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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.

I have a gorgeous friend who last night celebrated her 36th birthday.

We met almost exactly ten years ago amidst a haze of Ouzo fuelled revelry on the Greek Island of Ios.

For those of you who don't know Ios is a kind of floating Sodom and Gomorrah (so had to look that spelling up) in the Adriatic Sea. A Mecca for backpackers who descend on it's white sands and crystal clear waters to drink themselves to oblivion and shag like the overexcited early twenty-somethings they are.

My then boyfriend and I had decided we were going to leave London's dinge and bask in Grecian sunlight whilst working in one of the squillion bars that fought for patronage for the few months of the year that tourists spawned.

We nestled into the local backpackers for a mere 5 quid a night and set about finding employment and learning that the local word for wanker is Malaka. (For some reason everyone wants to teach you that.)

The most common job on offer was the "fish-hook". This is the person who stands outside the bar and says "Come in, you know you want to" to the wildly inebriated antipodeans who stumble passed, tempting them with drink specials that almost always included a shot of Ouzo and the implied possibility of a root from an equally trolleyed punter.

Though this didn't seem a particularly brilliant use of my Bachelor of Arts I thought what the hell and asked at a few bars.

What I hadn't bargained on was the first old man I asked leering at me through herbaceous eyebrows and asking; "Hev you got a short skert to wear?"

Given I was quite a lot fatter at the time and about as likely to wear a mini-skirt as give Prince Charles a blow-job I declined his offer of employ.

I eventually got a job at Cheers, The Little Irish Bar and for two whole nights stood there from 10pm to 4am attempting to entice punters inside.

Then I got paid.

Or should I say then a paltry amount of drachma was dropped into my hands that wouldn't feed Lindsay Lohan.

So I quit and decided to party hardy for a few weeks then head back to London and make some real money. (Well enough to feed Lindsay Lohan AND Calista Flockhart maybe.)

It was then I met my lovely friend who was single, footloose and fancy free. We became drinking buddies over bleary eyed late nights of Heinekens, dancing to Abba (she's obsessed) and lazing about on the beach during the day.

When I recently figured out that that was ten years ago I couldn't believe it BUT then again when I look at her newly renovated home, two kids and husband, I guess I can.

A lot has happened for her in ten years, and me too but I guess I'm still footloose and fancy free with no home or kids. And luckily we're both more than happy with our arrangements.

SO last night even though I was sober (she's lives in the arse end of nowhere) we had a boogie to Dancing Queen for old time's sake and I was briefly transported back to a breezy Adriatic day and the delight of making new friends on the other side of the world.

Wow that sounded a bit like a Malaka huh.

Last night I couldn't sleep for two hours.

My brain wouldn't let me as it kept yelling at me to do various things.

This always happens just as I am about to do a show. The million and one little things that require attention swim through my mind at 3.45am and keep me awake. Well actually they more thrash about like a toddler in the deep end who never had swimming lessons with no Mummy in sight.

The only way I managed to get back to sleep was to tell myself that is I was still awake at 5.50am I should go to the gym.

I fell asleep at 5.45am.

Miraculous.

Now I am awake when I should be and beavering away at my computer as I finalise opening night invitations, Christchurch technicians, Canadian Tax Waivers, Front of House personnel and Technical rehearsals in Auckland, Advert design for Edmonton, Accommodation for Toronto, Tax Returns for NZ, Air miles to get me to Canada (fucking United Airlines Cheating Bastards), Poetry Idol auditions, going to the gym, eating and panicking that I have no money.

Well actually I am now distracting myself by writing a pathetic feel sorry for me blog, but it's a short one I promise.

You see I am concurrently producing SEVEN season of Hot Pink Bits in two countries over five months.

You're right, I'm a twat.

I mean it beats working for "The Man", whoever he is.....and to be honest he must be making a fortune huh, but well it can sometimes get a bit much for one little girl to bear. (That's me in case you're curious.)

It's about now that the weight of impending financial disaster kicks my ass into publicity overdrive and I shout from the rooftops just how goddam fabulous my show will be, so please come.

So there you have it. A very non-Kiwi thing to say BUT come see my show, it'll be fabulous. It's had great reviews in Wellington and Christchurch and it really is good. So there.

ALSO please come and see it so I don't have a mental breakdown and start getting creative with my poo and walls. Though I guess I could win the Wallace Art Prize if I did, but well, I just don't like poos really.

