Cracker by Damian Christie

Why do I bother locking my cats in on Guy Fawkes Night when their way of rewarding my concern is to take a big crap on my bed?

Rather than reducing the speed limit to 30kph, couldn't Wellingtonians instead learn to look before crossing the road? Or are all those one-way roads leading to dumbed-down pedestrians?

Speaking of which, is there anything Wellington Coroner Garry Evans doesn't feel qualified to speak out on?

Why do they say you can't make an Omelette without breaking a few eggs? Patently not true.

Why do they also say "pay peanuts, get monkeys"? Again not true. Pay peanuts, get elephants. Everyone knows elephants love peanuts. They can even fire them from their trunk like a machine gun if cornered. Elephants are particularly useful as workers, as long as you need logs dragged around, heavy lifting, remembering stuff, that kind of thing.

[Monkeys are also useful, in their own way, but if you want monkeys you should seriously consider paying in bananas, rather than peanuts. If you have enough monkeys (and even more bananas) you could try testing the old theory about a million monkeys typing on a million typewriters eventually writing the entire works of Shakespeare. If you don’t have the finances, patience or storage space to try your own Shakespearian monkey sweatshop, you could just use this simulator.]

Is there anything Auckland gossirazzo Bridget Saunders doesn't feel qualified to expound on? Last Sunday it an appraisal of the nation's television news. What next, stock market advice?

Why are six of the top ten search terms for publicaddress related to pornography?

Are people searching for "Hard Nudes" disappointed to find the considered opinions of a 40-something socialist?

Did the person searching for "Address of Jesus" find what they were looking for?

What about "Elton John in a Nappy"? "Uma Thurman Hardly Has a Belly Button"? "A Condom with a Picture of Spongebob on It?"

Should I quit while I'm ahead?

As part of my general getting up to speed with the theft of a national icon, I decided to look into the story of the real Pania of the Reef. Typically there are variations, but here’s the version I like best.

It’s an interesting tale, a hot woman who lives in the sea falls in love with Karitoki, a young rangatira. They get hitched and move in together, but the catch is – and there’s always a catch with this sort of thing – she has to go back to the sea during the day, or she’ll die. Why? It’s just one of the inconvenient things about being a dusky sea maiden apparently. And you thought menstruation was a bitch.

Naturally enough, the young man goes around boasting to his mates.

“Eh hoa, you should see my missus. She’s hot as.”

“Yeah whatever.”

“Nah nah, serious. She’s real hot.”

“How come we’ve never met her then. Sounds a bit fishy to me.”

“Well that’s part of it… it’s hard to explain.”

“You sure she exists Kari?”

“Of course she exists! And she’s a babe…”

[gesturing to empty stool] “Yeah look at her man. What a hottie!…ahahah!”

“Screw you guys… I’ll show you.”

[walks off as his mates jeer] “Hey bro – Don’t forget your wife…she’s still sitting here!”

Peeved that no-one believes him, Karitoki decides to go and see a kaumatua for some advice. The part of the wise elder will be played by Pat “Mr Miyagi” Morita.

"Ah Karitoki, san. I see you come to me with long face. Much like Celine Dion."

"Mr Miyagi, I don’t know what to do. I’m really in love with my wahine Pania, but I also have a desperate urge to show my mates I’m getting some quality poon."

"Yes Karitoki san. True Love versus bragging rights. It’s an age old dilemma."

"Tell me about it."

"Look, I think I have a solution. Feed her cooked meat."

"She's a sea creature Mr Miyagi, not a vegetarian..."

"I know that you ignorant boy. Much like dirty hippies on a commune, the sea creatures are militant vegetarians. They’ll spurn Pania and she’ll be unable to return to her watery home."

"That’s brilliant Mr Miyagi! Wow. How do you know all this shit?"

"Wikipedia, where else?"

"But aren’t you slightly concerned about its inherent unreliability as a source, given the ability of users to udpate entries as they see fit?"

"A little, tama, a little."

"And it won’t kill her?"

"Well if it does, I’ll be sure to amend the entry accordingly. Anyway, what’s more important to you, your one true love, or proving to your mates you’re tapping that fine ass?"

"Mr Miyagi, you’re so wise!"

So Karitoki returned home where Pania was waiting with a feed of regulation-size scallops she’d brought with her from the ocean that evening.

Eventually they retired to bed, where Pania fell fast asleep. Ever so carefully, as not to wake her, Karitoki tried to slip some meat into her mouth.

