Wednesday, February 24, 2010

In The Chair At The Dentist's

First off, I want to apologise to anyone from Dunedin who takes offence at this blog post; primarily because they will know that I am not, in any way, exaggerating.

The big news in my life in the past week has been toothache.

I’m not going to wax lyrical about the whole ordeal, except to say (as the eternal optimist) that four days of fever and jaw-related agony enabled me to lose more weight in that period than in a month of solid dieting. I’m tempted to ask the dentist to put the tooth back in and then go back in six months.

What I am going to tell you about is the surreal experience I had while waiting for the anaesthetic to kick in. The dentist, who looked about 23, poked the needle into what was left of healthy gum and squirted the “make numb now” juice.

He then stood back and said: “We’ll just have to wait a few minutes for that to take effect. It’ll work its way down the jaw, so let me know when your lip goes numb.”

“My lip’s already numb,” I said.

“That’ll be the infection,” he said.

Long, uncomfortable pause.

“So… how long have you been dentisting?” I ask.

“Oh, about 10 years.”

“Really? Where did you qualify?”

“Otago. It’s the only place in the country you can study dentistry these days.”

Now, for any foreign readers, let me tell you about Dunedin. Dunedin is the main city of the second most southern New Zealand province, Otago. It was originally settled by Maori who were then ousted by lowland Scots looking for some climatic hardship after the sunny disposition of their native land.

While New Zealand has taken great pains as a nation to rectify the wrongs done to Maori when European settlement arrived in the mid-late 1800s, the general response of Dunedin to Maori claims has essentially been: “Get fucked.”

Otago University is located in Dunedin and has a reputation as one of the country’s leading halls of learning. However, the student populous – known colloquially as Scarfies – has a reputation for being, well, somewhat boisterous. The enthusiasm of these young adults has been met, in recent years, largely by police in riot gear.

The local rugby ground, Carrisbrook, is nick-named the “House of Pain” as a heads-up for visiting teams as to what to expect. Punching, kicking, eye-gouging, biting and rucking (the act/art of raking a downed opponent with your studded rugby boot) all ensue, and often even as the visiting team tries to take the field.

Scarfies, who cannot afford seats in the stands, having spent their entire student allowance on beer, are relegated to the grassy bank to watch the game. Often they bring an old sofa to the match so they can lounge in style while watching the match progress. Should the unthinkable happen and the home team loses, it is not unheard of for the students to depart and leave the sofa behind – usually on fire.

With that background in mind, I said jestingly to the dentist: “So, how many couches did you burn?”

He looks thoughtful and then says: “Um, really just the one.”

This was the man I was about to let loose in my mouth with a wrench.

He saw the panic rising and said: “That was just after the 1995 World Cup final.”

Well that said it all. I won’t pick at old wounds (having already done that last year), but suffice it to say that when an under-strength All Black rugby team was beaten in South Africa by South Africa in overtime, the effect on the New Zealand national psyche was devastating.

“Oh, well, that’s perfectly understandable then,” I said, without hint of sarcasm.

“At least I didn’t throw the TV out the window,” he said, “unlike some.”

His eyes misted as he recalled: “You could walk down the street that day and see broken windows and TVs everywhere. Some of the TVs had shoes still embedded in the screen; or a half-empty bottle of Speight’s (beer) sticking out, or a couple smashed on the side.”

I could picture the war zone. It must have been magical. And while I vividly imagined this vista of the post-battle victims, lying where they had fallen, like soldiers’ bodies, broken, bleeding and disfigured in battle … the bastard ripped my tooth out.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Watching Justice Being Done

I live alone, so often have the TV on for company, even when I’m not really watching it.

This is particularly so in the mornings, when I listen to The Edge radio station but have the television on in the background.

I used to watch Who’s Line Is It Anyway in the mornings, but lately that channel has been playing up early in the day, so I’ve switched to re-runs of Will and Grace. [Have to admit I laughed this morning when Will referred to Jack as “Notorious F.A.G”.]

After that it’s on with the radio and down with the TV volume. So there’s no point switching channels or anything.

Hence I end up watching the shows kind of out of the corner of my eye, while listening to something else.

For some reason the channel then shows re-runs of three programmes that obviously belong to the court TV genre. First up is Judge Joe Brown, whose whole courtroom seems to be packed with people they swept out of the trailer park; or possibly couldn’t get tickets for Jerry Springer.

