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It's not often that one gets pissed singing karaoke with ones Dad til 3am on a Saturday morning, but that's just what one did this weekend.

My Dad usually lives in the flat miniopolis that is Christchurch but was visiting the big smoke to spend a week with his sister. On Friday night he came over for a nice meal of salad. Being as Dad thinks brown bread is nouveau cuisine he eyed the rocket suspiciously before declaring; "What's this shit?"

He managed to stomach it all however, even including some fancy balsamic vinegar. Ahhhh dads.

Anyways after dinner my Aunt went home and Dad I got stuck into a few bottle of a lovely Merlot with my flatmate and before you could say "inappropriate parenting" we were a little sozzled and playing Leaving on a Jet Plane on my pink ukulele.

Then at 12 am I had a flash of inspiration. What would a Christchurch man who (seriously) has his own commercial Karaoke Machine at home like to do on a Friday night out in civilisation?

You guessed it......murder My Way.

So we packed our bags and were ready to go, off to K-Rd. K-Rd for those that don't know used to be Auckland's seedy underbelly, except it wasn't subtle enough to be an underbelly. It was more Auckland's seedy bedazzled push up bra with tassels on a girl called Dave with an Adam's Apple as big as my fist screaming out; "Go on now go, walk out the door, just turn around now coz you're not welcome anymore!"

Since those halcyon days though K-Rd has lost some of its shine. BUT even though the bedazzler has broken down and the urine has intensified it still has its cool places and Azerbaijan Karaoke Bar is definitely one of them.

It's long and thin, is always staffed by the fabulous smiling Cherry and has friendly regulars all battling it out to sing Sweet Child of Mine (I usually win by the way). SO I decided to haul Dad up there for a bit of faux Japanese culture.

We settled in with Heinekens, bourbons and the song book and got busy choosing which masterpieces we would serenade the drunken stag's do with. (Nothing like men hitting on you in front of your dad to keep an evening interesting.)

Over the next three hours we warbled favourite after favourite whilst Dad gradually became a singing sensation. We sang Cabaret together, he did My Way, I did I Touch Myself but it was our rousing Copacabana that stole the show and turned Dad into a star. On the high note from the big Barry M we decided to quit while we were Solid Gold Dancers and not thrash out the pain til we were Britney Spears.

We did well.

A drunken toddle home and Dad was tucked up in the spare bed ready to sing another day.

God help my mum.

Beady-Eyed Ashton

I remember my first really big music festival.

It was 1998, T in the Park, in a desolate location between Edinburgh and Glasgow.

The line-up was amazing for a wide-eyed kiwi girl whose concert experiences up until then had been Billy Joel, Elton John, Crowded House and U2. (Now you may mock those choices but I defy you not to sing along to Elton John, though the fact i went twice and drove up to Auckland from Christchurch the second time is really quite embarrassing so please don't tell anyone.)

We had Pulp, Portishead, Space, Catatonia, Prodigy, Robbie Williams, Garbage, Charmbawarmba, James, Travis, Kristen Hersch, Gomez, Cornershop. Asian Dub Foundation, Natalie Imbruglia, Beastie Boys, Finlay Quaye, Stereophonics, Ash blah blah blah blah......................

Gotta love Google, my memory aint that flash.)

I mean holy fuck, what a line-up and it was all poised to be a beautiful thing.

On the first day the sun was shining the Tennants was flowing, the ferris wheel was spinning and Robbie was singing like he was winning. Choice. It was like totally cool man and my sister and I had a great time bopping on down like the early 20's groovers that we were.

Then came day two and a typical display of Scottish summer weather, it pissed down with the force of a 10 000 Scottish football hooligans after a night on the McEwans Ale and deep fried mars bars, and the results were equally biological.

A soggy messy smelly field of churned up grass and pulverised earth which attempted to suck you under just like Quicksand in a Tarzan film whilst relentless rain permeated every fibre of your clothing and mud oozed up your legs like a deranged mutant beauty treatment.

In short I fucking hated it.

Oh but it gets better............I was camping.

Brilliant.

Yes and not in one of those palace tents with blow-up mattresses, a veranda and a small room for the house boys, oh no, in a pup tent with my whining complaining sister.

You couldn't even sit up fully in this tiny excuse for a living arrangement and if you were sodden and covered in mud you had to do yoga manoeuvres outside so as to remove crap infested clothing whilst trying not to show your neighbour what you had for lunch. You then had to somehow shimmy into the flimsy canvas poncho without spraying it with mud all the while ignoring your moaning sister and not slapping her in the face.

Did I say I fucking hated it?

And it gets even better.

In these pre-cellphone, pre-eftpos on site days my sister decided to head off to the nearby pimple of a village to get some money out. She would be an hour at most and I'd meet her in the big cabaret style tent in plenty of time to go and see Gomez, my new favourite band of the time.

So I waited...

and waited....

and waited...

and WAITED!

Gomez started but I couldn't leave the tent as where was my sister? Was she dead? Had she fallen into Loch Ness? Had she been abducted by a big hairy Celtic man who wanted to batter and deep fry her?

