The Flashing Mob

The Rugby World Cup has bought a lot of good things to these shores in recent weeks but it’s bought some downright average stuff too and I’m not just talking about Scarlett Johansson’s nudie pics which are.

Like our lip syncing – or should that be blowing – of the ceremonial Maori horn at the state of each game which is by all accounts, fake. It’s a soundtrack being played over the PA from what I’ve seen of it. Good one. Listeners at the ground can also buy their genuine plastic greenstone tikis on their way out too, made of course, in China.

And then there are the flash mobs laying down the haka everywhere. They’re about as flash as my old man’s burgundy Cortina ever was, even after he put the mags and louvers on the back window.

Now the Haka is a formidable sight, when done by semi naked Maori Warriors or buff bustards in any sort of departmental uniform i.e. Police, Army etc. But not when it’s done by a bunch of fat guys in track pants, half casts and skinny teens in skin tight denim shorts and jandals wearing their skateboarding caps on a jaunty angle.

The flash mob thing is so passé anyway. I’m starting something new. I’m kicking this shit up a notch and I’m starting the mob that flashes. Those that wish to be forerunners in this new social phenomenon can meet me in Manners Mall, Friday 1800 hours for the first en masse flash. I'm hoping we'll have more knockers on show than a joiners shop and for the onlookers to see more knobs than a locksmith does.

You know you want to.

Yeah, real tough boys, real tough.

Gisbos: It's A Lifestyle Choice

Gisbos, as you may or may not know, is a little known place on the Eastern most point of New Zealand.

Unlike its sister city Lesbos, there is no all night casino where it's liquor in the front and poker in the rear, but Gisbos more than makes up for its lack of nightlife by being somewhat off the beaten track and totally devoid of almost all of the types that find their way to that other over rated town, RotoAnus.

Gisbos, supposedly, is 90% Maori. I would estimate that two thirds of that number are heavily tattooed, which I admire as much as the next intimidated Caucasian. Normally when I go on holiday I feel six foot tall and bulletproof and often walk around like I own the place, which I think comes from the confidence you get when you're somewhere we no one else knows you or any better. Gisbos is not the kind of place to do that.

Funnily enough, seven days in and I'm yet to see an Asian. I did see a Middle Eastern man in a shop down the main street but he looked as bored as fuck and I'm not surprised; I can't imagine there would be much call for Persian rugs in Gisbos.

There is undoubtedly a large Maori contingent up here and a lot of them are heavily overweight which surprises me given the proximity Gisbos has to so many natural resources. It has a beautiful harbour with plenty of fresh fish on one side and fields of fresh produce on the others. Hardly the stuff of a poor diet. Perhaps money is a problem? Quite possibly, but I've seen a lot of said fatty fatty boom booms getting in and out of flasher motors than mine so I doubt it.

Speaking of motors, the passion wagon didn't make this trip. Despite being made from the finest Korean steel, hill climbing is not its forte, so unfortunately we've had to make do with the mother-in-laws big fuck off shiny Audi. So what with us car training everywhere with the father-in-law's aircraft carrier of a Mercedes we're not only the whitest family in town, we are almost the most eye catching.

Now I'm not one to extol the virtues of the fannying about in the ultimate examples of status anxiety, but you could - just a little mind you - get use to feeling like you're part of a presidential motorcade every time you go anywhere in cars like these.

Unfortunately the drive to Gisbos is quite possibly, one of the most boring around. Everything up to Napier is terribly interesting, but once you leave the 'Bay there ain't nothing to see but hills and the arse end of the trucks in front of you that struggle to make their way up each and every one of the rolling hills that make up most of the two hour trip.

Whereas New Plymouth has a mountain to look at and Taupo has a lake, Gisbos has nothing. Except public service announcement signs that read 'Keep Our Lakes & Rivers Clean', 'Keep Out Aquatic Pests', 'Save Our Forests' and 'Women, Trim Your Beavers'. That last one might have been a figment of my imagination; it was a long drive after all.

Gisbos is the kind of place where you can park up at Video Ezy, leave the window down and the keys in the ignition and expect to find your car still there when you return. Something I wasn't keen to try with the Audi mind you. Other innovations in personal safety include turning up the home stereo so loud that the townies from out of town staying across the road in the 8 hectare block could swear that it was right outside their window, then going out for a bit. Nothing puts off a burglar more than some slow summer jams pumping out of the Aiwa. Pisses the neighbours right off too but hey who cares when you're not home to answer the door when they come a knockin aye?!

