Band of Brothers

Lots of people are playing rugby in New Zealand at the moment. Lots of people are watching people play rugby in New Zealand at the moment. Not lots of people are watching our play about people playing rugby in New Zealand at the moment. That's OK though. We're doing our play in the frigid Fanzone and everyone knows plays are best enjoyed in a toasty warm theatre with a glass of wine in one hand and your penis in another. That's not strictly true as you don't always need wine to enjoy a play, but it certainly helps, especially if you want to glass an actor or cut your wrists at half time.

Although our audiences have been small, they have been perfectly formed and appreciative of our artistic endeavours. One small boy was so appreciative he came up after the show and gave me $4. His mother refused to let me give it back and the cherubic wee creature gazed up at me with pity, his eyes clearly saying, 'You need this more than I do.' It was exactly the same look I'd received from the cherub who gave me a tiny parcel of glad-wrapped bacon sandwiches after my portrayal of the Big Bad Wolf in everyone's favourite kids show 'Blowing Bacon'. It takes a special sort of talent to make four year olds feel sorry for you

Speaking of kids, one woman was apoplectic with rage and confusion and accused the event organiser of staging a 'kids show fuck fest'. I admit some of our content is risqué. We say 'bullshit' once, 'feck-kekkin' quite a lot, one of us dresses up as a giant testicle and all of us dress up as the Village People, however it's hardly a fuck fest. The only fuck fest performance I've ever been involved in was an illicit short film entitled 'Horny Ambush', shot during downtime while making 'The Lion The Witch and the Wardrobe'. Although there are only four copies in existence I'm forever terrified one will leak onto YouTube and cripple my extensive international film and television career. I'm not proud of what I did, but in my defence I'd hardly slept for two months and was wearing green tights.

Another highlight was having the New Zealand Army Band open for us. This was a BIG deal. The New Zealand Army Band are huge in New Zealand and not only are they the ARMY, they are also a BAND. Here's a picture of them tromboning.

There's a lot more to the New Zealand Army Band than trombones though. They have trumpets, and tubas and snare drums and I've heard rumours if the National Government can sell our Skyhawks, they are going to invest in a lethal sousaphone. New Zealand doesn't have enough money for an army and a band so John Key came up with the brilliant idea of sticking bayonets onto trombones, mortars in tubas and grenades in French Horns and voila, you have an immaculately dressed killing machine that can also play 'Sweet Georgia Brown' and 'Let Me Entertain You'. Often the last sound an enemy combatant will hear is 'Hold That Tiger' before they explode or get stabbed in the face by a trombone bumper.

Parp...parp....parp....parp...PARP...PARP...PARP....PARP...STAB...Hold that tiger!

Scary stuff!

Just before I finish I'd like to bring your attention to the 'Subscribe via email' box in the top right corner of your screen. If you put your email address in the box and click the 'Subscribe' button you will have subscribed to my blog via email and every time I blog you will get an email telling you how to increase the girth of your member. You may even get an email telling you I've blogged...who knows.

Legs 11

29 years, 5 months and 16 days ago I played my first game of football. I was on the right wing for Nomads United AFC and we lost. Here is a photo of a photo of me before we lost.

Today people pay $1.99 for apps to make their photos look all retro like this, but all I had to do was take a photo of an old photo with my old old iPhone and it came out all blurry and bigfootish for free.

Gerry Brownlee in the Avon River

I hadn't thought about my short and unsuccessful football career for many years until a few days ago, when I found myself dressed as an All Black in a park while tens of young children kicked balls and ignored me. It was a Saturday morning and it was cold and I was wearing short shorts pulled up high like an 80 year old man. As I looked at Potpinto dressed as a giant testicle my mind drifted back to those frosty football mornings on Tulett Park, dressed in the Chelsea red, white and blue of Nomads United AFC, the second oldest football team in the Christchurch area.

If you can't tell it's me from the face the legs are a dead giveaway. They haven't changed in 29 years and here's a photo to prove it.

The 2011 RWC Opening Ceremony

As you can see the only difference between my 8 year old and 37 year old legs is the complete absence of colour. It's as if my lazy 8 year old heart decided it couldn't be arsed pumping bloody blood to my legs, leaving them to translucently wither like two sad saplings on the White Tree of Gondor. As all my manly male friends filled out their hamstrings and quadriceps with ease my upper legs stubbornly refused to thicken up and remained milky, thin and insipid. I even started squatting at the local YMCA in a vain attempt to bring on the beef, but soon stopped when I found myself at the bottom of a squat unable to rise and had to ask the female trainer to lift the bar off my shoulders. No fat hammies were worth that kind of embarrassment.

