A word of advice for anyone contemplating a camping holiday...don’t!
No matter how idealistically stimulating it sounds to up sticks and head to the great outdoors this Summer, take it from one who has often loitered within tent...it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.
To leave the comforts of civilisation in order to enjoy the benefits of living under canvas and savour the delights of ‘roughing it’ is madness in the extreme. I should know, I have been man against wild, I have laid on my back in the middle of a cold and blustery night, staring up at the stars, wondering where our tent has gone.
I have squeezed through a tent flap, into the cold forbidding night, like Captain Oats of the Antarctic, whispering to my wife that I am just going for a short walk. Dressed only in my pyjamas, swan dry, track suit and beanie I have fumbled my way through a dark wooded area, wishing that I had not drunk all that liquid the night before.
I remember the night well; it was foolish to venture bare footed into unchartered territory. I managed to tread upon the only nodding thistle within a five square mile radius and I discovered that at night small but sturdy, pointy tree branches move surreptitiously from the upper part of a tree to groin level.
My definition of camping is ‘learning to stay alive in a hostile environment’.
The adventure stories, tales of daring-do and books about the great outdoors fail to mention that the number of giant sand flies in any given location is dependent on whether or not you remembered to pack the Dimp. Keep a bottle of repellent in your pack; you will not see hide nor hair of a biting insect, conversely leave the Dimp in your medicine cabinet at home; you will be eaten alive.
My wife is usually very well organised, she cannot help herself. This is a commendable talent but one that totally falls apart when we go camping. Oh she plans alright; she plans beyond the call of duty.
One summer we decided to pitch our tent at Ocean beach in Hawkes Bay. Everything was loaded onto the back of our Austin Gypsy truck. Mattresses, pillows, coolie chairs,fridge, Labrador (he slept in a pup tent) and chest of drawers! I kid you not; we took a fully laden, six drawer chest of drawers on a camping holiday! The fact that I was in charge of securely roping the load and then loosing it all on the Havelock roundabout, is neither here nor there.
Who could forget our summer holiday at Hahei in the Coromandel? We wanted a good night’s sleep so purchased the very best double blow up mattress we could find. I pumped it up, the kids, Labrador and I jumped up and down on it. Having had an exhausting first day, we retired to bed at eight thirty. By nine fifteen we were on the floor. I had to pump it up again. I pumped that bloomin’ mattress up six times in the night; goodness knows what the neighbouring campers thought about the huffing and puffing emanating from our tent. By morning we were all deflated.
Then there was the piece de résistance, the final curtain to camping holidays. Waihau Bay camping ground produced the wettest two weeks on record and we were in the middle of it. Everything was damp, the food was damp the clothing was damp even the damp was damp. We awoke in the middle of the night suffering from a lack of oxygen. It felt like a giant Hippo was sitting on our faces. ‘Get off John’ my wife gasped. Turned out to be rain water, a huge reservoir filled the roof of our tent and threatened to engulf us. We heaved it into the air, spilling gallons upon the neighbouring campers.
Camping anyone? Never again!!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The amazing, hilarious wonderful bottom.
I have often wondered why when you mention certain words to small children they giggle uncontrollably. Take ‘bottom’ for example, a somewhat obscure word that is used to describe the base or end of an object. ‘The bottom of the boat’, or ‘put it in the bottom drawer’, are perfectly sane sentences not at all amusing least of all to children of average intelligence. Not so when the same word refers to the end or base of a person. In that context the quite ordinary, unobtrusive word, ‘bottom’ takes on a life of its own. The ordinary common or garden bottom for some strange reason becomes highly hilarious to small children. It’s a known fact, the more you say it the harder they laugh. This same phenomenon is not produced with similar meaning words like, rear-end, bum or backside. Why is that? I suppose the word posterior could be considered mildly amusing but it does not deliver the same impact as bottom.
As a child I well remember clutching my stomach, falling on the floor in convulsions of merriment at the mention of someone’s bottom. (do I need therapy?) At family get-togethers a naughty older cousin took great delight in making up a rude rhyme about my poor Uncle Otto. He always waited until I was standing next to my Uncle and then whispered in my ear, ‘Otto’s botto sits on potto’. Although the rhyme would not have won any poetry competitions or placed my cousin in the running for the youngest ever poet laureate, to me it was the funniest thing I had ever heard.