Unfortunately not, she just took three hours to go and buy herself an entirely new wet weather outfit....

Did I mention I was trying not to slap her?

Oh and it gets better, she didn't get me anything at all and I was still in my T in the Park rubbish bag wellington boots whereas she had actually gumboots, a parka and wet weather trousers AND I only got to see Gomez's LAST song.

OK I'm ranting now, and god knows I'm no perfect travelling companion, her side to this story id probably vastly different, but well it's my blog and I'll blag if I want to.

SO why am I rabbiting on about all this bollocks?

Well because I just got back from New Plymouth and the fabulous WOMAD where I actually had a brilliant time.

It did rain but it only really pissed it down like a Scottish lad on the Sunday morning and by the time the performances began at 12pm it had all but stopped. It was quite spookey actually and if I wasn't an atheist I'd say the Buddhist Monks chanting all night for good weather may have helped. But I am so that's bollocks but my weren't we lucky.

There was a wondrous line-up of people from all over the world and NZ, with our Mamaku Project doing a stonking couple of sets and selling out of their CD's. I MC'd a few hours every night and got to meet a lovely Chinese Flautist,an Iranian bagpipe Cossack dancer, an Israeli Flamenco singer and Mr Scruff Brit DJ extraordinaire amongst others.

It was all in the gorgeous Brooklands Bowl Park in New Plymouth and I even stayed in a very flash house of an ex-All Black and NOT in a nasty little tent. In short it was choice and you should all go next year.

It's true, there is an awful lot of Dahl, ripped striped Nepalese pants, seed pod hats and fire-poi BUT luckily the rain put them out and to be fair hippies, though smelly, are usually very nice and the Vegan Veggie Burger I had was quite delicious.

The final night party was legendary even if I did drink white wine, red wine, beer and bourbon, and I found myself belly dancing with the Iranian to Eastern European Folk Music and deflecting the attentions of an Indonesian Gamelan player. Ahhhh life!

Here's some pics of then and now:

























T in the Park 1998 - Sunny Day


















And the not so bloody sunny day

























Rubbish Bag Chic by Trelise Cooper


























AND Little Miss Hurricane Katrina


















WOMAD 2007 - TSB Bowl New Plymouth


















Too Many Vodkas


















Mexican Diva Lila Downs Projected on the Brooklands Stage




















The Group Orgy by the Dell Stage aka Tango Lessons

















Chinese Flautist Guo Yue and Geordie Upstart Ben Murray























The Portaloos Near The Pagoda Stage

Hippies R Us

Gosh I am being a busy wee beaver aren't I??

And no this isn't yet another column about sex....but rather I am feeling the need to post poetry on a more regular basis I think, so here's one dedicated to where I'm about to spend the next two hours....the gym.

It's a place filled with pain, sweat, gym instructors screeching "ARE YOU FEELING ALRIGHT!" and many a gay boy eyeing up many another gay boy....well maybe that's just Les Mills, but it's where I spend an inordinate amount of time feeling like this:


Exercise

Exercise
Taut trim thighs
Butt I’d like to minimise
Seeking out adrenaline highs
So to lose a dress size

Exercise
Is it really wise
Joints grind and muscle fries
All for that elusive prize
Of Perfection, but who decides?

Exercise
Don’t economise
Lycra stocks are on the rise
I’ll only sweat into merchandise
Lovingly made by teenage Thais

Exercise
Euphoric cries
Smiling gym bunnies, must die
Perfect teeth I’d like to prise
Apart and force feed chicken pies

Exercise
Resigned sighs
The rate that I metabolise
Means I’ll be there til my demise
Gotta love that exercise

My Exercise Outfit from 1983

I totally love fireworks!

There's just something about grown up boys (and let's face it, it's usually men) blowing stuff up into pretty pictures in the sky that reverts me to a six year old.

It actually makes me go "ooooh" and "aaahhhhh" and grin idiotically at the heavens as gold leaf shimmers it's way down to earth, and as on Saturday night, into my hair and eyes.

You see Saturday was the opening of the Auckland Festival, or as we like to call it, AK07.

My friends and I decided to get there early so as to score a good possie and at 6pm there were only a few thousand there.

There was a little stress caused as members of our party struggled to find us as the thousands became tens, then hundreds of thousands (especially as one of those had the beer and was two hours late) but I would like to extend a thank you to the nice person with a giant pink hand on a white stick that made navigation slightly easier.

And actually it was possibly a godsend my beer arrived late as I therefore never felt the need to trek across the Andes to get to the Port-a-loos. Two of our party disappeared down a crevasse on this trip and were never seen again. OK they found us at the end of the night with tales of stinking sanitary provisions and screeching brats, but it was touch and go.

BUT I digress.

The fireworks were provided by Groupe F, a French troupe of technical wizards who produced explosions like I've never seen. An entire sky filled with the aforementioned gold leaf, enormous pillars of fire that you could feel singe your eyebrows and the finest showers of gold I've ever seen this side of a porn video.

