Somebody recently gave me crap about my Cornish accent. Oi haeppen ta think itz maervelus moiself sew screow yoou. I was regaling him with my fabulous Pirate Poem at the time so now I shall force it on the Hot Pink Massive as well.


Only stipulation is that you must go ARRRRRRRRRRR after each verse as if you were as salty a sea-dog as Lot's Wife. (Wanky obscure Bible Trivia there, hehehe what a tawt.)


OH that's right, I have a fab old column all about Pirates because on September 19th it's
International Talk Like a Pirate Day!


You have to cast your mind back to Don Brash's philandering ways when he had two wenches on the go at once but I'm sure you'll manage.

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!


Tuesday is International Talk Like a Pirate Day! AAARRRRRRRRR!

So ye may notice a few words slip past ye salty dogs that wouldn’t make sense any other day but on this day make parrrrrfect sense.

OK, now that we’ve cleared that up…..Why do pirates always carry soap? SO if they get swept away they can wash themselves ashore.

AAAARRRRR-hahahahahahaha

But really I’m wanting to talk politics with ye scurvy ridden parrot lovers. More specifically hideous mental images that are pervading the news and are worse than a syphilitic barnacle on the arse of Mary Louise the fat wench from Upper-Twaddle-on-Rye-Bread.

Personally I don’t give a maggoty rat what politicians do with their pork sausage or Cornish pasties, as long as gays can marry and no one blows their infernal tobaccy in my good eye. But all this reporting of it is turning my gills as green as Black Dog Bitch’s amputated toe.

Speaking of tobaccy why didn’t the pirate smoke? Because he had a patch!

AAAARRRRR-hahahahahahaha

If I have to imagine Captain Don Juan Brash in a clinch with anymore exotic lasses from the East or Mistresses of the Round Table then frankly I’m going to lose my pig intestines braised in rum and Frenchman’s bile on the poop deck faster than you can say “Is that a canon or are you just pleased to see me.”

But what I find most unbelievable about this whole mess of cats guts, is that there are two wenches in the land that want to fire his canon in the first place. I know some say power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, but even if he were clothed in Johhny Depp (AARRRR) I’d still know he was under there and walk the plank rather than show him my treasure chest.

Incidentally did you hear about the Pirate Movie? It was rated…. ARRRRRRR!

AAAARRRRR-hahahahahahaha

Also making me blood curdle is that according to a National MP it’s good Don is rooting about as it means he’s a red blooded male. I’d like to see if he’d say that about a female MP or just call her a harloty jezebel with legs easier to spread than the grease of a spitroasted mongoose. Somehow I think so.

ARRRRRRRRRRR well I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised at Don’s latest affair coz as they say; “When a man marries his mistress, he creates a job vacancy.” I just thought the job market would have been closed for the barnacled baldy and that a comb over, even on a pirate, would only ever attract the likes of Bleeding-Eyes-Bette, who hasn’t seen a thing since the octopus.

Just goes to show, I don’t always know everything, but I do know what Captain Hook died of………..Jock Itch!

AAAARRRRR-hahahahahahaha

The Pirate Poem

I want to be a pirate
And Sail the Seven Seas
And have a name like Black Dog Bitch
And say “A-hoy me hearties”

I want to have a gang
Of fearsome buxom trollops
Who’d cook a mean Cajun stew
With body parts and scallops

For my obnoxious drunk behaviour
I’d finally have an excuse
With a quick grope of the codpiece being
an acceptable way to seduce

But if Roger’s Jolly was crap
If his love techniques stank
There’d be no phoney phone numbers
Just a wee quick walk of the plank

And I’d never have to worry
About being overweight
With a constant diet of tuna and rice
Perfecting my Piece of Eight

My Pirate garb would reek style
Frilled shirt of blood red claret
And every day I’d accessorise
With a different coloured parrot

Then I’d tragically lose one hand
And replace it a hook
Which would mean I’d never lose my keys
Always knowing where to look

I’d be squalid, filthy and coarse
Dirty, nasty, deranged
I’d say the most disgusting things
So I guess there, not much would change

But my skin would always be radiant
A pirate queen sensation
With an endless supply of spirulina
And sea-salt exfoliation

And though in a different form
Men would continue to quest
For the glorious elusive contents of
My Golden Treasure Chest

But I fear I never will be
The Terror of the Pacific
For no matter how good I’d look in the hat
I get catastrophically seasick.


Black Dog Bitch, Jim the Cabin Boy and Captain Bad Wig

A copy of my blog from http://nzbookmonth.co.nz


Poetry Idol

On Friday night on Wellesley St here in Auckland there was nearly a riot.