Talking of whispering reminds me of a very funny story that was told by Irish comedian, Dave Allen. His father did not like the word ‘fart’. The first time Dave heard the word was when he was about three years old. He was watching a cowman milking and the cow farted. ‘What was that?’ He asked. The cowman replied, ‘The cow farted’. It was just a word; as if he’d said ‘what’s that on the tree?’ and he’d said ‘bark’.
Dave’s family had a dog called Tuppy, because he was bought for tuppence. One day as Dave walked past him, he heard the same noise and said ‘Tuppy farted’. His father said, ‘Where did you hear that?’ and Dave said ‘It came from his bottom’. Young Dave’s dad had a way of getting around the word. He would say, ‘Who whispered?’ and everyone totally accepted the euphemism. That is until one day when Dave’s Granny, said, ‘Come here David and whisper in Granny’s ear’.
Frankly I am surprised that marketing gurus have not pounced on bottoms as a sales gimmick. Kids would not be able to resist jellied or chocolate (perhaps not chocolate) or lolly pop bottoms. As a child I considered the late great Spike Milligan to be the greatest comedian in the World for his famous words in ‘Badjelly the witch’. ‘His trousers fell down, and off he went to bare bottom land.’ We should thank him for creating glorious, spluttering, irrepressible mirth in the minds of young children. I thank the man from the bottom of my bottom, and I take this opportunity to propose a toast saying ‘bottoms up’ to my Uncle Otto on behalf of all naughty words that make us laugh...
I have often wondered why when you mention certain words to small children they giggle uncontrollably. Take ‘bottom’ for example, a somewhat obscure word that is used to describe the base or end of an object. ‘The bottom of the boat’, or ‘put it in the bottom drawer’, are perfectly sane sentences not at all amusing least of all to children of average intelligence. Not so when the same word refers to the end or base of a person. In that context the quite ordinary, unobtrusive word, ‘bottom’ takes on a life of its own. The ordinary common or garden bottom for some strange reason becomes highly hilarious to small children. It’s a known fact, the more you say it the harder they laugh. This same phenomenon is not produced with similar meaning words like, rear-end, bum or backside. Why is that? I suppose the word posterior could be considered mildly amusing but it does not deliver the same impact as bottom.
As a child I well remember clutching my stomach, falling on the floor in convulsions of merriment at the mention of someone’s bottom. (do I need therapy?) At family get-togethers a naughty older cousin took great delight in making up a rude rhyme about my poor Uncle Otto. He always waited until I was standing next to my Uncle and then whispered in my ear, ‘Otto’s botto sits on potto’. Although the rhyme would not have won any poetry competitions or placed my cousin in the running for the youngest ever poet laureate, to me it was the funniest thing I had ever heard.
Talking of whispering reminds me of a very funny story that was told by Irish comedian, Dave Allen. His father did not like the word ‘fart’. The first time Dave heard the word was when he was about three years old. He was watching a cowman milking and the cow farted. ‘What was that?’ He asked. The cowman replied, ‘The cow farted’. It was just a word; as if he’d said ‘what’s that on the tree?’ and he’d said ‘bark’.
Dave’s family had a dog called Tuppy, because he was bought for tuppence. One day as Dave walked past him, he heard the same noise and said ‘Tuppy farted’. His father said, ‘Where did you hear that?’ and Dave said ‘It came from his bottom’. Young Dave’s dad had a way of getting around the word. He would say, ‘Who whispered?’ and everyone totally accepted the euphemism. That is until one day when Dave’s Granny, said, ‘Come here David and whisper in Granny’s ear’.
Frankly I am surprised that marketing gurus have not pounced on bottoms as a sales gimmick. Kids would not be able to resist jellied or chocolate (perhaps not chocolate) or lolly pop bottoms. As a child I considered the late great Spike Milligan to be the greatest comedian in the World for his famous words in ‘Badjelly the witch’. ‘His trousers fell down, and off he went to bare bottom land.’ We should thank him for creating glorious, spluttering, irrepressible mirth in the minds of young children. I thank the man from the bottom of my bottom, and I take this opportunity to propose a toast saying ‘bottoms up’ to my Uncle Otto on behalf of all naughty words that make us laugh...
