Posts by Patrick Xavier
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Goodness. That's quite interesting
Not really.
The AG is making the distinction between prohibited public expenditure (ie, including that which should be privately incurred), and the incurring of private expenses (ie, including on a public credit card in "circumstances").
To be clear, it's not an offence to put private expenses on a Ministerial credit card, unless there's an intention improperly to procure public funds for such private use.
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What Juha said.
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Might make sense now
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Yip, thanks.
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before starting work in a fortnight
Actually, we're expecting you on Monday, chum: don't be late.
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Two Xmas stories, connected as it turns out.
First:
My girlfriend of the time departs for northern hemisphere postgrad: teary farewells at the airport promise to meet up in northern Italy for Xmas, at some wee hamlet near Turin where she has connections. Flight (oh, these were the days) goes Auckland, Perth, Bombay, Dusseldorf, London, change planes, Milan. 36 hours, something at Heathrow, then a couple more to Milan. Nice.
Milan, because Turin, intended destination, closed. Learn first non-guidebook Italian: "__la nebbia__", "fog". Crazed busdriver then races across fog-bound autostrada at 2am to deliver waylaid passengers at Turin. Girlfriend, with ancient friends of her family (aforesaid 'connections'), picks me up and takes me to little medieval village, where we park outside the town walls (because the access, built for horses and donkeys, is too narrow to allow a car in, and walk through snow filled, cobbled lanes to a large gate, which opens to a private square, around which is built a medieval three sided multi-family home, with stables on the ground floor, one of which has been renovated just for us into a little apartment.
I'm charmed beyond comprehension, and say so. I get no comprehension in return. I'm advised, now, by said girlfriend that they don't speak English. Neither does anyone in the village: maybe a word or two. Girlfriend, conveniently, speaks fluent Italian. This is going to be an interesting time. (Ask me about my New Year.)
I make heartfelt gestures of gratitude, and head for bed and girlfriend.
Couple of days later, it's Xmas. Had a few sorties out on the town. Locals all insanely gorgeous, male and female, and doing their best to communicate, but really: "__Non parlo Inglese__". Brilliant midnight Mass in medieval cathedral, one of three serving this community of a couple of hundred people.
We're off to a local vineyard for Xmas dinner. Family affair: 40 or so people. Long lunch promised. Girlfriend warns of multiple courses: "__No matter how good anything seems to be, there's always something better coming: don't ask for seconds__". This is not just a warning; it's a clear direction, and comes with a sense also of social mores.
Meal works like well-oiled machine. Food is just indescribably wonderful: each course perfectly judged in timing, size, taste, and accompaniment of local wines. All prepared by vinter's wife and daughters, in small kitchen off the dining room. Host seats me by his eldest son who has a smattering of English. It's not conversation, but a welcome diversion from making eyes at girlfriend inexplicably sat across the room. The babble of chatter builds, and I bask in the warmth and friendliness of it all, despite not understanding a thing. This is what Xmas is about!
Course six, or thereabouts, seems unlikely to be topped: some mixture of handmade pasta, cream, alcohol and pink caviar that I can taste even now. Utterly exceptional: want both to gobble it down because of its sheer moreishness, while dragging out each morsel to make this feeling last forever. Eventually, regretfully, reluctantly finish portion.
Hold last piece in my mouth, and hope not to swallow, ever. But must, because am being spoken to by eldest son: "__Pasta good?__". Had I words to describe it, he would not have known them. "__Yes__", I say "__Pasta bueno__". "__Have more?__" I pause, conflicted between propriety and the prospect, nay certainty, that I will die without tasting such glory again. "__Io have more__", says eldest son, "__you also__?".
Girlfriend's obviously misjudged the social niceties: if the son can, so must I. "__Grazie__" I say; "__Prego__" says he, and gets up to speak with his mother across the room, who's chatting away with my girlfriend and some bloke beside her. "__Mama, gabble, gabble__", gesture, gesture (in my direction), "__gabble, gabble__".
