Smoking and What I Learned From ‘Prison Break’

None of the POGs smoke. I suspect this is because the Botox prevents them from parting their lips (I am quite serious).

I smoke. Partly because I like it, partly because it infuriates the POGs, but mostly because it is a viable substitute for eating. I don’t like exercise, being fat is not an option, and those who say cigarettes are ridiculously expensive, haven’t considered how much money is saved by not buying a gym membership.

I did try out a certain gym for a while, but Toni “Man-Hands” Marsh was always there, no matter the time of day, and she put me off. It was like being in prison. Man-Hands was Queen Bitch, and would eye up the new ‘fish’ with a steely eye, while robotically flexing the weight-bars to a techno beat.

Did I mention she was always there?

I learned from ‘Prison Break’ that one should always be ready for trouble, so I was tempted to fashion a shank out of my mascara wand, in case Man-Hands tried to corner me in the showers. Unfortunately, she never did.

Random Auckland Photo

Graffiti art spotted on Ponsonby Road.



Perhaps I shouldn't be amused, but it's so much better than the illegible scrawls one usually sees.

How To Make The Fatties Lose Weight

Have you ever noticed that only poor people are fat? Rich people never are. And if they are, it’s because they:

1. Were born poor


2. Aren’t really rich, and probably don’t even have a decent yacht

In either case, they don’t really count, and my first statement remains an uncontested fact. So there is an easy solution to New Zealand’s obesity problem. Make the poor people rich. I’m not quite sure how to do that, so I do have another possible solution. Exercise.

Now exercise can be horribly dull, so, as my personal trainer used to tell me, you have to cater the plan to the clients interests (I tried to convince him that my interests required him to remove his pants, but apparently he was gay).

Anyway. I have come up with exercise ideas for New Zealand’s fatties, with the aid of a Calorie Calculator (using an estimated weight of 200 pounds). It's amazing what counts as exercise.

1. Poor people like those ugly dogs that are always savaging children, and chewing their owners’ faces off. So, round up the dogs, and starve them for a week. Release fatties and aforementioned dogs into Eden Park. Lock the gates. Watch them all run happily together (1-2 hours): Calories burned: 1,632 - 3,264


2. Attach photos of the fatties children to punching-bags. Let them have their fun (30 minutes): Calories burned: 270


3. Shoplifting at The Warehouse (one hour): Calories burned: 216


4. Rearranging furniture (45 minutes). This one could be tricky. One imagines it wouldn’t take that long to move around a few flea-infested couches: Calories burned: 450

According to the calorie calculator, brushing teeth, showering, reading, and housework all count as exercise, but I have disregarded those options for obvious reasons.

How To Marry A Millionaire

The Parnell Old Girls (POGs) are incensed by the fact that young, foreign women are turning up to New Zealand in hordes, and marrying our wealthiest men. The women are shunned from the man’s social group, and the couple mocked mercilessly behind their back. So when one of the POGs own inner-circle, Mr X, dared to marry one, the POGs faces defied gravity and Botox in expressions of indescribable rage. Mr X did the sensible thing, and disappeared with his Baltic Bride for a nine-month honeymoon on his yacht.

The POGs are not a particularly attractive lot, truth be told. Their better years are far behind them, and try as they might to cling to the last, tattered shreds of their youth, most of them look like screwed-up bits of paper with lipstick. They also fail to realise that the reason the men are marrying these women is not because they are young and hot (although, I am sure that helps), but because they are unfailingly pleasant.

Thus, from a few years of observation, I have painstakingly worked out* the exact, scientific formulation on How To Marry A Millionaire.

The First Wife is always someone of the same social class and background. Marriage can last decades, or at least until the wife’s Attractiveness Factor is low enough for him to finally notice what an emasculating bitch she is.

The Second Wife is anyone/thing. Rebound can be so cruel. Second wives don’t generally last long.

The Third Wife is young and poor enough to have some respect, and, importantly, is insecure enough to know that her position is tenuous (the Millionaire will have learned by now the value of prenuptial agreements). As she is young, her Attractiveness Ratio will remain high. By the time it starts to dip, the Millionaire will either be dead, or too old to care. She will treat the marriage like a career; with a job description of being pleasant and accommodating.

The POGs could learn a lot.

*Actually, I’m making it up as I go along. Such is the gift of a genius.

Popularity (or Lack Thereof)

Oh my. A whole week has gone by, and I have yet to receive so much as one single comment. How utterly dismal, and how completely unfair. I’ve only written two posts, and already I’m better than almost every other blogger. I’ve had a look around. There is some awful crap out there.

Louise from Waikato writes;

Damian is being a good boy. Went to the zoo yesterday. That was fun. I think mum is coming over tomorrow.

Three comments! For a paltry twenty-one words, most of which are one syllable.

Nine comments were written, in response to Lisa's thrilling account of gardening, and cutting her fingernails;

Despite only working for a few hours, I had sore arse and thigh muscles, and my fingers ached due to the length of my nails I think...anyway, I cut them off the following day.

Two options remain open to me;

1. I could turn word-verification option off, so all the spambots can come running in and play happily together.


2. Start leaving comments to myself, using a thinly veiled nom de guerre (for those of you who went to a state school, that’s French for ‘made-up name’).

Or I could start writing about cutting my toe-nails.

Cack Is The New Black

The Ellerslie Flower Show is over for another year.

It would appear, if garden designers have anything to do with it, that minimalist gardens are completely passé, and have been replaced with ‘fusion gardening’ - “a daring mix of plants from around the world,” one designer explained to me, admirably, without a trace of irony. This new concept was cleverly interpreted as a hideous mash of tropical vegetation and hydrangeas.

Decaying metal is also très chic. “If you’ve got rusty iron in your garden, you are very trendy at the moment,” says Convenor of Judges, Bob Sweet.

UNITEC Landscape Design Students won a gold medal for their garden, “Reflections on a Black Landscape." Thematically, it was meant to reflect the way in which the New Zealand landscape is represented in the cinema. It was the most thoroughly depressing garden I have ever seen.

A nice garden to kill yourself in
If this garden genuinely represents anything about New Zealand, it would certainly explain why we have such a high suicide rate.

While Depression and Decay were popular themes for the garden exhibits, the retailer stands were bolder, and used ‘A Load Of Awful Cack’ as their motif.

A load of awful cack
The Eta chips, baby clothes, and wheat foot-warmer stands were intriguing additions to a garden show, however the Micro Fibre Cleaning Cloth demonstration was a truly thrilling finale.

Hello, World!

Why do people hate Aucklanders so much, and make so many rude jokes at our expense? People should really have more respect for their social betters. The stereotype is that all Aucklanders are snobby, materialistic, label-whores drinking poofy Italian coffees in Remuera. This is an absurd stereotype. Everyone knows Remuera is so very 1980s, and all the Right People have moved on. No one lives there now, except beneficiaries in state houses, and old people. Anyway, we are not ALL like that. Many Aucklanders are so poor, they can't even afford a decent yacht.

There are some who define themselves as Aucklanders, who give the rest of us a bad name. The sort that pronounce Möet as 'Mo-ay' (eek! Quelle horreur! ), and still think Louis Vuitton is a viable status-label (ugh. Only elderly Asian women and teenage girls with improbable fakes still think so).

So I thought I would put some thoughts online, to set the record straight. We’re not all mannerless snobs. Some of us are much, much worse. But at least we know how to pronounce Möet.