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Real Estate defined
According to recent Government statistics, our town, Whakatane NZ has had a population increase of a mere 10 persons in the last three years. Could it be that all these people have become real estate agents? Did you know that there are in excess of 40 such agents in our fair town. Could we be the second ‘city of sales’.
Rumour has it that residence may now use their old wheelie-bins to cater for those ever increasing real estate pamphlets. What a grand idea, instead of displaying a mailbox sign ‘No Circulars’, the large bin could display much more meaningful information, such as:
I do not want to sell my home. You are not my friendly real estate agent. I don’t even know you. Who are you anyway. I don’t care that Mrs. Smith has sold her house. Clear off hairy legs.
In case you do want to buy a home here are some helpful definitions.
CROSSLEASE: When someone buys a cheap house at Lake Rotoiti (a very small settlement) and brags to their mates that they have got the bargain of the decade, then discover that they have to pay a lease fee to the owners amounting to $12,000 per year. This makes them very angry. This is a cross lease.
UNIT TITLE: ‘unit’ is an abbreviation for a ‘ewe nit’ which as every shepherd knows is a small head louse found on sheep. Obviously a ‘unit title’ is when the shepherd sees one of these lice on a ewe and addresses it as one would address a titled person, E.g. ‘Oi there’s one of them head lice watzernames on that sheep.....come out of there right now yer Majesty.’
OPEN PLAN LIVING: Dad ran out of firewood he’s too broke to buy a load so chops up all the doors in the house and chucks them onto the fire, you now have open plan living.
PANORAMIC VIEW: If you stand on the roof, on a chair, on a large copy of Webster’s dictionary, you catch a glimpse of Ohiwa Harbour.
VIEWS FOREVER: The complete works of William Shakespeare on top of the Webster’s.
ENSUITE: There is a covered walkway from the house to the long drop toilet.
FORMAL LIVING: Dad wears a suit and bow tie at home.
REFURBISHED: This house is badly in need of some tender loving care, the owner couldn’t build a dog house, he is what is commonly called a cowboy.
Final advice for those about to take the plunge into house purchase, did you know that the word mortgage literally means ‘death grip’ or ‘strangle hold’ Kiwis will be relieved that our reserve bank are not following the upward movement of various other countries borrowing rates. Let us hope that the head of our Reserve Bank, Dr. Alan Bollard’s interest is not enhanced when he hears the throttled gurgling of first home borrowers.
Rumour has it that residence may now use their old wheelie-bins to cater for those ever increasing real estate pamphlets. What a grand idea, instead of displaying a mailbox sign ‘No Circulars’, the large bin could display much more meaningful information, such as:
I do not want to sell my home. You are not my friendly real estate agent. I don’t even know you. Who are you anyway. I don’t care that Mrs. Smith has sold her house. Clear off hairy legs.
In case you do want to buy a home here are some helpful definitions.
CROSSLEASE: When someone buys a cheap house at Lake Rotoiti (a very small settlement) and brags to their mates that they have got the bargain of the decade, then discover that they have to pay a lease fee to the owners amounting to $12,000 per year. This makes them very angry. This is a cross lease.
UNIT TITLE: ‘unit’ is an abbreviation for a ‘ewe nit’ which as every shepherd knows is a small head louse found on sheep. Obviously a ‘unit title’ is when the shepherd sees one of these lice on a ewe and addresses it as one would address a titled person, E.g. ‘Oi there’s one of them head lice watzernames on that sheep.....come out of there right now yer Majesty.’
OPEN PLAN LIVING: Dad ran out of firewood he’s too broke to buy a load so chops up all the doors in the house and chucks them onto the fire, you now have open plan living.
PANORAMIC VIEW: If you stand on the roof, on a chair, on a large copy of Webster’s dictionary, you catch a glimpse of Ohiwa Harbour.
VIEWS FOREVER: The complete works of William Shakespeare on top of the Webster’s.
ENSUITE: There is a covered walkway from the house to the long drop toilet.
FORMAL LIVING: Dad wears a suit and bow tie at home.
REFURBISHED: This house is badly in need of some tender loving care, the owner couldn’t build a dog house, he is what is commonly called a cowboy.