It was outside the London Bar because there was a gig on that night that proved so popular the Bar was stuffed to capacity before the show started.

Tears were shed, tantrums flung and bribes offered as people were desperate to get inside BUT over 100 people ended up being turned away.

SO what was the gig do you think?

U2, Fat Freddy’s Drop, Robbie Williams, The Wiggles………?

No in fact it was a Performance Poetry gig, namely Poetry Idol.

Usually the only riot poetry causes is when people stampede away from it. In fact people can be so scared of Poetry that they see psychiatrists for their condition, which is clinically known as Metrophobia.

I am not making this up. As if a limerick and a sonnet are going to be lurking behind a bush and jump out and molest you with their evil stanzas. “OOOh watch out the Haiku will get you!”

Yes well, the extreme reaction is rare but most people have probably had a nasty little outbreak of Metrophobia from time to time, mostly prompted by Crap English Teachers/Lecturers.

“Yes but what does it MEAN?” barked at you by pearls and a twinset does little to encourage an interest in words, and by the time I got to English 101 at Canterbury University I found poetry about as interesting as Bob Clarkson.

But then I discovered poetry as performance and it seems the Auckland Massive has as well.

Friday night, to be frank, went off like a bride’s nightie.

The queue to get into the bar extended down the street and when it became evident most would not get in, various poets launched into outdoor impromptu performances to entertain them. Awesome!

Inside every nook and cranny of the Bar was filled with hugely smiling faces as the ten contestants, who had been whittled down from thirty in auditions, took to the floor.

We had old, young, bald, hirsute, clean, filthy, gay, straight, newbies, old hands, crazy and sane, and the audience lapped it all up. One particular highlight was 87 year old Chick Lowson who was there with his cradle-snatching 93yr old wife. When he told me they had gotten married in 1941 my brain kind of shut down. I was impressed with my three year relationship 10 years ago…..I no longer am.

He then sealed the deal with a beautiful poem that expounded the theory that “Love never dies…” And at 66 years of marriage, he’d know.

He didn’t win though, the gorgeous Miriam Barr took out that honour after she sailed through the first two Judged rounds and then snatched the bulk of the audience votes in the tense three way final.

It was an vibrant alive evening of performance poetry presided over by three fabulous judges in Graham Brazier, Jo Randerson and Canada’s inspirational star of the Writers and Readers Festival, Shane Koyczan. This powerhouse performer blew everyone away with his delicious words: “ I want your body to be something that I did wrong, I want you to hold it against me” and “You make mirrors want to grind themselves back down to sand coz they can’t do your reflection justice.”

The evening concluded when second place winner Jesse Jones picked me up onstage to celebrate then promptly dropped me on my ass. ROCK n ROLL man. (Well more bruises and awkward flashes of undies, but it felt very Jack Kerouac to me.)

In short it was s**t hot, words flew, sweat soaked, red wine ran out…. and you’d better get there early next year.
















Packed Crowd of Smiles at the London Bar
















Shane Koyczan

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Well the madness of my Comedy Festival Season is now over and I have a lovely review (see below) and some nicely sold out houses to show for it.

ALSO thanks to D.Vice one lucky punter won a vibrator the size of a very large root vegetable in a raffle. Frankly I'd be a bit scared of it myself, it looks like some sort of engineering burrowing device with a detachable digging implement. Which in a way I guess it kind of is BUT it looks rather like a dalek too......ejaculate....ejaculate, so it's not for the quaint hearted.

A lot of people don't realise the amount of work that goes into producing a festival show, and the competition we locals have in all those fabulous internationals. As a result I work my butt off to get my image plastered all over town, on radio, in magazines and on the tele.

Some call it megalomania, but I prefer the term publicity whore.

As such when TVNZ offered to fly me to Wellington for the day to appear on Good Morning to promote the wondrous Poetry Idol (see below) I jumped at the chance.

The fact it meant a 4.50am start on a day I had a show at 9.45pm in Auckland was a small sticking point but being the whore that I am I laid back and thought of ticket sales as I had a wee snooze-ette on the plane.

I was collected at Welly Airport with Wiremu from NZ Idol fame and whisked off to Purgatory, or as the locals call it Lower Hutt.

There I was powdered, curled and coffeed as I chatted Pase Doble and Foxtrots with old Twinkle Toes himself Brendan Pongia. Wiremu sang beautifully with his sister and then it was bright lights, camera and action and I was chatting Poetry Idol and Hot Pink Bits with Twinkle Toes in front of the nation. Well the Good Morning watching nation anyways.