All conversation in the room stops. Hostile eyes turn towards me, none more than girlfriend's, which are a mix of "__what did I tell you?__", and "__You cretinous, ill-mannered boor__". Host's wife looks away, waves down daughters' plain outrage, and takes them off to kitchen. Son returns to my side, makes obvious and awkward attempt to restart conversation with me, but everyone else turns away.
But the meal does not restart: a long time passes, while everybody else talks, clearly about me, and exclusionarily at that. I am no longer basking in anything except self-pity. I try to approach girlfriend, to understand what has happened -- the son wanted it; what have I done? -- but am physically and psychologically rebuffed. Man talking to her interposes himself in our line of sight.
Eventually, two plates of handmade pasta, cream, alcohol and pink caviar -- matched with the perfect wine -- emerge from the kitchen and are served (with perhaps less good grace than I had come to expect) to the son and me. I eat, pretty quickly this time, because of the eyes burning into my forehead as I bend over the plate. The completely divine smell is there but, funny thing, the food no longer tastes sublime, but rather tastes of ashes.
We finish, our plates are whisked away, and 40 more plates are rushed out from the kitchen of the next course, but now bearing signs of congealment and reheating. The meal loses its momentum, and each subsequent course lacks something in the presentation, and delivery. It is obvious to all that the meal's earlier celebratory ambience cannot be recaptured, and the cause of that appears to be me.
Eventually it is over, and we leave: girlfriend is incandescently furious. The drive back in the car is actively hostile. Finally I get out of her what happened: the son said "__Mama, the New Zealand man__" gesture in my direction "__ wants more. You should give me some too, so he does not eat alone.__' And then the wife and daughters return to the kitchen to remake from scratch the entire dish, including making from flour and water, rolling out, forming, and cooking the pasta. Just for me.
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Right.
Dunedin, early 1980s. Only real challenge in attending University is avoiding scarfie bashers. Best means of doing so is to hang about in numbers larger than those of the South Dunedinites that spilled out of passing cars with mayhem on their minds.
With that in mind, the Netherworld Dancing Toys host a massive gig at the Orange Hall. Pretty much the entire university population turns up. The boys introduce Annie Crummer: Annie's voice is the sensation of the night. Gig ends. Walking bus of entire university population heads for home.
With only 50 or so passengers left on the walking bus, we arrive at our place. Our place is pretty shabby, complete with resident rat population, which has established late night and early morning monopoly over common areas of our flat. An impromptu party seems called for. Booze is discovered; dope makes an appearance; lounge furniture (such as it was) is relocated into backyard around a large bonfire. Stereo is cranked up.
Rats, discomforted by invasion, are to be seen relocating from customary habitat.
One flatmate, pathological rat-hating philosophy student, supplements (actually substitutes) university studies with remunerative rabbit hunting in Central. Keeps shotguns in wardrobe in his room. Arrives home pissed with party in full swing, announces his girlfriend has left him, and he's off to bed. Heads off upstairs.
Another flatmate and I, revved by booze and drugs, realise that tnoght's the perfect night to acquire the massive Smurfs banner hanging above the roof of a nearby gas station. He's a Territorial, so we dress up in his camos, berets and boots, black our faces and hands, and head off on our mission. Sneak from shadow to shadow, up onto the roof, achieve objective, return home to general acclamation.
Observe on return substantially increased volume of bonfire, and complete absence of fence palings previously running right around our backyard. Begin to remonstrate with remaining flatmate -- who was obviously intended to be the responsible one, while we others were either crying about lost loves or obtaining Smurf regalia -- when there's a shotgun blast from inside the house, followed by an immense crash. Sentient guests are alarmed.
Territorial and I look at each other, realise rabbitman's topped himself from grief, race indoors and belt up the stairs. At the first landing, I following on Territorial's heels realise a shotgun has two shells. I tackle Territorial to the ground, immediately following which there's a second shotgun blast which takes out the wall of rabbitman's bedroom above the stairs, that explosion of aging plaster and wallboard being accompanied by a dark hairy body part -- rabbitman's cranium? -- covered in blood flying across the stairs to hit the opposite wall and fall on us.