Final advice for those about to take the plunge into house purchase, did you know that the word mortgage literally means ‘death grip’ or ‘strangle hold’ Kiwis will be relieved that our reserve bank are not following the upward movement of various other countries borrowing rates. Let us hope that the head of our Reserve Bank, Dr. Alan Bollard’s interest is not enhanced when he hears the throttled gurgling of first home borrowers.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Wow! Talk about variety, this activity is not only a must do experience of a lifetime, it is five amazing acts rolled into one big drama.
It was about time I took advantage of a tourist activity that is right on our doorstep. I discovered that Whakatane’s unique WHALE AND DOLPHIN WATCH, incorporates a physical, spiritual and going by the reaction of my fellow watchers, an emotional experience.
We were blessed with a fantastic day, calm water and clear blue sky. Appropriately, ‘Blue Sky’ was the name of the ten metre passenger launch that took us along the Whakatane River, over the bar and out to sea.
Greg Rackham, the Skipper is an experienced launch man with a canny knack of being able to track down pods of our target species, the Common Dolphin. I was fascinated to discover that a work-up of Gannets, invariably reveals the presence of dolphins.
We scanned the Bay for those tell tail signs and although on occasions dolphins take a little longer to find, a large pod was soon sighted just east of Moutohora (Whale) Island. There must have been close to two hundred. They gathered around the boat, jumping, twisting and turning , slipping in front of the bow then zooming away like grey and white torpedoes. Although Greg kept the launch at a brisk speed , those amazing animals appeared to keep up without even trying.
For us the day had only just begun. Kitted out with snorkel and fins, we sat on the stern of the boat, while the Skipper anticipated the direction of the pod. Greg is always careful not to get ahead of the leaders and disrupt their forward path. He approached the side of the pod, where there was a high concentration of dolphins, then expertly adjusted the boat’s speed in order to give us the very best opportunity. Forward a bit, gently does it, then stop all motors and it was, ‘Go…go…go!’
The visibility was amazing, I could see the animals right below me, I lost count at forty. I heard them whistling, a high pitched eerie note that in dolphin language probably said, ‘look at that very large human’ or perhaps 'Help...Orca!!'
This has got to be on top of the ‘bucket list‘. I strongly recommend it to anyone from eight to eighty years. Anchored in a sheltered bay at Moutohora Island we enjoyed a hot drink and snack while Peter told us about the successful Kiwi and ancient Tuatara re-introduction to the pest free island. On the rocks, just across from us, fir seals were basking in the sunshine. When they are in the water you can swim with them. On this day a few of our party enjoyed snorkelling around the rocky shore, while others relaxed on the boat, content to take in the mystique of the bush clad island.
Time for home, or so we thought, the Skipper had one more treat in store and we were not disappointed. Greg took us close in at Otarawairere Bay to see if we could find Moko, the friendly bottle nosed dolphin. We found him off Westend Beach, the cheeky animal was playing with a large Kingfish, he put on a show just for us, a fitting finale to our five hour trip with Whakatane’s WHALE AND DOLPHIN WATCH.
It was about time I took advantage of a tourist activity that is right on our doorstep. I discovered that Whakatane’s unique WHALE AND DOLPHIN WATCH, incorporates a physical, spiritual and going by the reaction of my fellow watchers, an emotional experience.
We were blessed with a fantastic day, calm water and clear blue sky. Appropriately, ‘Blue Sky’ was the name of the ten metre passenger launch that took us along the Whakatane River, over the bar and out to sea.
Greg Rackham, the Skipper is an experienced launch man with a canny knack of being able to track down pods of our target species, the Common Dolphin. I was fascinated to discover that a work-up of Gannets, invariably reveals the presence of dolphins.
We scanned the Bay for those tell tail signs and although on occasions dolphins take a little longer to find, a large pod was soon sighted just east of Moutohora (Whale) Island. There must have been close to two hundred. They gathered around the boat, jumping, twisting and turning , slipping in front of the bow then zooming away like grey and white torpedoes. Although Greg kept the launch at a brisk speed , those amazing animals appeared to keep up without even trying.