I ended with my NZ tribute to the Owl and the Pussycat (see below) and got a nice round of applause from the sound operator.

After that fun and shenanigans I was dropped off at my sister's for a chat and an email check before she dropped me into town for more coffee at Fidel's.

From there it was off to Radio NZ for a panel discussion on women in comedy - I would write some material about tampons Simon as long as it was funny. Men talk about their knobs endlessly and get them out onstage and that's supposed to be hilarious but a little menstruation isn't? Screw that.

Or something like that anyway, oh yes and you notice........more whorish behaviour, but with longer skirts.

From there it was off to ooh and ahhh appropriately at my friend's baby. Thankfully it wasn't an ugly child and I didn't have to fake it. Nothing worse then seeing Chucky in a pram and having to stifle a scream as you say; "Oh he's so....... distinctive looking isn't he.....it is a he isn't it?"

Then I called a cab and was whisked off to Wellington airport to board my 4pm flight which was sure to be leaving on time as it was a beautiful clear day.

Or so I thought.

As I sat in the departure lounge noticing my boarding time ticking past and harried Qantas people scurrying about looking perterbed, I suddenly felt an Australia One sinking feeling that I wasn't going anywhere at 4pm.

Then Bing Bong...I'm sorry to announce that Qantas Flight 666 has been delayed for approximately one hour due to engineering difficulties. We say we're sorry for the delay, but in actuality we don't really give a fuck, especially about Penny Ashton who has to be in Auckland tonight for her show.

Then when I heard a customs dude say the same plane hadn't left til 8pm the night before, panic set in. I marched to the ticket desk and demanded to be placed on an Air New Zealand Flight to Auckland, I demanded to be moved to the next Qantas Flight, I demanded they charter a flight, I demanded they just patch the plane up as best they could and risk it, I demanded George Clooney (hell while you're being unreasonable), BUT none of these requests were granted.

It was all fine however as the plane did leave at 5pm along with one back door unable to be opened. Lucky for them I say, I would have slapped their ineptitude all over my publicity whore network and that would've shown em. Mini-shepherd's pie or no mini-shepherd's pie.

In the end I made it home in one piece though and the show went on.

Phew!

SO come and see what my airline fuss was all about in POETRY IDOL!

Poetry Idol is coming live and uncut to the Auckland Writer’s and Reader’s Festival.

(Shane Koyczan)

Held in Auckland’s iconic London Bar, it will star the freshest, most original performance poets in New Zealand. Be witness to their poetic prowess as they battle it out to see who will take home not only the Poetry Idol crown but also $400 in cash and prizes.

And with contestants who range from 20 years old to 84 years young, it promises to be an eventful evening!

A Poetry Slam with a twist, Poetry Idol will pit the performers against each other under the watchful eye of three celebrity judges. After each round the judges will offer advice to the budding bards as to how to improve for their next round BUT those who do not make the grade will be eliminated along the way.

In the end two poets will face off for a final and the entire audience will cast the deciding votes.

Hosted by New Zealand’s leading Performance Poet, Penny Ashton, Poetry Idol promises to be a sizzling night of live literature. Joining her as a guest performer and also as a judge on the night will be Shane Koyczan.

Shane Koyczan has placed in the top 6 of North America Slam Champs every year he has competed. (This competition attracts thousands of competitors.) He is the winner of Canadian Broadcasting Corporation's National Poetry Face Off and recently received the nod for best poetry reading from the Edinburgh Book Festival.

New Zealand’s own Graham Brazier and Jo Randerson will be the other two star-performers and Judges. Graham is a powerhouse performer and the Hello Sailor lead singer is now a beloved NZ icon. Jo Randerson is a young fresh voice in comedy and literature who has been making her mark on the scene for nearly a decade.

(Jo Randerson)

Performance Poetry is a little understood yet highly entertaining genre and it’s time you found out why!
DO NOT BE AFRAID.

POETRY IDOL – Watch as they make it their own, raise the bar and knock your socks off.

London Bar, Cnr Wellesley and Queen St Upstairs, Friday May 25th from 8pm. Be early to make sure of a seat! Only $5 on the door.

Finalists:
Anaise Irvine
David Mailangi
Worzel
Murray Lee
Chris Kirk
Jesse Jones (Johnny Jesus)
Charles Lowson
Miriam Barr
Renee Liang
The Druid of Devonport

The Possum and Ruru

The Ruru and Possum went to sea
In a beautiful tiki green boat
They took some sprite and vegemite
Wrapped up in a five dollar note
Ruru gazed at the Southern Cross above
And sang, like on Ten Guitars
“O lovely Possum! Oh Possum, my love,
What a spunky Possum you are, you are, you are
What a spunky Possum you are.”