Unfortunately, as any guy who’s ever come home late from the pub to find his wife asleep in bed knows, that’s a lot easier said than done. Legend has it the call of the ruru* woke Pania. I personally think it was her husband trying to shove a bit of old steak down her throat. Either way, Pania was startled and realising what Karitoki was trying to do, fled to the safety of her ocean retreat, never to return.

Some say you can still see Pania today, beckoning from under the water. People describe her look as one of anguish, while she tries to understand why Karitoki would put her life in jeopardy.

Karitoki is said to have later kicked himself when he realised what he should have done was have his mates round to his place for dinner one night.
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*Morepork. "Ruru" and "morepork" are both supposed to be onomatopoeic representations of our native owl's call. Somehow I think the gulf between Maori and Pakeha is a lot wider than we might like to think...

Much like farting in a lift, you’d think everyone would have realised by now that this country is far too small to get away with anything. You can’t speed, even if you are the police commissioner. You just can’t go randomly killing tourists. And you can’t just make shit up.

Last weekend I learnt another thing you can’t get away with: Taking undersize shellfish.

I’d never before been scallop fishing, or hunting, or gathering, or whatever the correct verb is. Like a weekend at the Coromandel, it’s another one of those things you could do every day (in season) if you wanted to, and in Auckland it’s a short and pleasant drive out somewhere like Cornwallis.

One thing scallop gathering/hunting/fondling certainly isn’t, is diving. At least not in the Manukau harbour, where visibility is less than zero. Putting gloves on in waist-deep water, my mask and snorkel dropped from my hands and disappeared instantly.

I fumbled around uselessly like a teenager trying to find second base. No mask, but I did pull up a scallop. Then another, and another. I’d hunted/gathered/fluked more than half a dozen while my masked and snorkelled companions were still finding their first.

Half an hour later, like Helen Keller of the Sea, I’d managed to fill my catch bag using nothing but my sense of touch. I call it Jedi Scalloping. And as the icing on the cake, just as I was heading in, one last scrounge in the sand saw me snatching my mask and snorkel back from Neptune’s grasp.

Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me the forces of the Evil Galactic Empire (also known as the Ministry of Fisheries) were waiting for me. Actually, it was fairly beknownst – they’d been there when we went in – and I’d been careful to only take my quota (20), and make sure they were all legal size (100mm). What I hadn’t counted on was a faulty measuring stick, and a few things soon became clear:

(a) near enough is not good enough;
(b) my catch bag handle was clearly not 100mm
(c) 99.5mm is not 100mm
(d) the Jedi Mind Trick doesn’t work on Fisheries Officers.

I’ve seen Border Patrol, or Coast Watch or So You Wanna be a Seafood Ranger? or whatever that show’s called. Just like those evil foreigners they always catch pillaging our kaimoana, I knew I was facing a fine (or worse, the confiscation of my gear and new wetsuit). I threw myself on the mercy of the Department of Fisheries.

And it worked. A verbal warning, a promise to buy a proper measuring stick thing and I went home with 16 legal scallops. Two hours later, after simmering in a little garlic, butter and cream, they were gone.

Perhaps I was still peaking from my brush with authority, but they were definitely the best scallops I ever ate.

The first press-conference with the Rt Honorable Winston Peters in his new role as Minister of Foreign Affairs...

Mr Peters. You said you wouldn't go into coalition with Labour or National.

I never said that.

Well, you did.

Prove it.

Well I have the quote here from the newspaper.

I was misquoted. You media are all the same.

Mr Peters, I also have a video of you saying it.

That's not me.

Well it certainly looks like you.

Are you saying I don't know what I look like? That's pretty rich, coming from the media….

But aren't you in coalition now?

Well let me ask you a question – when they wanted to sell the BNZ, who kept them honest?

Um, I'm sorry, Mr Peters, what are you talking about?

Ex-actly. Very selective memory, haven't you, you media!

But you're the Minister of Foreign Affairs!

Are you sure about that?

Well. Um. Fairly sure.

Prove it.

Well, I have this letter agreeing to this interview, and it says "From the Office of the Minister of Foreign Affairs"… and at the bottom, see it says Rt Hon Winston Peters.

That's not my signature….
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The question is why Labour is willing to shoot itself not only in the foot, but also in the shin, kneecaps and stomach in this manner? Are all the other cabs on the rank really that scody by comparison? Is the Maori Party a rusting Mitsubishi Galant with "East Auckland Discount Airport Taxis" handpainted on the side?

In dealing with New Zealand First, I dare say many Labour voters understand how New Zealand First voters felt in 1996 when Winston went with National. Disappointed is one word that springs to mind.

