SPAM

Spam

I would rather be hit by a tram
Than eat a plate full of spam
Sickly, Putrid, Absolutely Mucky
Definitely not food, more like a sham
Awful, ghastly, completely yucky.
Don’t give it to Sadam
A weapon of mass destruction is spam.
With spam Hitler would have won the war
It tastes like wet cardboard and wool from a lamb
Once sampled you will never ask for more.
Strangely Pale Abstract Meat
That’s spam
To make it they use a very old ram
Mix in cold cabbage and dead elephant feet
Then force it at gun point into a can
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Queen under Locke and Key

The “Head of State Referenda Bill” has been introduced into Parliament by Keith Locke of the Green Party. Politics and the Monarchy may never be the same again….

I shall not make a pun out of Mr Locke and our Prime Minister, Mr Key.
Although I am sorely tempted to unlock a treasure chest of amusing anecdotes about doors, if I did you would probably think me more un-hinged than you first imagined. Any writer who resorts to making pathetic puns about names like Locke and Key is a absolute knob. Even if I was short of writing material and in a complete jamb, I would never handle myself in such a manner.

Having put every ones mind’s at rest regarding the blatant and most annoying use of puns I happily shut the gate on the subject … Oh sorry! quite inadvertently I have used the word ‘gate’ which probably has a lock and key and is therefore a pun…silly me.

You can call me a right royal dip-stick, which brings me back to the aforementioned Mr Locke who is probably not a dip-stick but appears determined to see the demise of our English Royals. He has tried to introduce a private members bill to Parliament, it is called ‘The Head of State Referenda Bill’ which is a bit of a mouth full. A shorter version was suggested but Mr Locke objected to calling it ‘The English Bill’ for obvious reasons. (Bill English is deputy leader for the opposition)
Mr Locke wants the dissolution of the Monarchy, Mr Key prefers to retain the status quo.
According to recent surveys, New Zealand is about 50/50 on the proposal.
Reminds me of an old Goon’s script, where Spike Milligan as ‘Bluebottle’ has decided to go into business with ‘Colonel Bloodnock’ (Peter Sellers). The conversation goes something like this…
‘We will share the profits, 50/50’.
‘No’ protests Bluebottle, ‘Half or nothing, you cheating swine’.

I digress; the question is, should we dismiss our British birthright in the form of the Royal Family when everyone is well aware that Prince Charles was very fond of the Goons. (Oh I’m in a silly mood today!)
Seriously folks, consider for a moment our English heritage. We speak the same language, we have the same type of parliament, English law is the basis and structure for our legal system, even our local council administrations are run on a well proven British model. Think of the ramifications. Not many people are aware that the word Republic spelt backwards, brings out the word ‘Cilbuper’; is that what we really want?
Get rid of the Monarchy and say goodbye to any more chances of our sports people coming fourth in Commonwealth Games events. Knighthoods would be stopped, The Governor General would lose his highly paid job.
The Queen is accepted and respected, she loves corgis and has visited New Zealand a couple of times. How many of us have sat mesmerised as she delivers her riveting Christmas Day speech? Or gasped as her husband, Prince Phillip, once again successfully inserts his size eleven Hush Puppies into his own mouth.
I am amazed that Mr Locke, a dyed in the wool Greeny, has been so eager to dismiss the first in line to the British throne. Was it not, Prince Charles who baffled his subjects by becoming a raving tree-hugger in the seventies. And the people laughed at him, pointed at his sticky out ears and ridiculed his tendency to greenness. Come on Mr Locke be happy that your Private Members Bill has disappeared. (I’d be happy if my power bill did the same) Take a look around, get with it, we live in an enlightened age, New Zealander’s have grown to accept Queens.