You were so close to the action that on numerous occasions you were gently tickled by embers falling all over you. I even got some in my eye but wasn't too bothered, (unlike a porn video) and it really was quite choice!

One sour note was seen near me in some manly argy-bargy, as is always the way in huge gatherings of people. You see one swathe of people decided they needed to stand up to see things and so there was lots of angry yelling of "SIT DOWN" and in one case a brawl nearly erupted when one fat man was yelling at another fat man to park his sizeable ass. They were barrel chest to barrel chest and I had visions of toddlers flying into a column of fire but unfortunately..... oops sorry I mean fortunately, that didn't happen, and just like a spent wick the situation was diffused. (See what I did there.)

And then it was all over, 500 kilos of explosives (or something huge that like that I can't quite remember or find on Google) gone up in a puff of smoke. (See what I did there.) And lots of giggling reverted toddlers madly flicking through their digital cameras to see pics that will never truly encompass how like totally cool it all was.

Helen Clarke, our sexy fashion plate of a PM summed it all up nicely in her speech that opened AK07; "Auckland is rocking tonight." Man is she groovey and down with the kids, but indeed it was.

It was one smoking night of entertainment, that went off with a bang created by some luminary bright sparks of the the visual spectacular industry to light up our lives in an incendiary fashion. (Uhhhh I think you saw what I did there.)

Some snaps to illuminate your day....(I promise I'll stop now)











The Otago Goldrush Hits Auckland











Artist's Impression of Australia











Child Impedes my View but Makes Pretty Pic











Attempts to Incinerate Child Fail











Artist's Impression of Toi Toi











Artist's Impression of Jazz Hands

Oh and here's a silly wee ditty about the aesthetic qualities of art, and appropriate depictions of the human form in society.


Grecian 2007

I don’t mean to sound a prude
But why are Greek Statues always nude?

Wouldn’t the Christians have looked askance
If David hadn’t been wearing pants?

Did Theseus really slay the Minotaur
Flapping about without any drawers?

And they’re obviously cold as they’re all a bit stunted
So wouldn’t they rather be Y-Fronted?

SO to be brief add briefs and save degradation
Because after all ladies,
Things are so much better when they’re left
To our ….. imagination

Hellllllo everyone and welcome to March. How exciting.

I'd particularly like to welcome all those who have come to my site after searching for such things as "pink bits" "hot pink teen hos" and "backdoor angel babes". I realise I'm not quite what you were looking for but hey, have a squizz anyways and thanks for upping my hit counter.

ANYWAY


As to what I want to say, I'm having trouble wording exactly what it is that I want to say, as it's all about ...........what I actually do say.

You see I have developed a rather terrible habit of being terribly indiscrete. So terrible in fact I've used the word terrible four times in this paragraph alone.

When it comes to most things I believe a problem shared is a problem halved. Or actually in my case it's more problem 0.0000000001 nd. If I've done something stupid or pashed someone dumb or text "hey big boy come put your snake in my plane" to the ugly guy I met at the karaoke bar who was singing "We're not Going to Take It" then the first thing I have to do is tell someone about it.

"Look what a dickhead I am!" I'll shriek, "How could I be so fucking stupid?" I'll wail. My friends will then smile, cluck their tongues and silently thank god they posess the gene that prevents them from telling me the retarded things they've done coz that would be....well retarded.

From terrible to retarded, even my vocabulary is mocking me.

I guess this wouldn't be so bad if it was only in reference to pashing, groping and draining the battery on my Mum and Dad's car in Christchurch three times in one year. (I know, how retar uh ....silly!) I mean that's not so bad AND self-deprecation is the basis for many a comedy career........or maybe that's masterbation, hhhhm either way.

But you see, I can go soooooooooooooooo much further than that.

Sometimes I have been known to divulge far far far too too too personal details about ..... um .... putting his rumple foreskin in my wheel clamp, slapping his cervical smoocher in my pizza oven, thrusting Sir Throblington in my ahhhh i think you get the idea.

Sex.

I'm terrible, I blurt out intimate details like a bulimic does McDonalds. I'll tell my friend something like...."Oh my god you so won't believe what happened last night....just when I was about to xyz him, his xyz flew up and hit Aunty xyz in the xyz, it was such a mess we had to call the fire brigade."

She'll then laugh and smile awkwardly BUT no where near as awkwardly as she does the next time she sees him and can only think of his xyz flapping about like a newborn fish.

Oh dear.

SO I have resolved to try and be more discrete with someone I've been seeing a bit of lately. I won't say anything at all about his vast chest, gorgeous eyes and almost hilarious jokes. I won't utter a thing about soft lips, sexy smell or ability to lift me up, and I certainly won't mention his accent, which is a pearler.

I'll just say he's quite nice and we've held hands...........quite a few times.

Diddly diddly doo, that's all, nothing to hear here, dum de dum de doo.

There I'm loads better already.




PS His jokes can be quite hilarious but don't tell him that.


Some pics from Teal Bay...



You Talking to Me?





St Helena Bay





Teal Bay





New Zealand's Next Top Model






A few Red Wines