Said the Possum to the Ruru “I didn’t know you
Could sing like Te Kanawa sings
Oh let’s tie the knot, but first let us pop
Into Michael Hill for the rings

But alas he was closed, so it was proposed
To sail for a day and a year
And when they arrived, they were surprised
To be met by a rascally Kea
With a ring clutched in his beak, his beak, his beak
With a ring clutched in his beak

Dear Kea are you willing to trade me a dollar for your ring?
Said the Kea “I Will”
So they took them away and were married next day
By a cow from Invercargill

They dined on lamb chunks and pineapple lumps
Which they ate with Mum’s wooden spoon
And snout to beak they danced on the beach
By the light of the silvery moon, the moon, the moon
By the light of the silvery moon

A Ruru Glove Puppet Silly!

My latest review....hurry to book for tonight as Friday and Saturday are sold out! Or come in Christchurch at the Harbourlight! Hooray....

Theatreview Review....

AS INTRIGUING AS IT IS FUNNY

NZ International Comedy Festival
Penny Ashton - Hot Pink Bits


at The Classic Studio, Auckland
Until 19 May 2007
[1 hr]

Reviewed by Sian Robertson, 15 May 2007


Madame Penny welcomes her darling audience into her bawdy, velvety playground to sample delightful vaudevillian songs and fascinating sex facts. It's a history of the sex industry, embellished with theatrical interludes, obscure facts and figures, and audience participation including a pop quiz and a scripted performance from a well known adult film - but don't be afraid, Mistress Hot Pink will never put you on the spot (unless you want her to).

Tackling the entire history of the global sex trade - from the occupational hazards of phone sex to famous porn stars through the ages; from the habits of 5th century empresses to a bit of local history - is such a lot to cram into an hour of comedy she sometimes seems a bit rushed. However, her obvious appetite for the subject matter with all it's thrills and spills, delights and indignities, makes for a sumptuous and carefully selected buffet of juicy material.

This is not just stand-up comedy: Ashton's show is a finely crafted piece of comedic theatre, visually tasty, as intriguing as it is funny, taking us on a unreserved inspection of the evolution of prostitution, the advent of the adult film, the takeover of video and then the internet, etc. Encased in a fabulous pink corset her remarkable lungs hit us with a raunchy, resonant voice and several naughty versions of a few popular songs, such as 'A Few of My Favourite Things'...

It's just really refreshing to see someone having such a ball broaching every imaginable angle of sex-for-sale without a hint of shyness, or resorting crass gags. Obviously the audience weren't that squeamish or they wouldn't have come to an act called Hot Pink Bits, but anyone that was a bit timid at first was put at ease by the end of the show by Ashton's warm, enveloping, gutsy and fun manner.

Despite touching on some of the political aspects of the sex trade, including pointing out a few absurd laws and the obvious gender issues, it's never an excuse for a rant. Our mischievous Madame keeps the tone light, celebratory, and witty, delving into the odder side of our preferences and tendencies with a playful and well-researched abandon.

If you're at all interested in openly and humorously exploring the subject of sex (and let's face it, who isn't a little bit curious about other people's pink bits and what they do with them?) you'll love this show.

My only complaint: the seats in the Classic Studio are a pain in the buttocks so you might want to take a cushion (unless of course, you like a bit of pain with your pleasure). I couldn't help wondering if anyone noticed the Hot Pink Bits audience limping out gingerly, looking like they got a lot more than their money's worth!?

A poem in praise of female assets for Mother's Day...

Women’s Charms

Out breasts
Loud breasts
No sunken shrunken breasts

Kauri breasts
Bonsai breasts
Nature’s variety at her best

Breasts for feminine things
Like clutching in a swoon
Breasts to bring a lover
To serenade me out of tune

Teddy Bear breasts
Jungle gym breasts
Strawberry flavoured milkshake breasts

Lived in breasts
Wizened breasts
Gravity’s won the battle breasts

Breasts with torso attached
A lumpy mattressed bliss
Breasts with nipples attached
That lean towards your kiss

Clamped breasts, plastic breasts
Breasts that will deceive you
Red Cross breasts, Umbrella breasts
Breasts that will relieve you

Women wear their breasts
With style, grace, panache and flair,
And here’s the thing boys, if you’re nice,
We may even let you share.

