Engine Housing may become overheated.

"Oh" people might say "where is that Another Kiwi, with his wild stories of cheese theft?"
You may have read a comment by me on this very blog about not caring what happens to NZ now, "meant it, stand by it" (Scott Heron 1983). But, when the ape-like mutations who inherit this smoking crater of mine tailings are searching through the rubble maybe they will wonder "How did we get here, this is not my beautiful car" and then "Phwoar he's gotta big wanger, we should make him our leader." Then they will need more white middle class male rambling, there is always room for more.
We have had some major revelations in New Zild political circles. The first, and some might say, most alarming is that there are poor people in this sceptred isle. That's right! Actual poor folks, doing actual poverty and not living in leafy suburbs. This appears to have caught the politicals off guard and some sand has crept into the well-oiled spin gears.
Among reports of people living in cars and having a generally miserable time in Auckland, the Minister of Social Development  dispatched a "flying squad" of crack (with an 'r') bureaucrats to go around the cars offering help to people in cars. This was in conjunction with the Salvation army who do this week in, week out.
Except, of course, it didn't happen. The Sallies said that no one had come around with them and they don't go an knock on car windows, anyway.
The Prime Minister had, in an event that can only be described as a sad and feeble attempt at arse covering tragic misunderstanding, proclaimed loudly about how the people in the 8 cars knocked-up, as they say in the Social Work game, told the brave flying squad people they didn't want help. Imagine his disappointment when it turned out to be an imaginary load of monkey poo. Still, eh, Kiwis would like to have a beer with him, you betcha.
All of this occurred against the backdrop of a crisis, "What crisis?" in housing. People who may or may not be white, middle class New Zilders, are finding it difficult, if not actually hard, to find that Mi Casa we were all brought up to believe was your actual Nirvana. Without the drugs and shotgun suicide, although, maybe not.  This has occasioned some smart thinking from the aforementioned Minister of Soc. Del. who said "Give the poors $5K each to get out of Auckland".
This cheerful bribery to make Auckland housing numbers look better has only been over-shadowed by the frozen grin of terror on the face of the Minister for Finances as he heard the news for the first time and visions of empty biscuit tins in the tea-room fluttered across his mind. Apparently the MSD said that it was money just lying around and wasn't going to come out of her budget so stop hassling her, man.
The third prong in the multi-pronged attack on the NOT AN ACTUAL crisis has been the housing Minister Nick Smith who is an amiable prong of a chap, the sort that gets paraded around at family Christmas reunions as a warning about the dangers of too many concussions in rugby matches. Smith has taken to driving around the countryside  having press conferences in random fields which he claims the Government owns and has "lined up for housing". Predictably, he has gone to the wrong paddock on two occasions and the "lined up for housing" has turned out to be Kevin from Accounts saying that he thought that his grandparents lived near here.
I am beginning to have doubts about the competence of this government and wonder if it shrank itself down to a small enough size for a drowning 1) could it find the bathroom and 2)would it remember to put the plug in?  Possibly it would be living in a car telling MSD people to fuck off.
"But" you are saying "surely the tumbrels are rolling and the scaffolds are being constructed of properly tested materials to throw down these incompetent charlatans?" That would be where you are wrong as most Kiwis think that a charlatan is a type of French dessert in a funny shaped glass which their aunt used to like. On the contrary the PM is more popular than alcoholic chocolate drinks and the newspapers, talkback radio and comments sections of lesser quality blogs than this one are full of people castigating the poor because reasons that everyone knows.
And so it continues...

After Murgatroyd Falls

The Innkeeper of the Murgatroyd Falls Cafe and Coprolite Museum paused and looked up as someone collided with the front door.

"It sticks!" he yelled "It bleedin' sticks. You have to do short, sharp repetitious bangs on it"

The stranger entered, the front of his hat flattened into a pirate hat shape. "I'm not Keith Moon" he said.

"That's interesting" said the innkeeper "neither am I"

 "I shouldn't have to memorise click tracks just to come in"

"It's the waterfall" said the innkeeper "bleedin' 'umidity keeps the wood all warped."