Then the plaintiff and defendant stand up and demonstrate that the gene pool really does have a shallow end. As for the Judge? Well all I’ll say is that he’s not doing the African American stereotype any good whatsoever.

Next up is Judge Judy with her nearly all-white courtroom; all having fallen into an entire vat of makeup on the way in. JJ herself wears a frilly robe and a couple of giant glittery rocks on her ears that make me think of those African or South East Asian tribes who stick giant, weighted discs in their ears as a sign of virility or something. Indeed, Judy is definitely saying: "I might wear black, but I'm fucking loaded and don't you forget it, matie."

Third up is Cristina’s Court, which must have somehow won a daytime Emmy at some point because the opening credits include her holding it! She seems a bit softer edged that Judge Judy; but it’s all really just a pile of shit.

Now, if you ever are unfortunate enough to see one of these shows I want you to consider this: The cameras. There is inevitably about four feet of space between the judge and the contestants. Yet there is a fast cut of shots from one contestant to the next, front shot, left side, right side, side shot of plaintiff and defendant, straight on shot of the judge, side on of the judge, and a wide angle of the courtroom where no cameras are seen at all.

Where are the cameras when things are handed up to the judge? When everyone is talking? I’ve seen those big-arse TV cameras; if they’re cleverly using three, or as I worked it out, five; how can the courtroom audience possibly hope to see the judge, and vice versa?

And then there will be all the production crew and director off to the side; which is probably why you occasionally see one of the people in the background suddenly and inexplicably look off to stage left.

It's all been edited together so we believe the illusion though. Hell, even when the judge finds in favour of the defendant he/she will just pay the $300 bill, pick up their $5000 fee for appearing and bugger off happy.

I just find it strange is all. Just sayin’.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

A Great Bloody Idea for a TV Show

I hope you guys appreciate sarcasm; cos I’m going to town.

I was pleased to see television news ethics had reached a new low at the weekend. At the Winter Olympics a 21-year-old Georgian luger took the last turn at about 140kph, flew off the track and hit a steel pole, dying pretty much instantly.

Television news took great delight in showing the fatal accident not once, but several times, from different angles. Sadly, I missed it. And some odd sense of decency tragically prevents me from seeking it out.

Why did the TV channels choose to show this clip? Simply because they had the footage? Certainly a death on the luge track has news merit but should viewers be entitled to see another person’s last moments of life?

In England there was a controversial documentary which followed the last days of a man dying of cancer and included, with his approval, his death. This sparked a huge outcry and the question was asked: should a television station be allowed to use real human death to improve its ratings? Essentially, should the TV station be allowed to profit from human death?

Last year I watched a documentary about a large American airshow and the vintage planes involved in it. One of the pilots interviewed early in the show was then shown completely fucking up his landing and his plane exploded, killing him instantly.

However, when Al Qaeda was chopping people's heads off in Iraq, that was off limits. Because that would have pissed off the military and certain black-ops chaps would visit the news directors and ensure they met with interesting but painful "accidents".

Yet, I know there have also been clips of fatal race car crashes shown on TV.

So, it seems that if you’re playing sport and it’s televised and you suffer a fatal injury, then it’s OK for broadcast. Because that's the risk you take in playing the game. But if somebody runs across the field naked, that’s not suitable for television. That's in poor taste.

My proposal is this: We introduce Snuff TV. Now that the lines of taste have been pushed far enough back, I don’t see why we can’t just start killing people for entertainment on television at least once a week.

There will be a variety of games. It will be a bit like that Gladiators show, but with explosions, hangings and disembowellings. There could even be a sniper section where we choose three members of the public and viewers can text vote on which one should die. Then we shoot them on the way to work.

The options are endless.

“Now Rob, you chose the ancient Japanese practice of hari-kari for cash. You've now been disembowelled; how do you feel?”

“Yeah, Max, I gotta say it’s pretty painful at the moment.”

“Rob, did you expect the smell to be this bad?”

“Ha, no. I think this explains why my farts always smelt so awful.”

“Good one, Rob. Now you’re in for $10,000 an hour at the moment, but if you survive the full day you’ll take the $100,000 bonus and receive potentially life-saving medical assistance.”

“That’d be great, Max. Hey watch what you’re stepping on there!”

“Haha. Always like to see a victim with a sense of humour. Now, Marianne, how are things going at the gallows?”