'GOOD', Thanks

I thoroughly enjoy people watching. When my better half is invading ladies clothing stores, I like nothing better than to sit at a café table and absorb the diverse assortment of passing pedestrians. I am allowed to do this because as with most hunter gatherers a walk around ladies shoe shops and clothing stores sends me into a zombie like trance. As I shuffle from shop to shop the only sound I make is a sort of grunt of sympathy to the other walking dead. Not a pretty sight, hence the ever fascinating people watching.
This rewarding pastime is further enhanced by the gathering of conversation snippets, a kind of pedestrian eves dropping. I especially like the various forms of greeting. The traditional Australian and New Zealand, ‘Gooday, howya going’. followed by the stock Kiwi reply, ‘Good thanks’.
I have noticed that this word ‘good,’ seems to cover every contingency. ‘How are you?’…‘Good’. ‘How’s your wife?’…‘Good’. ‘How’s business?’ …‘Good’. The dictionary describes the meaning of the word as, commendable; proper; suitable; honest; just and adequate. ‘How’s your wife?’ ‘Adequate, thank you’. Doesn’t quite fit the bill, does it. I did a bit of research, suddenly this much used ‘good’ word made a lot of sense. The Greek word for ‘good’ is kalos which translates to mean, ‘in a good place’.
People watching in a Doctor’s waiting room can be a lot of fun. I went in for a warrant of fitness the other day and was quite intrigued by the human drama of it all.
For a start, have you noticed that, on arrival, most folk try to avoid eye contact. One usually has to report to the receptionist, she invariably asks in very hushed tones, ‘Who are you seeing?’, you whisper the name of your physician. No one is listening, all have eyes glued to a 1964 Time magazine or the very fine 1955 National Geographic full colour feature of the half naked Yubabuba tribal women washing their loin cloths by the banks of the Lesser Dunnapiddle.
Just as a refreshing sense of invisibility envelopes you, the said receptionist bellows at six decibels, ‘WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?’
‘Well it’s me… you know…er..’
You are now the centre of attraction, you could not have been more conspicuous had you leapt onto the counter and sung a chorus of ‘Knees Up Mother Brown‘.
On my recent visit I found a seat next to a gentleman who was wearing one of those neck brace things. A very pregnant (triplets at least) lady was on my right. Unable to unearth a magazine that was priced post decimal currency, I glanced up and to my horror, sitting just past the large one with child, was someone who’s name I should have known. Our eyes met across that crowded womb and the traditional, doctors waiting room, conversation began.
‘Oh… fancy seeing you here, how are you?’
‘Good thanks !!’ Mercifully the acquaintance had also misplaced my name. There it was, that ‘good’ word. He was definitely not ‘in a good place‘. What would happen, I wondered, if they put up another one of those information posters that adorn the walls of Doctors’ surgeries. You know the sort, ’Do not smack your children’ and ‘You may now smack your children’ and soon to be changed to, ‘Permission required from your children before smacking’. This new poster would read, ‘Patients must tell the truth.’ Imagine how exciting and entertaining the waiting room experience would become. The question, ‘How are you?’ would be followed by a wonderful organ recital. ’Oh it’s me kidney’.. ’My Liver’s playing up’.. ‘Bad lungs’.. ‘The old ticker won’t tock’. My organs are just fine, I muttered to myself as I entered my doctor’s rooms. His greeting was short and to the point. ‘I need to check yer prostate’.
‘I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind’.
‘Not prostrate', replies the Doctor, '…oh...never mind’, he seemed annoyed but questioned me again.
‘How’s your Flo?’. Silly old fool, he has forgotten my wife’s name is Mo not Flo.
‘Good thanks’.

The Last Male Bastion

What has happened to chivalry? Bring it back, I say. Let gentlemen be gentlemen once more. Remember when it was the height of rudeness for gentlemen to remain seated, when a lady entered the room. Was it not considered chivalrous, when walking along the pavement, to make sure ones lady companion walked on the inside, the gentleman nearest the road. The reason being to save her from being splashed by a muddy puddle.
The problem is, most of today’s ladies hate being treated differently to men. Offer your seat to a woman on an overcrowded bus, she thinks that you have either gone balmy or there‘s a bomb scare. Are men, in restaurants, politely pulling the chair out for their female companion, and not sitting down until she is comfortably seated? I doubt it. Sadly we men are losing our knight in shining armour, image. We are no longer called upon to fix a tap washer, change a light bulb, empty the ash bucket. Males are fast becoming redundant.
I wonder if there are any sensitive, defenseless ladies left, who when confronted with a mouse, still stand on a chair and scream? Not on your Nellie. Today’s genteel member of the fairer sex is more likely to grab hold of her personalized (pink) AK47 and blast the living daylights out of the harmless rodent.
It is not going to happen. The world has moved on. Sir Walter is never again going to lay his cloak over the puddle for his queen. Maybe we can enjoy a little compromise here. Perhaps the ladies will allow us to open the car door for them, of course, they will be in the drivers seat but so what, it’s the thought that counts. No, I must think again, we have passed the point of no return. What next…. they will probably take over the blokes shed. Bad enough that some of them watch rugby, now they have their own teams. They drink beer straight out of the bottle. Heaven help us, there are now women boxers !!The world as we know it is doomed, doomed I say. Women are wearing pin striped business suits and successfully, doing the business. Actresses are now actors. There are women prime ministers, women vicars, women truck drivers, plumbers, mechanics, judges, surgeons, garbologists and 747 pilots. But wait, thankfully there are still some male bastions. Have you ever seen a woman, male nurse? No !! What about a woman King !! Ah ha!! (that’s no good, King Tut. became a mummy)
Have no fear, my male friends, there is a place where we can meet, a secret male domain and I am not talking about the rugby changing rooms. Hidden behind, what was once a ‘gentlemen’s only,’ outfitters (but now, inevitably, also boasts a female department) where once the male of the species could have their inside leg measurement taken without fear of being disturbed. Where a man could unobtrusively, purchase a pair of jockeys or long johns without being told by the wife that he should also purchase socks. Hidden behind this establishment at the Eastern end of the Strand (look for the red and white pole.) is a small room where gentlemen can sit, read the newspaper and happily leave every page in a hell of a mess, without fear of retribution. It is here that for a small fee, good honest Kiwi blokes can catch up with rugby scores, political intrigue, local gossip, plus hear and share the latest jokes.
I am not a raving misogynist, believe me, I love the ladies, one in particular, who is actually reading this, over my left shoulder. I do not want to split hairs, I wish to state the bald facts. Ladies, you are free to emulate any male occupation, go unopposed into every part of every New Zealand town. All we ask is that you avoid these secret rooms. Whenever you see a red and white pole, be reminded, certain parts of town are private. You have stripped us of most male strongholds, allow us to keep our private parts.