For us the day had only just begun. Kitted out with snorkel and fins, we sat on the stern of the boat, while the Skipper anticipated the direction of the pod. Greg is always careful not to get ahead of the leaders and disrupt their forward path. He approached the side of the pod, where there was a high concentration of dolphins, then expertly adjusted the boat’s speed in order to give us the very best opportunity. Forward a bit, gently does it, then stop all motors and it was, ‘Go…go…go!’
The visibility was amazing, I could see the animals right below me, I lost count at forty. I heard them whistling, a high pitched eerie note that in dolphin language probably said, ‘look at that very large human’ or perhaps 'Help...Orca!!'
This has got to be on top of the ‘bucket list‘. I strongly recommend it to anyone from eight to eighty years. Anchored in a sheltered bay at Moutohora Island we enjoyed a hot drink and snack while Peter told us about the successful Kiwi and ancient Tuatara re-introduction to the pest free island. On the rocks, just across from us, fir seals were basking in the sunshine. When they are in the water you can swim with them. On this day a few of our party enjoyed snorkelling around the rocky shore, while others relaxed on the boat, content to take in the mystique of the bush clad island.
Time for home, or so we thought, the Skipper had one more treat in store and we were not disappointed. Greg took us close in at Otarawairere Bay to see if we could find Moko, the friendly bottle nosed dolphin. We found him off Westend Beach, the cheeky animal was playing with a large Kingfish, he put on a show just for us, a fitting finale to our five hour trip with Whakatane’s WHALE AND DOLPHIN WATCH.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Whitebait...It's that time of the year
It’s that time of year again. Drive down the Wainui Road around the Cheddar Valley and you will see them. They remind me of herons, sitting motionless along the river bank. Talk to them in whispered tones, do not expect eye contact. Unblinking, they study the mood of the river. Sometimes they are in pairs. In town they would be called Darby and Joan, but here in the country they are Eb and Flo, the river folk. Precariously balanced on tiny fold up chairs, the male of the species scans the murky water for a tell tale ripple. Eb has been sitting at this spot every August for the last ten years, this is his secret posi’. Flo is happy with her book until her partner lets out a triumphant whisper and is galvanized into action. She knows the routine, the Mills and Boon is quickly discarded, she grabs the specially designed bucket (there is a small hole in it). Eb is alert, his senses are reeling, his mouth is watering. He moves faster than a speeding sloth, skillfully scooping the huge net through the water. There is a flash of silver as not one, but two, unsuspecting whitebait (smaller than the last joint on Eb's little finger and thinner than a turkey quil) are lured into the mouth of the net.
‘One each’, exclaims Flo, as her hero wrestles the catch to the shore.
Some years ago we lived in the small village of Edgecumbe, adjacent to the Rangitaiki River. Now I had heard about the whitebait delicacy and I was keen to try my luck. I acquired the obligatory net and made my way to the river bank. Imagine my excitement when by lunch time I had scooped two large buckets full.
‘How’d you get on this morning?’ Enquires Alf, my neighbour.
‘I got two,’ I reply, ‘what about yourself?’
‘Better than you,’ says Alf, ‘I got five, almost enough for a fritter.’
Now I am thinking, (quite wrongly) I got two buckets, Alf got five, his one fritter will not only feed the whole population of Edgecumbe, when he tosses it out of the pan there is likely to be a total eclipse.
Maureen and I had whitebait fritters for breakfast, lunch and tea (the kids would not touch them) In fact we devoured enough to sink an aircraft carrier. Number two’s was off the agenda for a week and a half. My wife thought the best part of the fritter was the egg it was cooked in. Truth be known, I was catching the wrong species, they were bigger than the elusive sylph like delicacy and I was puzzled by the fact that a not so small, gray and somewhat gritty fish was called white. I could hardly believe my ears when I heard that whitebait was fetching up to $150 per kg in local shops. Goodbye mortgage thinks I, as the little critters are placed in snap up bags ready to hit the local consumer.
Experienced white-baiters reckon they know their piece of river so well that they can almost smell them coming. The point to ponder is this, whitebait is great for eating, but when they are ‘Smelt’ they are only good for fertilizer.
‘One each’, exclaims Flo, as her hero wrestles the catch to the shore.