I can't remember much about my football days. I was placed in the 10Fs and from memory that was the team where all the uncoordinated athletically inept boys with pencil legs were placed to make sure we couldn't spoil any other teams with our bad apple ball skills. We were absolute shit. We lost every single game except one when the other team didn't turn up. Our coach's pigeon toed son was in goal and he never tied his laces and fell over often. I was the only one who bothered to obey our coach's instructions by staying in position, meaning I spent 90 minutes every Saturday morning freezing my tits off running up and down the right side of the field as 19 other boys flew around like an angry solar system orbiting a ball I never saw. Even the opposition goalie would join the melee once they realised there wasn't a chance in hell we were ever going to launch a shot at goal. Our valiant coach ran up and down the sideline screaming 'Don't bunch!' as I ran up and down the sideline wishing I was in my nice warm bed thumbing through The Sword of Shannara.

I was terrified of the ball so my weekly 90 minute shuttle runs were a minor blessing. Possessing the ball meant you were ripe to be kicked in the shins by all of the opposing team trying to get the ball off you and most of your own team trying to get the ball off you. I did not consider that to be fun and on the rare occasion when somebody passed to me I immediately kicked it back to them and ran in the opposite direction. During one memorable game our goalie decided he wanted to join the thrashing throng and after some hasty negotiation I agreed to swap positions with him. He pulled his jersey half over his head and immediately tripped over his laces. I got mine halfway over my head and tripped over him. As we both lay blinded in the box like thrashing red, white and blue worms in the sun the other team scored and an unknown assailant kicked me in the shin....probably our coach.

As I gaze at that blurry snapshot of my life on a sunny Saturday morning in April 1982 I am filled with questions, all of which start with 'What the fuck....? My brother was rather good at football so had I convinced myself genes would get me through even though his legs were wide and colourful? Was I foolishly inspired by the All Whites qualifying for the 1982 World Cup? Maybe I was drunk?

Anyway, if you want to see my 8 year old legs running around a park you'd better be quick. Here's the schedule and once we're done my legs will return to long pants and Australia with no hamstrings attached.

BYO CBD

Most of you will be aware that Christchurch is significantly smaller than it was this time last year. Gerry Brownlee, the Earthquake Recovery Minister is significantly bigger than he was this time last year. Unless you're Rachel Hunter, Phil Keoghan or Scribe there's no way you're getting into the CBD to see where Christchurch is going however I have discovered the truth and with no regard to my personal safety shall divulge it to you all. Gerry Brownlee is eating Christchurch. I have created a stunningly realistic and disturbing representation of Gerry Brownlee hard at work in the red zone, eating bars, yeah wall to wall, door to door, hall to hall, he's gonna eat 'em all.

Gerryzilla hard at work

By the end of 2012 it is estimated 60% of the Christchurch CBD will be in Gerry's tummy but will that be enough to sate Gerry's insatiable appetite for all things historic and Gothic? Not bloody likely. This is just the beginning. Once New Zealand has elected the one Key to rule them all, Gerry will be unleashed to stomp up and down the length of The Long White Cloud eating anything with a smidgen of beauty or design aesthetic. Gerry and John's wealthy friends will erect tilt-slab monstrosities to celebrate before Gerry shits bricks over any electorate foolish enough to have elected a Labour MP.

On a happier note it's a beautiful sunny day and the entire country is fizzing at the bung with the prospect of watching Jonah Lomu being shot out of a cannon with a million bucks worth of fireworks up his bum. The RWC opening extravaganza is also going to feature 1000 dancing volunteers and video projections so it sounds like we're in for a big flash mob with some flash slides. I can't wait. Maybe The Feelers will sing their Jesus Jones song as Jonah Lomu's bum lights up Gerryzilla on top of Mt Albert breathing fire into Helen Clarke's old electorate office? Hayley Westenra might have a wardrobe malfunction during the national anthem when Vince Harder makes a grab for her right tit? Peter Jackson might just CGI the whole thing and we'll never know? Who knows.

All I do know is that the National Government will not allow the All Blacks to not win the Rugby World Cup as this is the only thing that could stop them getting into power. If you've seen that marvelous film The Running Man you'll know what can be done with televisual-trickery and I suspect Weta Digital are already whipping up AB wins galore with their MASSIVE software as I type. If the US can fake a moon landing PJ can fake a World Cup win in his sleep. PJ owes John and Gerryzilla big time for coming into bat for him during The Hobbit fiasco so I'm sure he'll do a terrific job.

I'd like to finish now with a shout out to all the beavers beavering away on The Ultimate Beaver Campaign 2011. As a dwarf said in Twin Peaks, 'It is happening again.' Like the inhabitants of Twin Peaks, the beavers know something terrible is going on but have no understanding of why it is happening and how to stop it...happening again. Recently Pom Poms let me know that my blogs of that time are being circulated amongst the bewildered beavers, so to those of you who continue to contact Nippon Meat Packers and struggle under the weight of ineptitude that is the Grand Beaver, I wish you a big kia kaha from the bottom of my beaver.

CHRISTchurch!

Don't need to write much about this. If you're not familiar with Christchurch it won't mean much. If you are it will.

Cashel Mall