A Rant About Mike Hosking

Some people move to Australia for work, some move for the sunshine and some move because they like to be near creatures that can poison or eat them, however my sole reason for moving to Australia was to get away from this man.

Hai ladies!

His name is Mike Hosking. If you're not from New Zealand you'll have no idea who he is and should consider yourself bloody lucky. He's one of those middle-aged, boorish, self-righteous, right-wing blow-hards you find blowing themselves hard on multiple media platforms in most Western countries, think a pinch of Jeremy Clarkson, with a smattering of Sean Hannity and a prick of Piers Morgan. Mike is everywhere in NZ. And I mean EVERYWHERE. Most outsiders think New Zealand is nothing but sheep and Hobbits but it's not, it's nothing but sheep and Hosking, although now most of the sheep have fucked off to be replaced by gaseous cows busy shitting in rivers, so New Zealand is nothing but cows and Hosking, Hosking and cows, farting and shitting as far as the ear can hear and the eye can see. You know in the movie of the book by Orwell starring Hurt and Hurt only has one tele that he can't turn off and every time he looks at it there's this big face telling him what to think and do... in NZ that face is Mike Hosking. Mike knows everything about everything and he's not afraid to tell you all about it all the time on television, radio, newspaper, Twitter and there is no escape, there is only submission and subservience to the Hosking juggernaut. I was terrified he'll suddenly turn up on TV over here but after the one million dollar Paul Henry Channel 10 fiasco I foolishly believed I could remain unexposed to his radioactive right-wing field of crap.

But the internet put an end to that. This morning I clicked on the NZ Herald app and for some reason the first headline that appeared was 'House Prices Represent Success In Life'. That sounds like the headline to a witty piece of satire I thought and being game for an early morning chuckle I clicked on it and Mike won. Mike found me, he knows where I am and I haven't got the energy to run anymore. His Remtentacles ('Rem is Mike-speak for Remuera where Mike lives and tentacles are what Mike has instead of arms), reached out through my smartphone screen and coated my eyes with a smeary smarmy army of Hoskingisms.

"What the house prices represent is not dissimilar to what the dollar represents: success."

"Success is the outworking of demand."

"The dollar is on a roll, housing is on a roll, we're on a roll. These are golden days."

So in Mike's world, a housing bubble making it virtually impossible for first home buyers to buy and a high exchange rate to discourage NZ exporters, foreign tourists and contribute to a trade deficit means golden days, probably because Mike is pissing all over us as he delivers another sermon on the mount. Only yesterday a principal economist from the New Zealand Institute of Economic Research declared the Auckland housing bubble to be the equivalent of a ponzi scheme, but he's only got an Honours degree in Economics so what the hell does he know. Mike left school when he was 16 and lives in the real world and the economist is renting! Renting! What a loser!

As well as being excited about a housing bubble and the Kiwi dollar nearing parity with the Oz dollar, (one can imagine Mike ringing random Australian phone numbers late at night with his designer jeans round his ankles to gleefully scream "Parity!" at the poor unfortunate who answers before hanging up to finish Hosking himself off), Mike is exploding with the belief that NZ has Australia by the, "short and curlies". 'It's over!" screams Mike. Pick any indicator, left, right, hazard lights, Australia are rooted! Australia is over a barrel and Mike is right behind ready to give it a bloody good seeing-to with his mighty currency. 

But, here's the thing. I live in Australia, and the truth is Australia couldn't give a shit about NZ's currency. The NZ dollar doesn't even make it on screen during the financial bit of the news over here. Bluntly, we need them a hell of a lot more than they need us. I'm no fan of Don Brash, but he knows a thing or two about economics and here's what he said in 2007...

"There would be nothing remotely attractive about having closed the gap to Australia [by its economy declining] - as our largest trading partner and largest source of inward foreign investment, Australia's success matters greatly to us."