"Perhaps" opined the stranger "you could invest in aluminium frames and door jambs" he paused as his mind flitted to the ironic juxtaposition of the words jamb and jam " And then people wouldn't rupture their wrists just coming in".

"I have never had this conversation before" said the innkeeper "perhaps you could tell me more about aluminium whilst I pour you a pint of Jimkin Bearhugger's Olde Watchamakallit" 

"Indeed" said the stranger "the history of aluminium is as long and exciting as that of the salted pineapple trade" He stopped at the sight of the massive eye rolls he was getting from the innkeeper. 

"But enough of the warp and weft of history" he said "Is it true that this evening, the Quarter finals of the Voltinism of Calopteryx Haemorrhoidalis and World Cup Finals Interpretive Dance Competition are here this evening?"

"Yuss" said the innkeeper "they do say as how the crew from the Olde Entymologist has it wrapped up this year on account of their " The sending off of Plácido Reynaldo Galindo Pando  versuses Romania in 1930"

"A sad business and Pláco never properly recovered from it" said the stranger. The innkeeper nodded while wondering how becoming the Peruvian Minister of the Interior, looting the place and retiring to Florida was "never properly recovering from it"

The innkeeper reached up to pull the draught handle for the pint of Olde Watchamakallit, only to have his hand seized by the stranger "Hold there good fellow"  said that person "ist there perhaps some Riddled Christmas Ale on the premises?"

"Ist?" thought the innkeeper but said "we has a bottle or two for discerning patrons” and he tapped the side of his nose.

Two hours later the stranger sat in a corner of the cafe near the Coprolite display and looked at the Christmas Ale bottle. It seemed the usual 750 ml size and yet he had been steadily drinking from it and the level had not moved and he felt no ill effects from drinking it. He had had an interesting and, he had to admit, erotically charged tussle with the table that the bottle stood on when it had tried to make a run for the door but he felt no hint of drunkenness. Well, no lasting drunkenness, at the end of each glassful he was roaring,  'I've always loved youse all, " drunk but the next sip took him straight to sobriety. An interesting brew whose label boasted that it was now free from eels. 

But the evening was drawing in and the teams for the event began to arrive, carefully unloading their equipment, handing their entry forms to the innkeeper and greeting the opposing teams in an edged but sportsman-like manner.

Then with 2 minutes to go the door opened, crashed shut, opened half-way, jammed and finally swung violently against the wall with a crash.

"This door is a bleedin' danger to shipping" announced a woman for whom the word statuesque was a mere signpost on the way to a full description.

"Miss van Holsterin" said the innkeeper "how charming to see you.'

"Wotcher, Arthur" said Evangeline van Holsterin, head barmaid of the Olde Entomologist "Oi!" she yelled out through the door "get a move on you lot!"

The rest of the troupe filed in; Smut Clyde carrying a  duck costume, tigris with an enormous gold coloured whistle, Swearing Bob carrying a wooden mallet, wearing a Uruguayan football shirt and offering the hammer to people "if they *****ing well wanted it". Then at the end of the procession, Greenish Hugh and Spacetime Eddie dressed in motley and twittering to each other like sparrows on mescaline. They climbed the staircase and with various gestures towards the other teams were gone.

The competition began and the stranger sat in the corner with his Christmas Ale in front of him and watched the various represenations of  Calopteryx Haemorrhoidalis and was impressed by the redness factor of their tail sections but found all of interpretive dances to be lacklustre and frankly, derivative. He swore that if he had to sit through another Zinedine Zidane headbutting incident he would go quite mad.

   Finally it was time for the Olde Entomlogist entry which began with an earsplitting feedback hum and then Greenish Hugh appearing alternately wringing his hands and flapping them. Then he went off and the show started.