Still, despite its flaws, Gisbos is quite the lovely place. I was suitably impressed to see a large contingent of locals down at the recycling plant emptying their overflowing recycling bins four days out before the actual roadside collection takes place. Which probably says a lot about just how much piss gets drunk round here but also speaks volumes of just how conscientious some are in maintaining the idyllic feel Gisbos has.

Incidentally, Gisbos is not actually the official name of this town but I think it has a catchy ring to it that in time, could catch on like Paki's (Pak'n'Save) and Maccas. It may be, as my wife was at pains to point out, actually devoid of a gay community (unlike Lesbos) and thus a misnomer, but I've seen a few fruity numbers around the place and I ain't talking about orchards. But that’s Gisbos for you; not just a destination but a lifestyle choice.

Unless you're a Captain Kirk selling Persian rugs.

Local Body Erections?

It’s local body election time in J Town. That time of year where some of the saddest campaign hoarding's ever pop up, only to be pulled down just as quickly by some of the saddest individuals ever.

As amusing as it is to see them all torn down every morning, it’s not so cool to see the old folk volunteers who turn up later in the day to erect them again. There are certainly no frills when you start at the bottom step of local body politics, especially not when Grandad has to re-erect your woody for you each morning. And Bill Gates has a lot to answer for. One of his most heinous crimes is rolling out a software package that makes anybody think that they’re a half decent desk top publisher. My eight year old son could do a better job at putting a poster together compared to some of the efforts on show this election.

How effective are campaign hoardings anyway? I mean really. Has anybody in the history of the world ever decided to vote for some cooze on the basis of their picture having been stapled to a fence? I doubt it. But some folk really get into it, a couple of peeps in J Town are driving around with bumper stickers that read ‘Bring Back Jack’. Who the fuck is Jack and what ever happened to bumper sticks that actually meant something like “My Other Ride Is Your Mum” or “Fancy A Bum - You Might Like It”?

They all look so depressing, that’s the problem. I got the candidate info pamphlet in the mail the other day. I tried to read it because you know me, I like to make informed decisions but I think I‘ve had more fun watching my cat defecate in the neighbours garden. But then that’s what you get when you have 57 Christian Scout Master Rotarian's all preaching the same thing. Sure, there were a few hippies chucked in for good measure and possibly one ethnic minority but it’s not much of a selection is it? No wonder we New Zealanders don’t get into politics half as much as we should.

Here’s a good reason why we should though. Some Maori bird up North has taken a national treasure claim to the Treaty of Waitangi Tribunal. Her idea of a national treasure? Her husband of one year, a Tongan over stayer who is being deported because a) he overstayed and b) he’s been convicted of assault on – wait for it - his wife. What a lovely couple aye? She hopes by having him classified as a treasure, the Government will not be able to legally deport him. Now instead of kicking the claim to the kerb like any self respecting Government department should, the Tribunal is allowing it to be heard! So you and I, the taxpayer, will be funding the several days it takes for this genuine grievance claim of the indigenous people of this land to be heard.

Is it any wonder then that in this country we have people with the mentality to hold up banks with a screwdriver, because our politicians put more effort and money into being politically correct, than being accountable and proactive towards the health, education and criminal justice systems of this country? And it all starts with us not paying enough attention when it comes to voting in the guy who decides whether its two or three ply that will be on the roll in the local library’s shitter.

A screwdriver. To hold up a bank no less. I mean come on - guns for show knives for a pro it might be, but a screwdriver?! What's the guy going to do if you don't give him the money? Unscrew the legs from your desk? Open a tin of paint for you? Geez, it doesn't get much more hardcore than that.

So I really should take more notice of our local body candidates, for like it or not, they’ll eventually move up the ladder to national politics and if they reach that stage, it’s too late to vote the buggers out.

My decision then will be based on the simplest of criteria. I’m going to vote for the candidate with the best nungas. A decision made easier when 90 percent of the candidates have moobs. Now that would make for interesting campaign hoardings – topless candidates. The men aren’t going to fair so well but I’m betting the women won’t have their hoardings torn down every night. Unless they’re well stacked and then all the perverts will pinch them. The really shy ones won't take the hoardings though, they will just park up alongside them several times a day and have a jimmy in the car.

It’s a strategy that worked well last time round for one of our incumbent councillors who just happens to be a reasonably attractive young lady who has just the slightest hint of closet naughtiness about her. Or is it that just my imagination? I’m sure ever picture I saw of her last election was of her in a tighty whitey and thus at least half of the eligible voters in the ward, all the males, voted for her main policy points. There were two of them.

So there you go. All the scientific proof you need to show that even if sex doesn't win you a local body election, it certainly makes it a hell of a lot more interesting.