Yes, the Aussie economy is going through a downturn, but that's largely due to an oversupply of iron ore and an oversupply of Tony Abbott, but both of these will come to an end, hopefully one much sooner than the other. Melbourne is growing by around 250 people every day. There are eight apartment buildings going up within a few blocks of where I live. One is probably large enough to accommodate Ashburton. New Zealand is an amazing place, full of incredible people and businesses doing incredible things, but to say we've, "nailed it" because we almost reached parity makes no sense no matter how many cents our dollar is worth. 

Boo! Hiss! What a party pooper Cooper! Let's hear some more from the Hosker...

"This little nation of four and a half million produces a dollar that is at least as appealing as that monstrous land to our left. "

Ah, the old per-capita/small population gambit, used since the dawn of time to make us feel better about only winning one gold, two silver and seven bronze medals. Yes, the NZ economy is doing well, but I suspect its official cash rate of 3.5% compared to Australia's rate of 2.25% and dropping may have something to do with our sexy come hither dollar being so irresistible. I got a C+ in first year economics and 88% in my audio engineering diploma so I know about these things.

But I don't own a house. Mike owns a house. Maybe two. Maybe more. And now it's cheaper for him to pop over to Melbourne to buy his Ksubi jeans so we're all good and golden bro. Who gives a toss that the level of child poverty in Godzone has doubled since 1983 with around 280,000 kids going to school hungry and who cares that the top 1% of adults own three time's as much of the country's wealth as the entire lower half put together, success is measured by the value of your house and the value of your dollar.

And if you haven't got your hands on either, tough luck.

Every Which Way But Puce

Bloody Bono. He flies off his bike in Central Park, breaking numerous bonos bones in his body and face and still has the work ethic to write a 6000 word 'Little Book of A Big Year: Bono's A to Z of 2014'. Most people would be satisfied with feeling sorry for yourself while scoffing morphine jelly but not Bono, he writes a little book, plus a few songs and probably most of a Spiderman II musical.

I've just finished reading Bono's little book and it's quite good. He says at the start, "you shouldn't have time to read this," but unlike Bono I am a high level procrastinator who can always find time to fit 6000 words of delay into my day. After I finished I felt guilty. Twice. First because I'd spent half an hour reading Bono's 6000 words when I should have been typing six of my own and second, even though Bono had every excuse in the world not to write, he wrote. He wrote lots. And if Bono can write a little book while the blood of Irish virgins is being pumped into him, the least I can do is write a blog post.

Bono's little book is a bit like those group letters people used to send around Christmas 30 years ago when Bono was screaming, "Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you!" They usually had a hand-written salutation and maybe a wee written message at the bottom like 'Hope you have a great year but not as great as mine,' and in-between there were two pages of photocopied text telling people they hardly knew about all the amazing bloody things they achieved over the year and all the amazing bloody places they visited and how bloody clever their kids were and how bloody proud they were of all the amazing bloody things their bloody kids bloody achieved over the year and how bloody much they love bloody Apple and Jimmy Kimmel and Kanye West. Chain-letters were essentially a periodic analogue version of Facebook, which I'm not on anymore, just in case any of you have the hump with me thinking I've de-friended you. I haven't de-friended you, I've de-friended the world.

The cat is meowing at me. One moment...

Poor thing. It's 36 degrees at the moment (96.8 for North American readers), and she's all hot and bothered. Possibly. It could also be a subtle ruse to get early tuna and if that's the case she's played me like a fishy fiddle. She's got her own evaporative cooler in her room so I suspect she's just trying it on. Her evaporative cooler is cool and looks a bit like a 70's Dr. Who villain.

Evaporate! Evaporate!

Anyway, I gave Facebook the old heave-ho a few months ago and haven't missed it a jot. Except on my birthday when Facebook didn't tell people it was my birthday and nobody knew it was my birthday and nobody sent me a message on Facebook to wish me happy birthday. If Facebook had a function where it could remain dormant like a volcano and suddenly come to life for one day every year to spew hot molten messages of birthday love at my face before going to sleep again I may still be on it. If anyone reading knows Mark Zuckerberg they should have a word to him. Not that anybody will be reading as now I can't promote my blog on Facebook.