Some years ago we lived in the small village of Edgecumbe, adjacent to the Rangitaiki River. Now I had heard about the whitebait delicacy and I was keen to try my luck. I acquired the obligatory net and made my way to the river bank. Imagine my excitement when by lunch time I had scooped two large buckets full.
‘How’d you get on this morning?’ Enquires Alf, my neighbour.
‘I got two,’ I reply, ‘what about yourself?’
‘Better than you,’ says Alf, ‘I got five, almost enough for a fritter.’
Now I am thinking, (quite wrongly) I got two buckets, Alf got five, his one fritter will not only feed the whole population of Edgecumbe, when he tosses it out of the pan there is likely to be a total eclipse.
Maureen and I had whitebait fritters for breakfast, lunch and tea (the kids would not touch them) In fact we devoured enough to sink an aircraft carrier. Number two’s was off the agenda for a week and a half. My wife thought the best part of the fritter was the egg it was cooked in. Truth be known, I was catching the wrong species, they were bigger than the elusive sylph like delicacy and I was puzzled by the fact that a not so small, gray and somewhat gritty fish was called white. I could hardly believe my ears when I heard that whitebait was fetching up to $150 per kg in local shops. Goodbye mortgage thinks I, as the little critters are placed in snap up bags ready to hit the local consumer.
Experienced white-baiters reckon they know their piece of river so well that they can almost smell them coming. The point to ponder is this, whitebait is great for eating, but when they are ‘Smelt’ they are only good for fertilizer.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
I haven't run out of ideas, I'm just busy with http://boptown.blogspot.com
While searching through the old glassie archives, I found this bit of nonsense
Well, our national newspapers have done it again. They have reached into the archives of the mid 1970’s to pull out the letter ‘O’.
Years ago there appeared to exist a kind of alphabetical terror code that filled folk with fear and trepidation. The second world war started the whole process with the ‘A’ bomb. Followed by the evacuation of troops on ‘D’ day. The ‘H’ bomb soon reared its ugly head. Thankfully there was a light hearted and refreshing interlude, when, courtesy of the James Bond movies we became acquainted with ‘M’ and ‘Q‘.
This was the start of the A to Z phenomena becoming completely out of sync. We’ve had ‘X’ men movies, Mr.’T’, the ‘A’ Team. ’C’ Change and more recently, the scourge of our country, ‘P’. There has been an attempt by true Kiwis to start at the beginning again by finishing every sentence with ‘A’, ‘A’. This attempt failed miserably when the powers that ‘B’ decided to christen the youth of today, The ‘Y’ generation. (‘Y’ ? )
Before I reveal the significance of the letter ‘O’ try this small exercise, it will help you with texting & yor skul wrk wil gt tp mrks b coz no 1 wnt 2 no ow 2 spel ne mor.
“A, B, C D goldfish?”
“M N O goldfish”
“S A R, C D B D eyes”
Now, if you successfully deciphered this cryptic message you have joined the ‘Y’ generation, and I can now warn you of the media plot to re-visit the letter ‘O’.
I refer, of course to the ‘O’ Zone. Yes, it’s back! That hole in the sky where ultra violet rays are tumbling through, en masse to attack unsuspecting Kiwis.
I find it more than a little coincidental that at this time of year the letter ‘O’ drifts menacingly across the pages of our national newspapers. Note the following from NZ Herald…1/10/04 ‘Ozone hole over Antarctica poses risk for New Zealanders this summer’…..17/11/05 ‘NIWA research said that the Ozone hole over the Antarctic was relatively large and it’s intensity nearly as high as it’s ever been’…..24/9/06 ‘Record Ozone event’.
Have you noticed that this naughty Ozone hole favours the Antarctic region and actually has done since the beginning of time.
Now, my theory is this. When Emperor Penguins get in huddles, up close and personal, they have a huge problem with body odour. To counteract this annual event they are using copious amounts of spray deodorant. Polar bears are not blameless in the matter of releasing harmful CFC’s into the atmosphere. Flies, yes, nasty blow flies invading snow caves. Polar bears think it is really cool to grab the Mortein and zap the buzzy things.
We must protect ourselves from the burning summer sunshine, that’s for sure, but do we need all the fear mongering? The so called Ozone hole, we are told, is 3000km. Long and 200km wide, give me a break!