We sit up, and look through gaping hole in rabbitman's wall. Rabbitman beatific in bed, whole, cradling still smoking shotgun. "Fucking rats", he says, and falls unconscious, still smiling.
Guests all turn up and play CSI, then head back out to bonfire now supplemented by most of our lounge and dining room furniture. Irritated by remaining flatmate's continuing irresponsibility, Territorial and I decide we can take no more: we climb out onto the garage roof, and share a heavy spliff. Completely ripped now, I can see images of ourselves sneaking from shadow to shadow, still in our camos and blackface, but carrying guns. And walkie talkies. And looking a bit more professional than us.
I tell Territorial I'm hallucinating. Territorial tells me he is, too. Then we're spotlit, and the AOS makes its presence known. Indepth inspection of our flat, confiscation of rabbitman's armoury, immediate orders to terminate festivities, and comply with request to see our guests safely home.
Later we hear some South Dunedin yobs were surprised to discover pissed students heading homewards, otherwise absolute targets for scarfie bashing, under armed escort.
Excellent party.
Oh, and while I'm here.
Mid-1980s: Auckland.
Am working parttime for catering outfit, which wins contract to cater Chuck and Di's Government House garden party, attended by various community, disabled, and sporting groups. And disabled sporting groups: pay attention, this become important.
After making it through security checks, am to be circulating waiter, carrying trays of canapes. Am thoroughly briefed. No approaching royalty. Required to be aware of guests' infirmities: crouch to serve people in wheelchairs; place food in hands of the blind; only half fill glasses of spastics (hey, it was the 80s: what did we know); apprehend requirements of the mute. No eating of food ourselves; no giving food to other staff.
Head off on tasks: discover blind bowlers partial to cucumber sandwiches, wheelchair rugby players not satiated by anything short of complete tray of sausage rolls each, and deaf basketballers oddly standoffish, and avoiding mixing in with rest of happy crowd.
Filled with milk of human kindness, decide to broach deaf basketballers' solitude. Approach one - 6' 8", hearing aid, wearing nondescript team blazer - face directly, and with best enunciation ask "Would You Like A Sav-Ou-Ry Cheese Puff?"
Observe look of non-comprehension on deaf basketballer's face, and start to repeat, now with accompanying sign language, when he swings away, holds hand to hearing aid, and directs an enquiry at the surrounding trees. I follow his gaze, to see another deaf basketballer sitting high up in the branches. With a hearing aid. And same formal blazer. And binoculars. Deaf birdwatchers? And a rifle. Standing with mouth agape, holding out with frozen gesticulation my tray of deflating cheese puffs, my deaf basketballer talks to me: "Fuck off, son, we're working".
Ahh: DPS. Staff. No cheese puffs for him at all.
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Autochthonous.
Sounds right wingish; is handsomely liberal; should be used more.
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And guess what: the track itself is streamable here
http://www.cdkiwi.co.nz/rams/baxtertk1.ramMaybe I could just have a wireless link from my coffin.
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Crying's important. Preferably uncontrollably, and en masse. So:
Don McGlashan, This is London; Anchor Me
Dave Dobbyn, Beside You; Song of the Years (from Baxter)
Actually, thinking about it, just the last. Here's the verse (James K):When from my mother's womb I came
Disputandum was my nameWeeping hoping threatening
Beyond myself I had no kingI drew in with each hour's breath
The grey dust of the second deathWhen my childhood days were spent
To Venus I grew suppliantLittle tremors woke and died
Within the mountain of my prideSinging on the gallows cart
Created beauty held my heartThe aardvark and the onager
Were stabled at my sepulchreIn that deep den the King of bliss
Broke my heart and have me His'This for your doom and penance take
Be merry always for My sake'He gave me a white stone to bear
With my true name written thereWithout end I will say
Laus tibi, Domine!Someone needs to remind me, when time comes.