I don't do new year's resolutions but if I did I'd resolve to write two blog posts a week for all of 2015. I'd also resolve to get my legs tanned by natural means. I went swimming in Chiltern on Xmas day in nothing but boxers, borrowed shorts and water, and two days later my milky white skin woke up like a volcano and spewed hot molten messages of itchy red rash everywhere. Polymorphous Light Eruption or PMLE possibly. They've settled down now to a delicate shade of puce. It will mean the end of the official 'Greg Cooper Comedy Legs (c) 1973' and God knows, those legs saved me during many hell mingles and gigs, but I'm ready to move on. I am more than my white legs. I am a puce man. I am a puce man. I am the walrus.

My Long Racist Penis Show

It's bad form to review reviews about your own show but fuck it, here goes.

A show I've written and directed opened in Auckland last week called MAMIL. MAMIL stands for Middle Aged Man In Lycra and is a one-man show starring the very fine actor Mark Hadlow. I've been working on the script for over two years and it's become a show I'm very proud of. Still not perfect by any stretch, but it's funny, and moving and deals with issues I haven't seen dealt with on stage before.

It opened on Friday August 25th. The opening went really well. People were laughing all through and Mark got a standing ovation at the end. I was pretty happy. Before I go any further I shall type some words in capitals...I'm not yelling at you dear reader...I'm yelling at the world...

I KNOW IT'S TOO LONG.

I've known it forever. I knew it after the first draft, that's why the three subsequent drafts got shorter. I know it needs another trim but like pubic hair it needs time in front of audience to discover which bits need trimming so it doesn't end up looking like a creepy childlike penis...which apparently the play already contains and makes everyone watching extremely uncomfortable.

So, after the euphoria of champagne and sausage rolls on Friday night, the first review hit the webosphere on Saturday morning and you can read it here.

This review appeared on a NZ site called Theatreview. They've been going through a bit of internal self-analysis recently due to the perception you could book the Basement, flick on a parcan, eat a sausage roll and get a rave review, but after a hui and an epic forum discussion they've changed their ways. So, in many ways, this "Pearl, Peccadillo or just too Pervy?" notice is pretty progressive.

The first half's all good. I disagree with some of it but that's fine. Then we come to this:

I'm not easily shocked, but the conversations between Bryan and (Hadlow playing) his desperate, needy penis as a character are, for me, a step too far. This repulses many in the audience.

I was at this show. I was a bit pissed, but I cannot recall anyone standing up, stopping the show and asking everyone who felt repulsed by Mark talking to his own penis to raise their hand...or their penis. I cannot recall anyone afterwards doing a survey where audience members got to mark their 'Penis Repulsion' levels with penis pens on penis paper on a scale of 1-5 where 1 is 'Not at all repulsed' and 5 is 'I vomited a bit on my penis'. From where I was sitting most of the audience were pissing themselves. They bloody loved Bryan's Penis.

Call me old-fashioned, but when an urgent, child-like, worried penis appears on stage, empathy suddenly leaves the building. 

Starting any sentence with, "Call me old-fashioned, but..." or, "I'm not easily shocked, but..." is a bit like hearing someone start a sentence with, "I'm not racist, but...". You sort of know they're about to blether out something that instantly identifies them as an old-fashioned, easily shocked racist. (The play is also a bit racist...but more on that soon!) My question is how does one know when empathy has left the building? Is empathy like Elvis and a velvety voiced announcer tells the audience that, "Empathy has left the building" to make them all go away to seek their empathy elsewhere? Buggered if I know. The review obviously knew though. And the penis sounds more like Smeagol to me. Or perhaps that should be Smegol. I'm sorry if that was a step too far.

The review continues to say I've written two plays in one, which surely means double the bang for your buck so that's got to be good, before wrapping things up with:

I want it to be less like your pervy uncle, and more like your nice brother where the boundaries are clear, everything is open, and distress is absent.

WTFDTM? I think the review is saying my play is too Uncle Bully and not enough Boogie. Maybe. Anyway, let's move on to review number two before I become distressed and absent.

