Mrs Chipshaker's insides too. She doesn't half look thin when you take the outside bit away.

Anyway, now we have a couple of hours to kill, but it's chucking it down. So we nipped into Manchester's biggest toyshop for a couple of verses of the "Can I Have" song and a brief period of shelter in Waterstones (where we saw David Attenborough, who had the same idea it seems), before dashing across for a swift bratwurst at the German Market, .

Then it's back to the surgery, to meet an elderly chap who is probably Britain's most eccentric and funny doctor! I'm not quite sure it was worth 600 quid, but it certainly was entertaining. Kids out of the way quickly - not too much hassle there. Then Mrs C gets the full attention. "Any mental disorders or psychotic behaviour? No?"......looks at me.....frowns......"Women always lie about that one - they think school holidays don't count!"

Next we try three different sets of scales because both Mrs C and the Doc think they are faulty!

Then we move on to his obsession with my wife's breasts, after she reveals she had a minor operation as a child.

"Ah right, which jug was it m'love?"

"And do you have them checked regularly? No no no, not a mammogram, does he check em fer yer?" (looks at me and they both start laughing)

Then it's my turn - weight, height, no problem...he even has the good grace to skip over the revelations about my drinking habits....I probably wasn't totally truthful about the 6 pints and 15 glasses of wine a week but even this lesser amount I confessed on the form seemed excessive when you see it in black and white!

"Right young man....kit off.....oh my word, posh underpants!" (I'm thinking "It's like having a medical with Trinnie & Suzanne!)

"Okay kids...who wants to stick sharp needles in Dad?"

Until this point, they'd been sat quietly playing with a couple of toys but, all of a sudden, all hell breaks loose at the prospect of exsanguinating Dad - they are falling over each other to get there first and I'm beginning to thing "Jesus, he can't seriously be going to let the kids have a go?" Fortunately, he didn't but I'm sure I looked anaemic at that point! Mind you, he did let them watch whilst he took the blood. "See all that coming out? We use that to make Raspberry Ripple ice-cream for our tea"

Then he whips out his tape measure, and measures both my legs from hip to ankle and mutters "Hmm, same size...good job"

Turns out, "good job" meant 'a tidy piece of work', rather than 'fortunate' - he'd noticed I'd put on the form that I'd broken my leg a few years back and he was checking whether I had one leg shorter than the other. I still can't work out why that should be relevant but it is strangely reassuring to know that my legs are both the same length.

He was also very interested in an eye problem I'd had since birth (only one of them works) and told me to get an opticians report.

I have to say, all this leaves me wondering just how rigorous New Zealand Immigration criteria are. Seems to me that if you are a pirate, you're buggered - you'd trigger every alarm bell on the checklist....one eye, dodgy leg - you've got no chance and that's before you even mention the parrot.

Nevertheless, not a bad day all in all - rather entertaining and a medical reassurance that Mrs Chipshaker's jugs are in fine fettle!

Uma tiraha, Turi whatia

Ships...? I see no ships!

2005-11-19T09:34:00.000+13:00

So, I come home from work and find that the present Mrs Chipshaker has been surfing the net, looking for temporary rentals for us, and she's left some stuff on the 'puter for me to look at.

Now the subject of the Hibiscus Coast came up a few weeks back, but my thoughts were that it was waaaaaayyyyy too far to commute to the Auckland CBD. Seems that isn't a factor though, and if anyone is to be inconvenienced, it's most definitely me!

Mind you, I have to say, the little two bedroomed apartment she's found in Gulf Harbour does look appealing........so I check the transport system out and you know what? It doesn't look too bad - the ferry sails out at 7.10am and back from Auckland at 5.35pm. Now I'm thinking....THAT'S the way to commute to work!!

Not to sure about the winter time though...can't see the Weetabix lying comfortably when a storm blows in!

A upa ne ka up ane

You shall be taken from this place and hanged by the neck...

2005-11-19T08:56:00.000+13:00

Except I won't you see....be hanged that is......because the police report came back today and confirmed that I am an upstanding citizen, with an unbesmirched character. Ten quid and a month's wait to find out what I already knew - I've never been caught! I could have told them that myself and saved me ten quid and the State a load of time and hassle.

Unlike Mrs Chipshaker of course - she submitted her report before mine and we are still waiting. Doffing my proverbial cap slightly to the late, great Jake Thackray, I'm beginning to wonder if Mrs C isn't big, bad, Norman, fifteen years on the run. Admittedly, her hands are big and hairy, and embellished with a curious tattoo. Her voice is on the deep side, and she shaves more often than other women do!

Anyway, next step on the Road to Rangi is the rigorous medical examinations next week. Not looking forward to that one bit. As if it's not bad enough worrying about the prospect of having some stranger shove their thumb up my backside, I'm beginning to thing it would be a good idea to give up the hooch for a few days beforehand, just to make sure my blood doesn't register an ABV percentage. Then again, at my time of life, and with all my experience, it could be dangerous putting my body through that kind of sudden trauma.

And urine samples? How does that work then? Whenever I've been to the GP, they just take one look at it, make sure there are no stringy bits or wriggly things in there, then chuck it down the sink. But these medicals are a bit special I'm thinking. Well, they'd bloody better be anyway, they are costing me £600!! I think as a minimum, they are duty bound to take a sip, gargle noisily and pronounce on the vintage. I suppose only time will tell........

Tenei te tangata puhuru huru

Thou shalt not sell........

