Growing old means consequences.
I’m finding that out.
Warning: What follows is graphic and falls squarely in the bounds of “too much information”. So, read it at your own risk.
You’ve no doubt heard me rave on about how wonderful New Zealand is. It’s true. But it’s also not safe in other areas. Specifically, we lead the world in campylobacter infection rates. That is, food poisoning.
So at a young age we are taught to cook chicken and pork thoroughly before eating. I do. I promise.
But about two weeks ago I bought some raw chicken kebabs, and in my drunken state I didn’t quite cook them enough.
Drunken logic: Yum, this chicken tastes so good. It’s very tender though. Really quite tender. Hmmm… it was frozen, maybe it needed more than 10 minutes per side to cook through? Never mind, I’ll drink spirits; the alcohol level in my blood will rise to new levels of toxicity and kill any nasty bacteria that might be circulating.
How was I to know that campylobacter was alcoholic? It has a higher tolerance to alcohol than the Sun has tolerance for heat.
When I was younger and this sort of thing happened, I would have a shocking couple of hours on the toilet and then it’d be all over. All done. Be careful and don’t let it happen again; at least for a few years.
No longer, it seems.
Monday was the calm before the storm. I thought back hungoverly to the weekend and honestly believed I’d gotten away with it. Ha!
Tuesday morning at work the urge hit me. I felt the first contractions. Like there was a riot happening in a football stadium that had only one door. I snuck off to the work toilets and let loose the dogs of war.
I swear, I was hanging on to the seat to avoid lift-off. Sweat was pouring off me and I was gasping like I was in labour and had just run a half-marathon in record time.
Finally, the riot subsides. I wash everything thoroughly and crawl out of the toilets; drag my lifeless body to my desk and drink three gallons of water to replace the fluids which had so violently departed my body.
I do about half-an-hour’s work and suddenly the bowel’s fire alarm goes again. Everybody out. And so it continues in the “never trust a fart” theme, until I’m absolutely exhausted and scared to stand up in case the convicts make a break for it.
And it stops.
I breathe a heavy sigh of relief and go back to life. Sensible, non-bacterial food with lots of fibre to slow things down. Cheese is always good to put the bowel brakes on, too.
So the weekend rolls around and I’m all happy again. Except no. You see the constant rush of excitement down there annoyed the exit area quite a lot. Enough for it to protest with the generation of a swollen vein, known simply by the term: "The h-word".
Now, as a rule, swollen veins in that general area are good – if you’re a bloke. But that is, as a rule, at the front of the equation. Swollen veins at the rear of the equation are just a pain in the ass.
So I drink my way through the pain over the weekend and apply large amounts of appropriate cream. (Since this process started, I’ve gone through half a jar of anti-bacterial hand-cleaner as well). By Monday the tail-end Viagra episode has settled to tolerable levels.
Then said vein bursts. And there is nothing quite like the first time in your life when you find blood pouring from the rear exit. And you’re checking all your clothing in case there’s some tell-tale seepage/splash-back deal going on.
Then what to do? I mean, it’s not like you can bung a Band Aid up there! Do you keep working? Do you hide your head in shame? How do you tell your boss you're sitting like that because of 'rhoid rage?
I guess it’s just a case of visiting the pharmacy, asking for some more appropriate cream, and sitting very carefully for a while.
Why have I written all this? Well, partly to get it off my chest. Or at least to get it out of me in some way other than the most recent popular port of departure. And partly because some people get enjoyment out of others’ misfortune. If you're one of them, I think I just made your day.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
I Don't Mean to Be Invictus, er, Vindictive
Dear Clint Eastwood
Please don’t fuck us over. Truly, the ego of a nation is sweating in your palms.
I have long been a fan of your movies, both the ones you’ve acted in and directed. When I was growing up, you were The Man. No one threw a Hollywood punch like you, or managed to not look like a complete and utter dick despite having an orang-utan hanging off your neck.
I have long been a fan of your movies, both the ones you’ve acted in and directed. When I was growing up, you were The Man. No one threw a Hollywood punch like you, or managed to not look like a complete and utter dick despite having an orang-utan hanging off your neck.
In recent years you've turned more to directing, and have turned out some classics.
Now you are about to release Invictus – the story of how Nelson Mandela pulled South Africa together for the 1995 Rugby World Cup. How the love of the sport united the country, how they beat the odds and overcame the previously all-conquering All Blacks in the final to win the Webb Ellis Trophy for the first time.
I’m just going to detour here and explain a few things about the average New Zealander. We are relatively isolated and live on a small group of spectacularly beautiful islands that have pretty much been thrust into existence by tectonic plates. We like people from other countries, provided they like us in return. But the “like” is a default setting. We like everyone until they give us reason not to. And, oh my god, we have a sense of fair play. We strongly stand up for the underdog because, more often than not, the underdog is us. We’re kind of the little tough kid on the block who will stand up against the bully, just for the sake of it, and get a few solid blows in before he kicks the shit out of us.