This one appeared in the NZ Herald on Monday and is a bit more important because some people who buy tickets to theatre read the NZ Herald. This review starts well by saying the show is only 85 minutes long as opposed to nearly two hours in the previous review, but at 85 minutes it's still, "just too long". I'm not sure what TARDIS this reviewer was watching MAMIL from, but I'd give my left nut to have it running at 85 minutes. This reviewer agrees with me that the nation-dividing character of 'Bryan's Penis' sounds more like Gollum and compliments me on my, "number of amusing puns and rhymes". The local references are also "welcome", but not alas for this NonAuckland (NonDorkland) audience member...

Show for Dorklanders Only

Herald Theatre, Aotea Centre

 - Auckland

 - Sat 26 Jul 2014

Posted 29/07/2014

by NonAucklander 

This Fan's Reviews

Too many Auckland-related jokes known only to Aucklanders (Dorklanders). Not for people who live outside urban Auckland.
Too rude and embarrassing at times to even look at what was going on on the stage. These scenes did not need to be in the show.
Interesting in content and Mark Hadlow shows how talented he is in portraying 10 characters!

The rest of the comments are very nice though.

"But at 85 minutes, it's too long for a solo show - a common mistake for writers directing their own work."

How long is too long for a solo show? If a solo show falls in a a forest, and no-one is around to hear it, is it too long? I remember seeing Pete Postlethwaite in a solo show called Scaramouche Jones and it was definitely longer than 85 minutes, but I bet nobody was asking Pete if he could bang it through a bit faster. It's a common mistake though which is reassuring.

(The play is also a bit racist...but more on that soon!)

Jane Hakaraia's lights get a good mention which is fab, because Jane is awesome and her lighting design was bloody brilliant.

This review finishes by reprimanding Mark for giving the operator a hard time and then reprimanding him again for 'fluffing' his lines and corpsing. Big sigh. Deep breath. We've got a fantastic operator called Stephen, also known as 'Stretch' because he's rather tall. Mark and Stretch get on very well. A lot of the sound cues are visual cues from Mark and when they aren't in sync it's very funny. Mark will comment, he may even act like he's outraged. It's very funny. Sometimes he'll ask for the cue again. It's very funny. Sometimes Mark will fluff a line and comment on it. It's very funny. Sometimes he will corpse. It's very funny.This all happened on opening night and it was very funny. Most of the audience were fully aware of what was going on and laughed like drains.

It concludes by dissing our "clunky"set, which the previous review thought was "strong" and sums the show up with this wee closing zinger:

"Half-baked with occasional laughs. Possibly cynical; or maybe that's just me."

I'm possibly cynical, but this review is half-baked; or maybe that's just me.

Only one to go dear reader, stick with me. This one appeared in a blog just like mine called The Pantographic Punch. Actually, it's a much prettier blog than mine. I'd love for my blog to look as pristine and minimalist as The Pantographic Punch but I don't know how. This one starts with a brief plot summary before correctly deducing my intention is humour. It then points out my play is made up of, "a slew of tired stereotypes". The previous review commented on my "tired old fashioned" racial stereotypes. So, it's finally time to address the white elephant in the room.

I am a tired, old fashioned racist.

People who know me already know this. They all whisper, "Ah, there's Greg, he's such a tired, old fashioned racist", after I go to bed at 8:30pm in my flannelette KKK jim-jams. It's not my fault though. I'm from Christchurch. I live in Melbourne now, and that blank look the locals give you when you tell them you don't support an AFL team is exactly the look you get in Christchurch when you tell a local you're not a racist. They just can't comprehend it. You are alien to them. When I look back on those halcyon days of performing racist improv at The Court Theatre before going into town to eat some racist KFC and getting into a friendly racist fight with other racists on Colombo Street, I'm not surprised some of my stereotypical racism has leaked into my never-ending solo show. Luckily for me there are some fans of tired racist stereotypes in the audience the night this review was done...

"There are laughs the night I go. The laughs are the most disturbing part of the show."

God only knows how disturbed this reviewer would have been with the standing ovation on opening night. Other people laughing at a comedy show you don't find amusing is very disturbing though and this review has every right to be disturbed. At least the most disturbing thing wasn't the talking penis...