2005-11-17T04:19:00.000+13:00

So........after five days the estate agent who promised us a new way of marketing properties, based on internet listings on all the main UK property websites, has still failed to list anywhere other than on a small portal site used by a handful of independent agents around the country....and used significantly to list all of his properties.

But what's this, look carefully and you see that the portal site is owned by the same software company that powers his agency's personal site and provides all the market research software he proudly demonstrates in his sales pitch. Turns out, it's all his set up.

So, I do a bit more digging around and check out the agent listings on the two national websites he claims to use. Surprise surprise, after wading through pages and pages of agents, I can't find his company listed anywhere. So I called the very helpful people at one of the national websites, who go through their own agent listings and tell me they've never heard of him or his company.

Hmmm, interesting........might be worth asking him why he can't seem to list our property when all the other agents in the town have no trouble listing their clients' houses. So I call him. Apparently it's a software problem. Not his software problem, but a problem with the national websites, which apparently can't cope with his advanced software. There is no problem listing the property on the third site he mentions....but then why would there be? It's owned by the software company that he owns, which he uses to drive his own website. Nevertheless, he assures me they are working furiously to convince the national websites of their inadequate software, so that they can "reinstate" his listing. At this point, I thought it might be interesting to mention that one of the websites he claims to use has never heard of his company.

Now we change tack a little and he points out that it is unfair of me to direct the pressure I am facing on to him. So, it's not fair of my to question why he can't do the very thing he claims makes his business so different to competitors? It's different alright, I have to agree with that.

He points out that he doesn't like my comment that "I am concerned that, five days after he confirmed the successful upload, our property still isn't listed on the websites he'd promised". I'm puzzled by this, as it didn't strike me as a particularly inflammatory statement, merely an expression of concern. However, in the nicest possible way, I explained that I find it a little difficult to believe that his agency, which claims to specialise in maximising web-based techniques to sell houses, can sell my house if it isn't listing on the sites people use to find new houses. It seems I'm being a little unreasonable. Apparently, "the 'For Sale' board does all the work and the internet hasn't always been there you know". At this point, those of you who were paying attention will cast your minds back to the last blog entry....cul-de-sac? lack of passing traffic? Er, no, I struggle with that one a little too. Besides, in the days before the internet, didn't people use newspapers, and agency offices? (Neither of which he uses).

So then we move on to the next stage, where he very quickly suggests that he would be happy to tear up our contract, without enforcing the 14 day notice period. Seems reasonable to me, we'll go for that. Within the hour, the house disappears from his website, never to be seen again. That's very accommodating, at least I'm now free to list with "one of the other numpties that are out there" (his description of the conventional estate agents that seem to do revolutionary things like....list your house on the major property websites in the UK!)

Sadly, what also disappears with the listing on his website is the progress log that shows that he has uploaded our house three times on to a certain national website. Good job I thought to print off the progress log before making the phonecall that ultimately led to our house being deleted from his records. You never know when that information might be useful.....as well as the letter accompanying the contract, which clearly states the websites he claims to list on.

Never before has the chilled bottle of white wine waiting in the fridge been more welcome

Ka ora! Ka ora!

Day 1....so why am I here?

2005-11-15T08:51:00.000+13:00

So, why am I here then? Not in the Biblical sense of course, but why have I suddenly decided to write a blog? Well, back in August, I landed a couple of opportunities to ship the family out to New Zealand. Not on their own you understand, I'd be going with them.....so it seemed like a good idea to tell them.

They all took it fairly well, although the 4 year old is convinced it's a holiday. Technically, I suppose she's right, and who am I to mess with the mind of a four year old? Mind you, I'm not sure she can come to grips with why strangers are tramping around the house from time to time, looking in her bedroom.

Anyway, things have moved on apace now and we are off in January. It therefore seemed a good idea to start documenting the trials and tribulations that would invariably come along as we go through the process - selling the house, shipping our possession, making a 27 hour plane journey, turning up in a new country on the other side of the world, with no home, no car and not a lot else.......

So I guess the starting point is selling the house - what a nightmare that is turning into. We turned up this estate agent who offered what seemed to be a good proposition - a new way of selling houses, based predominantly on using the main property portals on the internet. For some reason, our property still isn't listed on the internet, some three days after it should be, but that's just a minor distraction I'm sure..

I'm being told not to worry, because we have a 'For Sale' sign up in the garden.....but I'm not sure I can get my head around that concept - we live in a cul-de-sac where the only passing traffic is a mixture of kids on skateboards and geriatrics out perambulating to make sure their plastic hips don't seize up. Obviously we get a few more people going past at weekends, but I'm not sure your average lager-bloated, pill popping chav is going to take much interest other than to sling his ale can in the garden and spit onto the kerbside. (Not that it's not a nice area - if any of you are interested in a four bedroomed, semi detached, it's a lovely area!)

Anyway, Mrs Chipshaker tells me I have to look on the bright side, because it will all come good in the end. So on that note, I was heartened to see that my 10 year old had been doing the homework I set him, and had memorised the first four lines of the Ka Mate Haka, complete with rather dubious movements and facial expressions (although I'm puzzled as to why he seems obsessed with the bit where you pass your hand backwards and forwards in front of your groin). He seems to be getting quite good at it too. He gave his four year old sister a demonstration yesterday and managed to get her to run away in floods of tears after one particularly effective rictus. Funny though, I never realised farting was an integral part of the performance......

Ka mate! Ka mate!