The  Calopteryx Haemorrhoidalis section of the show was a trifle confused because of the red flashing lights that the players wore on their trousers. The frequency of the flashes and their retina scorching intensity seemed to set off reactions in some of the audience who were lying on the floor, catatonic by the end of the performance. However the second section comprising the sending off incident roused them as it was presented as part of the long history of colonial exploitation of South America. The stranger briefly wondered if Moctezuma, as portrayed by Swearing Bob, had actually told Cortés to "Sling it or get a ****ing jade axe where it would do him no ****ing good" Eventually brave revolutionary Pláco was sent off and with a short speech to FIFA about "I knows where the ****ing bodies are ****ing buried, too ****ing right" he was gone. The stranger was impressed by his explanation of the enormous golden whistle as  " it's a ****ing metaphor **** for brains"

The judges were unanimous in giving the winning prize to the Olde Entomologist team by 3.75 points to 2.78 points over The Puzzled Wombat team. The head judge said that he could remember very little of the first half of the OE performance but the Golden Whistle metaphor had sold him. Evangeline van Holsterin accepted the winners cheque and graciously held it up to the light to ascertain its veracity.

Some time later the stranger noticed tigris and Smut Clyde sitting at the bar and made his way over to them. Glancing back he noticed the bottle of Christmas Ale had resealed itself. He got to the bar and heard tigris say "...if it says Chocolate Hob Nobs on the tin, people don't expect it have honeyed locusts in it"

"Mighty fine acting" said the stranger in his best cowboy voice.

The two turned to look at him "Hello AK" they said

"What?" he said and took off his Stetson "how did you know"

"The neon sign saying 'This is Another Kiwi' on your bottle of Christmas Ale was the first clue" said Smut. 

"Also" said tigris "the shouting during the soccer match dance"

"The referee was a blithering idiot" explained Another Kiwi "bleedin' Romanians were offside all night. I expect that you are both surprised and maybe even a little angry to see me, what with thinking I had drowned in this waterfall".

tigris and Smut looked puzzled. "No" said Smut "you went up North to see you Aunty Grizelda. Has she recovered?"

"No" said Another Kiwi "the specialists say that, as a newt, she just needs water and rocks and such. Difficult to have morning teas like that unless your friends are amphibians. But did you not find my broken body in the falls?"

"Throgmorton bought in a wicker thing, that had your name on a note saying that I ATE'NT DEAD but we thought it was one of his jokes"

"He sold me the tailor’s dummy thing".

"Next time" said Smut "I'd get legs too".

"Why, and I may regret asking this, did you go to the trouble?" asked tigris

"Because terrorism" explained Another Kiwi "New Zealand Prime Minister John Key has warned us" he pulled a newspaper clipping out of his jacket "To beware of the evil terrorists lurking , lurking ready to rain carnage*  on us. I wanted to throw the terrorists off the trail".

"It was odds on that you would regret asking" said Smut to tigris.

Evangeline van Holsterin appeared before them and said that it was time to go.

"It is good to be back" said Another Kiwi "I have some Muddy Bay Toheroa Stout for you to try, Smut" he said.

"Oooh" said Smut "the one with extra vitamins for health?"

"You are both loonies"  Evangeline vouchsafed. 

* Prime MinisterKey has in really truly time warned New Zilders of the possibility of carnage raining upon us. Fainting couch sales have tripled.

What with one thing and another

The Christmas Ale triple distillation and Furgling went quite well this last weekend. Smut Clyde, as Master Brewer carried the Staff of Knowledge and wore the Hat of Lore to control the process. Ha ha he didn't see ol' AK operating the Siphon of A Little Bit of What You Fancy.
You will notice the special curves in the distillation tubes that assists the Furglisation. It's to do with the angular velocity and the temperature of the Furgle tube. Scholars are referred to Addisons Old Tyme Elixir and Radish supply bulk barn.

And one doesn't have Triple Distillation and Furgling with out Piping in the Essences which Evangeline van Holsterin's vile nephew Throgmorton had purchased from Brian Thradgers Equine School. 
Problems were 1)Is a donkey an equine? If this was an equine then so are Merry-Go-Round horses which would bite less and smell less. 2) Donkeys do not like bagpipes.