"He’s frank about his impotence, too, but it’s made a little creepy by him playing the character of his penis with a child’s voice (“why don’t you touch me anymore?” it inquires innocently at one point)."

...or maybe not.

I think I'd better stop now before I turn into Morrissey. There have been some positive reviews, you can read them here and here. I know I should probably take a line from the show I've written and, "harden up you little prick", but call me old fashioned, I don't think it's too much to ask for a reviewer to at least acknowledge that although a show isn't for them, the majority of the audience are laughing and enjoying themselves. Maybe a standing ovation is worth a mention too.

The show is selling well though, and we've received terrific feedback from people in the industry we hugely respect and audience members we've never met before.

That'll do. I'm tired and I need to go talk to my racist penis.

http://www.ticketmaster.co.nz/MAMIL-tickets/artist/1995733

Lorde Save Us

Dear Lorde

Firstly, I would like to apologise for sending you an open letter. I realise open letters are very popular at present, with Sufjan sending one to Miley and Miley sending one to Liam and BlackBerry sending one to its customers no one, but I'm not jumping on the open wagon just to be as hip and down with the kids as BlackBerry. I would have sent you a closed letter but I doubt 'Lorde, Somewhere in Devonport, Auckland, New Zealand', would have reached you. I'm guessing being as busy as you are you're not at home much anyway. I also read NZ Post are only delivering letters on the second equinox of every fourth leap year so I decided to play it safe and rely on the extensive readership of my blog to get this important communiqué to you. As a token of its importance I just spent five minutes working out how to put the accent aigu over the 'e' but gave up and copied and pasted it from the internet. Michael Bublé has an accent aigu too. Have you met him? He seems nice but I don't like his music much. Don't tell him that if you meet him, as like I said he seems nice. Perhaps one day you could add an accent aigu to your name. This is how it would look.

Lordé.

Not bad. If you ever do a French album it could be a shrewd move as the French seem to appreciate it when you make an effort to speak French. You would have to say your name differently though, a bit like Debbie Dorday. Do you remember Debbie Dorday? She used to have a TV ad in NZ where she would breathlessly exclaim, "See you at Burgandys!", but this was probably a bit before your time. There is also the chance you could be confused with Eurovision Song Contest winning monster mask wearing Finnish hard rock band Lordi, so don't rush into it.

I'm really enjoying your music. You've got a great set of pipes and it's very refreshing you seem happy singing not half naked. I imagine life must be bit of a blur right now. Zipping round the world on Works Deluxe fares, being able to get into the Koru Lounge whenever you like and meeting glamorous people at glamorous gatherings in glamorous places. I see you just sang at MoMA in NYC in front of people like Anna Wintour, Karl Lagerfield and David Bowie to help celebrate the career of Tilda Swinton. That must have been awesome. According to the MoMA website Tilda has "multihyphenate talents" and who can argue with a word like that. David Bowie most certainly has multihyphenate talents and there you are right between them, another multihyphenate talent hypenating their multihyphenate talents.

But, there is someone else in this photo. No, don't turn around, he's still there. Just keep looking at the camera. His head is right to your right. Smaller than yours, perfectly framed and monstrously in focus. A tanned medium sized beardy head gazing into Tilda's ear and grinning...that grin...that only he can grin. That all-knowing knowing-all grin of someone who knows he's made it to the perfect position to make it in shot. I have seen this grin before. It has many faces and many names, but I know it only as...

Sandrooooooooooooooo.....(whisper)......ooooooooooo....(hardly audible)....ooooooooo......(out of breath)

How does he do it? How does he find these background bonanzas with such consummate beardy ease? I don't know. I've spent the last eight years of my life trying to find out and it's left me a bankrupt, broken, itchy, rubby shell of a man. I even wrote a play about it and spent a small fortune on flyers and stuff but nobody came. Why?

Sandrooooooooooooooo.....(whisper)......ooooooooooo....(hardly audible)....ooooooooo......(out of breath)

His power is as deep and immense as his beard. I have tried in vain to warn the world and failed but I hope this open letter will succeed in warning you. Like me my warning is short. Five short words.