Politically, we’ve gone toe-to-toe with the United States over all things nuclear, and France over their policy of nuking half the South Pacific just to see if their bombs worked. Militarily we’ve shipped off to the Crimean and Boer wars, First World War, Second World War (where Kiwi Charles Upham became the first combat soldier ever to earn the Victoria Cross and bar); we’ve had troops in Korea and Vietnam, and even sent our elite SAS to Afghanistan (where they had a 100% success rate on missions and earned a US Navy Presidential Unit Citation for “extraordinary heroism in action”).
So we’re a fiercely proud wee nation. And all we, and Aretha, are asking for is a little r-e-s-p-e-c-t. And if we don’t get it, that’s OK, too. Just please don’t be mean about it. Because pissed off Kiwis aren’t a pretty sight.
Which brings me back to Invictus. Rugby is almost a religion in New Zealand. It’s a great mix of politics and violence, and the All Blacks are the only team to have a winning record against all other countries.
South Africans, though, are almost as passionate about their rugby. In the 1995 Rugby World Cup the South African team beat the All Blacks. Well done. They did play well.
Now, New Zealanders all start muttering here. Because a couple of days before the final a handful of the Kiwi players snuck out of the hotel and went to McDonald’s for dinner. Now the irony does not escape us here; but these players woke up the next day all fit and feeling fine. The rest of the team, however, were all ill. Post-World Cup investigations revealed that what the rest of the rugby world was calling “sour grapes” was actually “poisoned coffee”.
The inability to provide clear and solid proof about this meant we, as a nation, just had to suck it up and move on. But it’s still a sensitive subject. Which is why I’m begging you, Mr Eastwood, to be tactful when dealing with this whole situation.
We’re trusting you to give the world a clear and accurate story. But you represent Hollywood. And Hollywood has a history of putting “based on a true story” at the start of a film and then just pulling the story and characters out its arse.
All we’re asking, Mr Eastwood, is please, please, please: Keep your arse closed and tell it like it was.
Now you are about to release Invictus – the story of how Nelson Mandela pulled South Africa together for the 1995 Rugby World Cup. How the love of the sport united the country, how they beat the odds and overcame the previously all-conquering All Blacks in the final to win the Webb Ellis Trophy for the first time.
I’m just going to detour here and explain a few things about the average New Zealander. We are relatively isolated and live on a small group of spectacularly beautiful islands that have pretty much been thrust into existence by tectonic plates. We like people from other countries, provided they like us in return. But the “like” is a default setting. We like everyone until they give us reason not to. And, oh my god, we have a sense of fair play. We strongly stand up for the underdog because, more often than not, the underdog is us. We’re kind of the little tough kid on the block who will stand up against the bully, just for the sake of it, and get a few solid blows in before he kicks the shit out of us.
Politically, we’ve gone toe-to-toe with the United States over all things nuclear, and France over their policy of nuking half the South Pacific just to see if their bombs worked. Militarily we’ve shipped off to the Crimean and Boer wars, First World War, Second World War (where Kiwi Charles Upham became the first combat soldier ever to earn the Victoria Cross and bar); we’ve had troops in Korea and Vietnam, and even sent our elite SAS to Afghanistan (where they had a 100% success rate on missions and earned a US Navy Presidential Unit Citation for “extraordinary heroism in action”).
So we’re a fiercely proud wee nation. And all we, and Aretha, are asking for is a little r-e-s-p-e-c-t. And if we don’t get it, that’s OK, too. Just please don’t be mean about it. Because pissed off Kiwis aren’t a pretty sight.
Which brings me back to Invictus. Rugby is almost a religion in New Zealand. It’s a great mix of politics and violence, and the All Blacks are the only team to have a winning record against all other countries.
South Africans, though, are almost as passionate about their rugby. In the 1995 Rugby World Cup the South African team beat the All Blacks. Well done. They did play well.
Now, New Zealanders all start muttering here. Because a couple of days before the final a handful of the Kiwi players snuck out of the hotel and went to McDonald’s for dinner. Now the irony does not escape us here; but these players woke up the next day all fit and feeling fine. The rest of the team, however, were all ill. Post-World Cup investigations revealed that what the rest of the rugby world was calling “sour grapes” was actually “poisoned coffee”.
The inability to provide clear and solid proof about this meant we, as a nation, just had to suck it up and move on. But it’s still a sensitive subject. Which is why I’m begging you, Mr Eastwood, to be tactful when dealing with this whole situation.