Who does like bagpipes, it turns out, is feral babies who emerged from under the Riddled Petanque Piazza and Non Equestrian sports centre (this means you, bleeding donkeys). I don't know how the feral babies had got under there and the library pixies also don't know although there was some sniggering from those quarters.
 So a pretty normal week in the Christmas Ale process. We look forward to next week's nadgering the barrels through the town.

Becoz I loves youse all

  In this FREE one-hour program, Sound Opinions marks the 35th anniversary of one of the most significant years in rock and roll history. 1977’s punk explosion energized young musicians, scandalized their parents, and changed the music industry forever. Hosts Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot introduce listeners to the personalities, bands, and landmark records of this game-changing year, from The Ramones’ "Rocket to Russia," to The Talking Heads’ "77," to the Sex Pistols’ "Never Mind the Bollocks."

Programme is here

New Year's Eve

" I suppose that decent sausage rolls would be too much to hope for" observed Smut Clyde morosely.
"They will be all old and stale" predicted tigris " what else can you expect on NYE".
They both looked at me.
"Heh, heh, chums" I vouchsafed "not to worry, I have Christmas crackers here with party hats and riddles in them" I read from the packet "Guaranteed to raise a smile"
"Guaranteed to raise stale sausage rolls from my stomach" gloomed Smut.
"Unkind!" I observed "look they are made in Bangladesh, the Christmas cracker capital of the world".
The Riddled talking clock ticked  "It is now 11.30pm" it announced "putting things in the clock mechanism and drawing on the clock face are not funny."
"Shut up, Hitler clock" said tigris putting the finishing touches onto the toothbrush moustache "or Tom Friedman clock. Which is worse? At least Hitler built autobahns."
"I'll just go and check the mail" I said and walked over to the mail desk "still nothing". I walked back and sat at my desk.
"AK" said Smut "what time did the infernal clock say it was? Do you think that any mail will be coming in now aside from amusing photos of peoples bottoms? Do you think that anyone else will be working now?"
"Who knows" I said "what thrilling messages may wing their way here. Who knows what amazing secrets!"
"The secret of how to work the staff roster for NYE might be a good start" suggested tigris "it is  not robust software"
"Well yes" I said "I did think about that when we took it back to help with the Stonehenge work roster".
Smut laughed "Those guys are funny. Physical humour but with an impish overtone."
"I felt we could have done more with them comically if it hadn't been for those meddling priests. 'Eat At Joes' was a good sign to make with the stones" said tigris. 
"Why did you get the Marketing people in on it, AK?" asked Smut.
"They had done some good work on the demongraphics and felt that with a good supplier, namely Mrs. Miggins, they could have had a solid merchandising opportunity. That was before the priests got all nasty on it, with the antlers and the holly up the jacksy and such" I replied "Arthur says that he only limps on cold mornings, now."
"Well" said tigris, "for my money the last meeting of the Secondary Structure of the Foraminiferal SSU 3′ Major Domain and Space Guns made from Pinecones Society was the highlight of the year."
"Yes, well, things did get rather heated" said Smut with a mixture of pride and embarrassment.
"Heated?' I said "We still haven't found all the Meringue Surprise bowls."
"I found a slice of garlic bread on the ceiling of the meeting room, two weeks after the affray" said tigris, "behind the extractor fan that had Professor Dingus' wig in it."
"I know nothing about that" Smut said, a little too quickly.
"Gravity is quite weak at that end of the hall and his wig got sucked up" I ventured "or so I heard".
"My highlight" I said as the other two began to pack up " was the proper organisation of the clipboard cupboard, what a bleedin' mess it was."
"The time is 11.50pm" said the talking clock "no time to slack off n-"
""Oh the poor thing fell down" said tigris "I think it's time for us to go home"
"Yes' said Smut "legend tells that if you catch Evangeline van Holsterin under mistletoe at midnight on NYE, she can't ask you about your bar tab for an unspecified time"
"Worth a go then" I said "I'll distract the idiot boyfriend with King Lear by finger puppets"
"This legend" asked tigris "I never heard of it"
"Is that the time?" said Smut "we better go"
"The taim oz twlvety zornin" said the talking clock. 

Dancing in the Street part 8

For your viewing pleasure. Happy Holydays!