DON'T. LET. HIM. SKETCH. YOU.

He will ask. He may have already. But if not, he will. Maybe on Twitter. Maybe via email. Maybe he will get Tilda to ask for him. But he will ask. He always asks. He didn't ask me, but he will ask you. And once he's sketched you before you can say...

Sandrooooooooooooooo.....(whisper)......ooooooooooo....(hardly audible)....ooooooooo......(out of breath)

...you will be forever in his power and he will be travel the world with you and photobomb your photos. Forever.

I know this sounds like the ramblings of a crazy man. From what I've read you've got your head screwed on, but you must understand, his is a power like no other. Tilda fought valiantly but lost. And she was Jadis, the White Witch! Even by writing this I'm putting myself at risk. Everytime I did my one-man show I expected it to be my last, and based on how much money I lost at the Melbourne Fringe I'm a bit miffed it wasn't.

Please dear Lorde,  I beg of you. Think of him as a dog thinks of a power pole, or that Chinese guy thinks of his garden path. Just spray and walk away. You don't need to be sketched by him. There are plenty more sketchers in the sea. Rolf Harris would love to sketch you and he even painted the Queen.

Now I'm going to go check the door is locked and stroke the cat

Your fan

Greg

P.S. Happy birthday.

Mercurious.

I don't remember how my brother got into Queen but he really got into Queen in a big way. He owned all their CD's. He even had Brian May's 1992 solo album 'Back to the Light' but the less typed about that the better. So from a reasonably impressionable age my ear holes were filled with Freddie belting out songs about fairy queens and great king rats, Brian belting out songs about time travel and badgers, Roger belting out songs about how much he loves his car and John belting his bass guitar.

The only two things I can clearly remember about Live Aid in 1985 was Status Quo kicking things off with this song, I think the message was cheaper food makes poverty history, (and what is the man in the control booth doing with his big finger at 1.36?), and Freddie doing this fantastic stint of audience call and response. In fact if you've got a spare 25 minutes you could watch their whole set which I'm going to do right now and live blog it...


0:13 Someone holds up a banner saying 'Queen Works', either referring to the health of the Queen in 1985 or Queen's 1984 album 'The Works'
1:19 Freddie likes a lot of Pepsi. And one lager.
2:28 Freddie has some serious product in his hair.
2:36 Brian rips out a lovely guitar solo but nobody gives him a close up. He's probably a bit miffed.
2:43 Cancel that! Brian gets his close up. Bit late though.
2:53 Rolf Harris plays his wobble board in the wings to kick off Radio Lady Gaga.
2:59 Roger wakes up and starts drumming...whew.
3:45 Notice how all the camera crew are all in white. This was because Bob Geldof got a good deal on white pants and those 'Choose Life' shirts from George Michael. True fact.
3:53 Notice how Freddie has what looks like a dog collar around his right bicep. It's actually the collar for Brian's favourite badger 'Sir Patrick Moore' who passed away a few days before the concert.
4:23 Roger wakes up again and starts singing some BV's. Whew. Roger has a fantastic voice for a drummer, second only to Phil Collins, who was the only artist to play both the London and Philadelphia Live Aid concerts thanks to a flight on the conchords. Apparently he sang 'I Can Feel Me Coming In The Air Tonight' the whole way. True fact.
4:36 A-ha! The famous Radio Ga Ga clap. Which is cheekily just the YMCA, without the M and C with an extra A. They were sued by The Village People but settled out of Court for two of Brian's badgers and one of Freddie's cats. True fact.
5:57 The first sighting of John Deacon! And what a sighting. Phil Spector modelled his hair on John's for his recent murder trial. True fact.
7:00 If you listen closely you can hear every band and singer who's already performed whisper, "We were a bit shit", and every band and artist due to perform whisper, "Oh shit."
7:05 Let's see Chris Martin do this.
7:55 'Hammer To Fall' was written after Freddie saw the marching hammers in the video for 'Another Brick In The Wall' while off his gourd on snuff. True fact.
8:32 Look how high John's jeans are! True fact.
9:38 Brian launches into his second big solo and the camera stays on Freddie. Brian is a bit miffed.
9:44 Cancel that! Brian made his own guitar out of the wood from an old police phone box he found. If he plays 'The Power of Love' by Huey Lewis and The News he can time travel. True fact.
11:54 The man with the grey hair giving Freddie a pat is actually Andrew Ridgely from Wham without makeup and hair dye.
12:01 Look how short those jeans are! And I thought my legs were white and skinny.
12:35 I can play this! It's just a baby D chord and then you put your little finger somewhere.
12:50 For the longest time I thought the words were 'This thing, cola, I just can't handle it.' But after seeing how much Freddie loves his Pepsi that would just be dumb.
15:50 Freddie was about to go all Pete Townshend on his guitar but then realised that guitar belonged to Pete Townshend and pulled out at the last second. True fact.
16:41 For the longest time I thought the words were, 'Mud on your face, big disgrace, kicking your cat all over the place.' But Freddie LOVED his cats, he even wrote a song about one of them called Delilah, so that would just be dumb.
17:03 I can't play this!
18:11 Everybody!
18:12 'We Are The Champions' is one of the favourite songs of lazy half-arsed TV producers on election day, second only to 'The Final Countdown'.
19:50 See that big tent in the middle of the crowd? Do you know who's in there? Aslan. True fact.
21:41 We don't see it but Brian accidently played 'The Power of Love'. That's why it's dark and they're wearing different outfits.
24:44 The end.