Interestingly, when I was in Wellington about six months ago, there was an interesting rumour circulating MFAT (amongst other places) that Winston's price for coalition either way was going to be the Foreign Affairs portfolio. Perhaps it was just something put about to scare MFAT employees into working harder (or voting Labour), but it seems to have some legs.

It's probably more likely Winston will end up with Associate Foreign Affairs – it's easier to be outside of cabinet then – but either way the Foreign Affairs portfolio is an obvious choice. It has a degree of respectability, there's bugger all chance he'll need to front on any tough issues (compared with say, police, health, education) and there's the opportunity for travel. Although I wouldn't be surprised if invitations weren't exactly forthcoming from Asia and the Middle East…
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PS: Of course all this was written before the big announcement last night. But already I've started hearing interviews like the one above. Asked why he went back on his pre-election promise, Winston's answer is that the parties were split 57/57, with him as kingmaker.

So is he saying that in all the post-election scenarios he imagined when making his pre-election promise, none saw him holding the balance of power? It doesn't seem very likely.

I don't know whether it's the much-discussed cutbacks, or the "APN SUX" tattoo I short-sightedly got on my forehead last Christmas, but after a year I am now officially a former columnist for the Herald on Sunday.

Not a bad run, considering. I might be world-famous in cyber-New Zealand (joking), but I never perform particularly well in reader surveys, which seems to be how most editorial decisions are made these days. Not like that Kerre Woodham. She's so sassy.

On the positive side, it frees up one more evening each week for drinking – although I might have to switch from Asahi to something a little more modest. My poor student mate Hamish recommends Ranfurly Draught, which is apparently also the choice of sickness beneficiaries.

It will also be a weight off my mind. A weekly deadline where you can write on any topic – as long as it's kind of relevant – is difficult. Too much leeway. Any offers gratefully considered of course, but for the time being, pass me another Ranfurly.

And of course it means I can start blogging more regularly than I have. I've been a bit slack, and not that good David kind either. Sorry about that.

If the mild jet lag caused by daylight savings has taught me anything, it’s that summer can’t be too far away. Yes, this rainy wintery thing is what we call Spring. And so, with thoughts of long hot days frolicking on the wild West Coast (Piha, not Greymouth) I’ve decided to up my gym attendance. Which isn’t as hard as it sounds, given that the gym and I haven’t been on speaking terms for most of winter. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say it was a little incident involving custard squares.

About nine percent of New Zealanders belong to a gym, which is not too bad by world standards, ahead of Australia and Japan on a per capita basis. We’re certainly doing better than the Chinese – there might be a billion of them, but only 180,000 currently enjoy the benefits of sweating to high-energy dance music compared with about 350,000 kiwis. Les Mills must be rubbing his hands together at the prospect of a free trade agreement with the as yet untapped Chinese market.

But for how many of those 350,000 of us is the little gym tag on their key-ring more like an albatross of guilt and self-loathing? I joined (again) about 18 months ago, and it’s been tough going. Or perhaps more accurately, it’s been easy not going.

If the gym and I were in a relationship, it wouldn’t be considered serious. It’s wouldn’t even be described as an open relationship, because I’m certainly not exercising anywhere else. It would be more along the lines of that ever-so modern euphemism, friends with benefits – if I ever want to get hot and sweaty, I know it’s always on offer.

As it stands, on a good week I’ll go twice. In 18 months I haven’t lost a gram. A couple of months ago my doctor told me I was overweight. “But I go to the gym” I protested. “Perhaps it’s muscle then,” she muttered with a sarcastic lack of bedside manner.

On the positive side, I haven’t piled on the pounds either. And given my other lifestyle choices and slowing thirty-something metabolism, that’s no mean feat. Another friend swore off the gym after she joined and promptly put on five kilos. Unlike my cynical GP, she was convinced the extra weight was muscle. Sure, a special kind of wobbly muscle.

But isn’t the gym one of these things that’s supposed to get easier with practice? Or am I going to be going through this struggle every week for the rest of my life? Foregoing tempting offers of an after-work pint, forcing myself along so I can exercise with all the grace of a drunken daschund. Pasty, sweating and stumbling as my iPod headphones snag on every piece of machinery I pass. When do I stop with the red-face and the puffing and become a lean, mean bench-pressing machine? Summer might be just around the corner, but as the months fly by, the closest the gym has gotten me to ‘sporty’ thus far is a persistent case of Athlete’s Foot.