When I was a young fellow, our local village ran a ‘Country Fayre’, a wonderful English tradition and a chance to make a few shillings from a cake stall or coconut shy. We came up with a wheeze that for very little outlay would make us rich. We put a sign outside a small tent, inside the tent we placed a chair. People paid us half a crown to walk through the tent, look at the empty chair, then exit at the other end. We had them queuing all day to ‘Come And See The Invisible Man’. What has this got to do with the so called Ozone hole? We are all being taken for a ride, ‘A’.
Well, our national newspapers have done it again. They have reached into the archives of the mid 1970’s to pull out the letter ‘O’.
Years ago there appeared to exist a kind of alphabetical terror code that filled folk with fear and trepidation. The second world war started the whole process with the ‘A’ bomb. Followed by the evacuation of troops on ‘D’ day. The ‘H’ bomb soon reared its ugly head. Thankfully there was a light hearted and refreshing interlude, when, courtesy of the James Bond movies we became acquainted with ‘M’ and ‘Q‘.
This was the start of the A to Z phenomena becoming completely out of sync. We’ve had ‘X’ men movies, Mr.’T’, the ‘A’ Team. ’C’ Change and more recently, the scourge of our country, ‘P’. There has been an attempt by true Kiwis to start at the beginning again by finishing every sentence with ‘A’, ‘A’. This attempt failed miserably when the powers that ‘B’ decided to christen the youth of today, The ‘Y’ generation. (‘Y’ ? )
Before I reveal the significance of the letter ‘O’ try this small exercise, it will help you with texting & yor skul wrk wil gt tp mrks b coz no 1 wnt 2 no ow 2 spel ne mor.
“A, B, C D goldfish?”
“M N O goldfish”
“S A R, C D B D eyes”
Now, if you successfully deciphered this cryptic message you have joined the ‘Y’ generation, and I can now warn you of the media plot to re-visit the letter ‘O’.
I refer, of course to the ‘O’ Zone. Yes, it’s back! That hole in the sky where ultra violet rays are tumbling through, en masse to attack unsuspecting Kiwis.
I find it more than a little coincidental that at this time of year the letter ‘O’ drifts menacingly across the pages of our national newspapers. Note the following from NZ Herald…1/10/04 ‘Ozone hole over Antarctica poses risk for New Zealanders this summer’…..17/11/05 ‘NIWA research said that the Ozone hole over the Antarctic was relatively large and it’s intensity nearly as high as it’s ever been’…..24/9/06 ‘Record Ozone event’.
Have you noticed that this naughty Ozone hole favours the Antarctic region and actually has done since the beginning of time.
Now, my theory is this. When Emperor Penguins get in huddles, up close and personal, they have a huge problem with body odour. To counteract this annual event they are using copious amounts of spray deodorant. Polar bears are not blameless in the matter of releasing harmful CFC’s into the atmosphere. Flies, yes, nasty blow flies invading snow caves. Polar bears think it is really cool to grab the Mortein and zap the buzzy things.
We must protect ourselves from the burning summer sunshine, that’s for sure, but do we need all the fear mongering? The so called Ozone hole, we are told, is 3000km. Long and 200km wide, give me a break!
When I was a young fellow, our local village ran a ‘Country Fayre’, a wonderful English tradition and a chance to make a few shillings from a cake stall or coconut shy. We came up with a wheeze that for very little outlay would make us rich. We put a sign outside a small tent, inside the tent we placed a chair. People paid us half a crown to walk through the tent, look at the empty chair, then exit at the other end. We had them queuing all day to ‘Come And See The Invisible Man’. What has this got to do with the so called Ozone hole? We are all being taken for a ride, ‘A’.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The black and white
Driving home the other day (I admit to driving fast)
My mind a hundred miles away, as other cars I passed.
An oncoming truck sounded his horn and also flashed his light,
I treated all of this with scorn then saw the black and white!
With heart in mouth, I had the shakes, I really don’t know how,
I slowed the car with squeal of brakes and missed that silly cow.
My mind a hundred miles away, as other cars I passed.
An oncoming truck sounded his horn and also flashed his light,
I treated all of this with scorn then saw the black and white!
With heart in mouth, I had the shakes, I really don’t know how,
I slowed the car with squeal of brakes and missed that silly cow.
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