How good was that. I wasn't planning on watching or writing about that at all but I'm jolly pleased I did. What I was planning on sharing is this...


'Under Pressure' is a fantastic song. If you click on the wee triangle hopefully you'll get to hear Freddie and David Bowie's vocal track all by itself. Their voices have been processed a bit with some echo and maybe a bit of flanging. Flanging is about the only technical term I can remember from my nine month audio engineering diploma at SAE in Auckland, but I can't remember what it actually does, although it sounds a bit rude doesn't it. If you can wack on some headphones, or 'cans' for those with an audio engineering diploma, it will be even better. Buds will be okay but cans will be way better. You could even flange your cans for added aural pleasure. It's quite moving to hear two of the greatest pop singers ever in full flight without any audio distraction. Near the end Roger Taylor even joins in and if a wee tear falls down your face don't be ashamed. What's even better is that Queen and Bowie wrote this incredible song over 24 hours deep within a Swiss studio nourished by nothing but chardonnay and coke.

Or maybe Pepsi

True fact.

Big Tony

The following is a transcript of Tony Abbott's interview with Big Brother on Wednesday Sept 4th.

BB: Hello Tony, this is Big Brother.
TA: Hello Big Brother, this is Tony Abbott. I've got two B's in my name, just like you! Heh heh heh.
BB: Yes you do Tony.
TA: I've also got two daughters. They're tall and not bad looking.
BB: Yes Tony, your daughters look lovely.
TA: They have sex appeal.
BB: If you say so.
TA I just did.
BB: Why should our contestants vote for you Tony?
TA: I will stop the boats.
BB: Anything else?
TA: My daughters are not bad looking.
BB: You've already said that.
TA: I will stop the boats.
BB: You've already said that too.
TA: Fair dinkum.
BB: What's fair dinkum?
TA: Fair dinkum.
BB: You've already said fair dinkum.
TA: Fair dinkum.
BB: How will you stop the boats?
TA: By cutting 4.5 billion of foreign aid.
BB: How will that stop the boats?
TA: All the foreigners will die of aids.
BB: Please explain.
TA: Labour wants to waste 4.5 billion on helping foreigners with aids. By cutting this foreign aid all foreigners will die of aids and won't get on boats.
BB: That's not how...
TA: I like Foreigner, but I like Nickelback more. So does Joe Hockey.
BB: Mr Abbott...
TA: (Singing) This is how you remind me of what I really am...
BB: What about global warming?
TA: I will stop the global warming
BB: How?
TA: By keeping my hot daughters in the kitchen. Heh heh heh.
BB: Anything else?
TA: Fair dinkum.
BB: What about internet porn?
TA: I will stop the internet porn.
BB: How?
TA: By not building the National Broadband Network.
BB: That won't work.
TA: I will invest in fair dinkum dial-up so fair dinkum Australians cannot downloaddiddily dinkum anything. My daughters are porn enough for Australia. They have sexy appeal.
BB: Public transport?
TA: I will stop the public transport.
BB: Roads?
TA: I will not stop the roads.
BB: Anything else?
TA: I will stop everything else.
BB: Including gay marriage?
TA: Gay people will be put on the boats I buy from Indonesian fishermen and sent to New Zealand.
BB: Why New Zealand?
TA: New Zealand is gay.
BB: Didn't you marry a New Zealander?
TA: Are you calling me gay?
BB: No, but...
TA: I'll punch you mate, and your wall. I'm a boxer, I'm a cyclist, I'm a jogger...I worked out with the army last week!
BB: Calm down Tony.
TA: Are you a baddie?
BB: No.
TA: Are you a goodie?
BB: Yes.
TA: Fair dinkum.
BB: Thank you Tony.
TA: Heh heh heh.