Guess I better ring her now!













Mum Tolerates a Drunken Hug at Sister's Wedding!

From a review in the Comedy Festival. And people wonder why we feel a little fucked off with attitudes from time to time.

Sometimes it can be hard to find a point of difference between stand-up performers. Until you get a feel for their material, they tend toward an inexpressive sameness in appearance - either slightly overweight guys in t-shirts and jeans, or men in suits.*

*(Female performers are rarely noticed at all but tend toward a 'stroppy' or 'flirty' look, either a bright pink t-shirt or something to accentuate the bust.)

If only it weren't true!

Still if you've got it flaunt it and make it pink I say. I happen to think my breasts aren't too bad so I use them to distract from my ass. So what.

And what is a stroppy look? (Well apart from the one I'm telepathically sending in the writer's direction anyway.) He may as well say we're all sluts who can't get on the TV.

Again I say, if only it weren't true.

But actually, it's not. He's a twat, end of story.

Damn, and he made me angry again.

Last night I stripped off a layer of clothing with an audience and shook it about in the air to the frenetic cry of "Get your tits out, get the troops out, get your tits out, get the troops out..."

Ahhh yes, the comedy festival.

And more than that, Phil Nicol.

If you haven't seen this pint sized Catherine Wheel of outrageous comedic talent with a penchant for getting nude and hitting himself in the head with a microphone, then I suggest you head down to the Classic Comedy Bar at 7pm this week. (321 Queen St)

If you like George Bush, Maeve Binchy and your strongest drug of choice is NutraSweet, then maybe stay at home. (Especially if the idea of Penis Aerobics bothers you.... though no actually it bothers me but I still loved it.)

It's all about a drug induced odyssey of insanity through 4 days in Amsterdam after a fight with his Irish girlfriend and is quite frankly fucking hilarious.
Go there or be square.

That's it, nothing more to see here........I've calmed down.

Phil Nicol wishes Nicky Watson left her Tits in.

Warning - Extreme Anger, Language and National Mockery

I am PISSED off.

Pissed off at toffy nose private school twits (ok ok I went to a private school, but I'm different) who all went off on their OE's to Europe to crusie about on yachts and boff rich nobby twats after they've sunk a tankard of champers and quaffed caviar off someone called Nigel's erect penis with a chihuahua running around yipping like Paris Hilton on speed.

I'm pissed off that this tanned idiotic lot then congregated into groups known as syndicates who preyed on New Zealand's hopeless insecurities as a nation and made us all believe that just because some of us could sail we should all become devoted fans of sweet fuck all happening on the water and it would prove something to the world if we won a race that most Americans haven't even heard of.

I am pissed off we even won this in the first place and had enormous ticker tape parades through NZ's main centres as if these sailing toss pots had done something like cure cancer or invent stilettos that didn't hurt.

We only got excited because we beat Australia, whoop-de-doo.

Then I am pissed off we had to defend this cup (after it had been smashed up by an equally demented hater of Colonial Oppression) and built an entire district in Auckland to cater to an elite group of girls called Shazza and Shaquila who just love to put on their white pants, frosted pink lipstick and head down to the Loaded Hog to be fingered by the cigarette machine. (As in next to it, not actually by it, though that would be entertaining.)

I am pissed off that I face painted in this viaduct wearing overalls in 2000 and that some nasty bitch asked me is I was pregnant. I mean really!

I am pissed of we won again and fuelled this inane sense of divine right to a stupid silver cup and also instilled a sense of expectation that we'll win forever.

I am pissed off with red socks.

I am pissed off that NZ then went on a xenophobic rampage to the soundtrack of a christian fundamentalist and declared any sailor willing to take 11 million dollars to sail for another syndicate a TRAITOR! Funny how no one seems to think Chris Dixon is traitorous, what's the bloody difference?

I am glad we lost, and in spectacular fashion.

AND now I am pissed off that the fucking America's Cup sailing is on when I am trying to earn a living doing social commentary on Breakfast TV and that I keep getting cancelled in favour of watching NOTHING happen in a place with a name that has a lisp and lots of orange juice.

Presumably they put in with their champers to toast their caviar quaffing rich twat chihuahua humping selves.

Now some may say I am being selfish, that many people enjoy the sailing and that many possibly find my inane jokes on the news of the day tiresome and childish.

To them I say, go stick your boat shoes up your port hole and twat off.

SO there.

I feel much better now!

And most Americans still don't know what it is.

HHmmpphh

PS. Come to my show, I promise to be much nicer.