We’re trusting you to give the world a clear and accurate story. But you represent Hollywood. And Hollywood has a history of putting “based on a true story” at the start of a film and then just pulling the story and characters out its arse.
All we’re asking, Mr Eastwood, is please, please, please: Keep your arse closed and tell it like it was.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Speed Kills ... Kangaroos
I don’t mean to be critical of Australians. Honestly. I mean, it is a national pastime for New Zealanders to be critical of Australians, but I try not to be. I’ve been there. It’s a great place. The people almost speak English and only 90 percent of the wildlife tries to kill you.
Yes, the Aussies are crazy. But then, New Zealanders invented bungy jumping and the jet boat, put the first bloke on the top of Mt Everest and split the atom to eventually enable global thermonuclear warfare. We even had an early pioneer in flight, who arguably flew before the Wright Brothers (though all evidence of said flight was sadly lost in time). So really we are in no position to judge crazy, y’know?
But I digress.
One of the fun events in Australia each year is the V8 Supercars racing around the Mt Panorama circuit at Bathurst, New South Wales. It’s great – high powered saloon cars roaring around and around and around…
For any American readers: It’s kind of like NASCAR except (get this!) there’s bends that go both left AND right. And up and down bits. Often both at the same time!
Anyway, at a recent event the cars were roaring around when suddenly a kangaroo jumps from among the trees, over a barrier and out onto the road. A car swerves to miss it and then carries on its merry way. The kangaroo, undamaged, is nevertheless going: “What the fuck was that???” Interestingly, the car’s driver was simultaneously thinking exactly the same thing.
I don’t know the kangaroo’s fate on the day. But I do know that after consideration of the incident the Australian solution was this: Let’s shoot all the kangaroos in the area so this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.
This is despite the logical few suggesting: “Why don’t we just put up big fences?”
They have been car racing at Bathurst since, I don’t know, at least the 1960s. Forty years later one kangaroo jumps on the track during a race, and suddenly ALL the kangaroos in the area are doomed.
My solution is a compromise: The kangaroos should be incorporated into the race as a points bonus for the drivers.
“And Williams is coming off the mountain in first place. He’s got a five second lead on Murray, but only two roos to his tally. Murray, with seven roo carcasses to his name, could still take this race out…”
Or, if you’re more humanitarian, points could be deducted for hitting a kangaroo.
All I’m saying is that Australia has been given this natural gift of giant, bouncy marsupials. They should make the most of it.
In case you think I'm joking: Read about it here.
Addendum
So, I went looking for the specific clip on youtube (it's here), and what do you know, there's like 50 different clips of kangaroos hopping alongside V8s at Bathurst. Maybe they do just want to get in on the game.
Yes, the Aussies are crazy. But then, New Zealanders invented bungy jumping and the jet boat, put the first bloke on the top of Mt Everest and split the atom to eventually enable global thermonuclear warfare. We even had an early pioneer in flight, who arguably flew before the Wright Brothers (though all evidence of said flight was sadly lost in time). So really we are in no position to judge crazy, y’know?
But I digress.
One of the fun events in Australia each year is the V8 Supercars racing around the Mt Panorama circuit at Bathurst, New South Wales. It’s great – high powered saloon cars roaring around and around and around…
For any American readers: It’s kind of like NASCAR except (get this!) there’s bends that go both left AND right. And up and down bits. Often both at the same time!
Anyway, at a recent event the cars were roaring around when suddenly a kangaroo jumps from among the trees, over a barrier and out onto the road. A car swerves to miss it and then carries on its merry way. The kangaroo, undamaged, is nevertheless going: “What the fuck was that???” Interestingly, the car’s driver was simultaneously thinking exactly the same thing.I don’t know the kangaroo’s fate on the day. But I do know that after consideration of the incident the Australian solution was this: Let’s shoot all the kangaroos in the area so this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.
This is despite the logical few suggesting: “Why don’t we just put up big fences?”
They have been car racing at Bathurst since, I don’t know, at least the 1960s. Forty years later one kangaroo jumps on the track during a race, and suddenly ALL the kangaroos in the area are doomed.
My solution is a compromise: The kangaroos should be incorporated into the race as a points bonus for the drivers.
“And Williams is coming off the mountain in first place. He’s got a five second lead on Murray, but only two roos to his tally. Murray, with seven roo carcasses to his name, could still take this race out…”
Or, if you’re more humanitarian, points could be deducted for hitting a kangaroo.
All I’m saying is that Australia has been given this natural gift of giant, bouncy marsupials. They should make the most of it.
In case you think I'm joking: Read about it here.
Addendum
So, I went looking for the specific clip on youtube (it's here), and what do you know, there's like 50 different clips of kangaroos hopping alongside V8s at Bathurst. Maybe they do just want to get in on the game.
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