Little Boy Blue

Yesterday a woman had a baby and now it looks as though he's here to stay on the front page of every newspaper and magazine for the rest of my life. Women have babies all the time, in fact as I type this sentence babies are popping out all over the world like this:

Pop, pop, POP! Music.

Everyone is very excited about this particular baby because one day he, he will be King, and you, you will be Queen, and nothing, will drive them away, because in the future we will be able to teleport and turn into flies. Big things around the world have been lit up blue to celebrate the arrival of the babe...

What babe?
The babe with the power to cut ribbons, wave and shake hands with shit loads of people in 54 independent sovereign states.

In my hometown they are lighting up their relatively new flight control tower blue to celebrate the fact the baby boy is a boy with blue blood and he's blue da ba dee da ba di x7. The last time the Christchurch control tower was blue was in September in an effort to make men flying to Hamilton face up to the prospect of prostate cancer. "Go Blue! Face up to prostate cancer". I'm not sure how blue relates to prostate cancer aside from the fact that blue screams BOY and most boys grow up to become MEN and MEN scream when other MEN put their finger up their bums to palpate their prostate.

The high point of New Zealand's celebration though, even higher than the Sky Tower, will be when the blue lights are switched on the giant corrugated iron sheep dog tonight in Tirau. This dog is the dogs bollocks. The only times I ever passed through Tirau were on the way to Rotorua to perform murder mysteries, and this giant dog with his sad giant corrugated eyes felt my pain and made me feel slightly better about spending all night dressed as a woman fending off the unwelcome attentions of drunk business men trying to palpate my prostate. Never been to Tirau? Never fear. Gaze upon this in awe and wonder.

Tonight, this giant dog and 36 other landmarks will be blue. In the background you may just be able to make out another giant corrugated iron figure. It is a sheep. But, I'm not going to post a photo of that because then you'll never have a reason to drive through Tirau, and you must.

Wouldn't it be amazing if Willkat called their blue baby Kong? Then to celebrate his coronation after a 106 year old Charles William (thanks Mum), collapses to death under the weight of the crown, he could put on a gorilla suit and scale The Shard while clutching Pippa Middleton.

Unfortunately what's unfortunate about this blue Monday is other immensely important news events have fallen under the royal radar. New Zealand is busy shaking itself into the ocean and nobody outside of New Zealand gives a rats pyjamas. Dennis Farina just died and nobody knows except Wikipedia. And this!

This is 16093 people from 43 countries breaking the world record for people in a line doing Riverdance! The old record was 652 in Nashville, Tennessee which:
a) Isn't very many.
and
b) Isn't in Ireland.
Look at them all dancing from the groin down. It's incredible. I can't be bothered finding out why dancing like this is called Riverdancing, however on closer inspection all they're really doing is treading water with no water, so I'd say it's how the Irish stopped drowning when they fell pissed in the River Liffey and then Bono said let's put lots of people on stage in a line pretending to tread water quickly and 25 million people will pay to watch.

Oh alright, but don't tell anyone.