Dear Tom Jones

I am always telling my children and grandchildren to write thank you letters. After a weekend in Hawkes Bay last year I thought I had better practice what I preach .


Dear Tom Jones,
I am writing to thank you for your appearance at the Mission concert in Napier. I was tempted to suggest that yours was a brief appearance, given the arrival of at least six pairs of ladies knickers upon the stage during your performance. I did notice that a lady fan took the opportunity to dispatch one of her high heels in your direction. (Was it the face lift or were you genuinely surprised). Do not get too excited regarding this fresh demonstration of adoration, a hundred years ago audiences threw their hats, fifty years ago it was gloves and handkerchiefs, two decades ago it was panties and it appears that your stage career is now, sadly, reaching the point of no return…shoes. Of course it may well have been a case of misunderstanding. Let’s face it anybody wanting to rock to the sounds of a 68 year old may act young, even feel young but will be suffering some of those ageing woes such as hardness of hearing. ‘Try throwing your shoe’ was in fact her friend saying ‘I’m going for the loo’.
I need to put your mind at rest regarding the naming of your band. Although it is unwise to attempt to introduce anyone who’s name you do not know, especially before an audience of 27,000 people, we have all experienced that temporary loss of memory. Do not be concerned with your embarrassing faux pa. I am convinced that the trombonist, who’s name you did actually forget (in front of 27,000, or was it 28,000 people) will always be remembered for the simple reason that right there on the stage in front of …you know.. he was allowed to remind you what his name actually is, so good on you Tom for giving old whatsisname, the trombonist, his moment of fame.
I am wondering what you thought of the other acts, sometimes they can outshine the main event. I thought Annie Crummer and the group ‘The Cats Away’, were excellent. However when Jimmy Barnes came on, as the warm up singer, something told me that the cats had come back again and they were doing terrible things to my lug ‘oles. Still, old Jimmy is a grand old rocker and he did not have a hernia as he screeched out some great old hits. I thought I perceived a new instrument sound but realised it was the reverberation of creaking bones as baby boomers began shaking their booties and popping their corks. I will say, Jimmy really did warm us up and I was particularly impressed with the announcement at the end of his performance that Mr Barnes would be available for autographs. I was going to give him mine but by now we had cracked open our second bottle of Merlot and I was concerned that if I fell over in the vineyard none of my intoxicated friends would be mission me and I would finish up in next years vintage.
I must say, Tom, I was intrigued by your very attractive gray shirt that gradually turned a sort of dual gray and black during your performance, my wife loves that wet look. She almost passed out when you gave us a fleeting glimpse of your chest. Personally I could not comprehend what all the fuss was about until I read on the net that those chest hairs of yours are insured for $3.5million. (My grandkids are fascinated with my long hairy eyebrows, do you think State would consider a small policy, say around thirty quid).
Now Tom it’s not that I think you are passed it…oh.. No, no, no.. there is still a bit of that old spark in your performance but sadly you were not exactly ‘burning down the house.’ It pains me to say, you are no longer a ‘sex bomb.’ The bomb bit is still there but ‘why, why, why, Delilah,’ don’t you call it a day. You’ve made $170 plus million and ‘it’s not unusual’ to be loved by someone when you are worth that sort of coin. I admire your resilience and fortitude Tom but now is the time to retire to ‘the green green grass of home’. If you insist on continuing your career and trying to do that sexy walk thing….well Tom, without wanting to be unkind, to put it bluntly, Mary is not going to be there to greet you when you step down off the train.