OK I promise to leave now, I have a meeting with my accountant who will no doubt say to me yet again; "You know these shows you do, they don't really make you any money do they?" And I'll smile again, agree, and plan my 25 seasons for next year.

See you at the Classic Studio, The Harbourlight Theatre, in Toronto, Winnipeg, Saskatoon, Edmonton or Vancouver.

Yep.............twat.

PS There is one silver lining in all this with being essentially single for six weeks. At least I don't have to waste time shaving my legs, cleaning my room or changing my sheets. Nice!

Don't you hate it when when you suddenly realise you have something.

Before you had it you didn't care about it.

If it wasn't there it didn't matter because you didn't know what it was.

If it went away for a while you couldn't give a fuck because you didn't know where it had gone or what its name was in the first place.

If you decided to go away you never gave it a second thought and just looked forward to jumping onto that plane and sailing off to new adventures.

But then all of a sudden something pops up when you least expect it and makes you think about it quite often.

You like spending time around it because it makes you laugh and has a very sexy smile.

You even like to take it away to nice baches in the Coromandel where you watch DVD's, eat fabulous food and hold hands.

Then all of a sudden it takes itself off to Europe for a number of weeks and although you're in exactly the SAME position you were before you met it in the first place, everything seems a little less bright, a little less funny and a lot less sexy.

Don't you just hate that.

Lucky I have a two whole seasons of Hot Pink Bits to take my mind of it completely.

Coz that'll work.

Anytime now.

MMMhmmmmmm

Yep

Wooohooo I just sold more tickets to my show, it DOES work.

For a bit anyway.

Oh and I have more GST.

WOooohooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

And then of course there is writing rambling aimless blogs that never end.

I reckon that might work too.

Or not.

HHHmmmmmm

OK really leaving now.

I promise.

Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

COME SEE MY SHOW!

PS this is Abbey from www.thebalihouse.com a great place to stay and hold hands.

OK so with Hot Pink Bits selling fast at the New Zealand Comedy Festival, you'd better get booking so you don't miss out! It sold out completely in Wellington, you wouldn't want to be sad now would you......

HOT PINK BITS

Whatever happened to Divine Brown? Can a phone sex operator get RSI? Do people really have sex through a pizza? Frustrated you can’t look any of this up on your work computer? Then Hot Pink Bits is the show for you.

That’s right everyone’s dirty girl Penny Ashton is back, and in 2007 she’s naughtier than ever. For her brand spanking new show Penny has trawled the ins and…outs of the international sex industry and will tell you all about the lives of the she’s, he’s, and she-males that make a living in the world’s oldest profession.

Resplendent in a hot pink corset, dripping in cheap jewelry and strung up in fishnets, Ashton will sing, dance and pontificate on porn, prostitutes and Lockwood Smith in a burlesque-esque romp through the kickers of the global sex trade. There’ll be a group orgasm, an audience gimp and a very sexy stripper. Songs will be reinvented, fetishes will be indulged and Nana will need a lie down. But of course it will all be done…in the best POSSIBLE taste.

Classic Studio, 321 Queen St, May 14th - 19th, Book at 0800 TICKETEK

Harbour Light, London St, Lyttelton, June 5th - 9th, Book at http://www.harbourlight.co.nz/

Praise for HOT PINK BITS Wellington 2007 – TOTALLY SOLD OUT SEASON!!!
“….this polished and confidently performed show takes an irreverent look at sex that is far from dirty and very, very funny.” Dominion Post

“…Hot Pink Bits is cheerfully irreligious, and delightfully disrespectful of politicians, celebrities and many other desperate wannabes. The full spectrum of perversion is delicately sampled, with a wit that is sharp without ever being cruel.” Scoop

“Ashton was a ball of confident energy; singing, dancing, mincing and prancing her way around the stage and up into the audience.” Lumiere.net.nz

Wellington Fringe Awards – Honorable Mention Best Comedy for Hot Pink Bits

Today is Bad Friday and I feel much more at home on Friday 13th than I do on Good Friday when Jesus SUPPOSEDLY rose from the dead. Funny really, I guess that makes him a Zombie and quite at home today too.

ANYWAY enough religion bashing for today and onto a nice poem.

I thought it was time I posted one and this is an old favourite and a nice counterbalance to all that nasty swearing from yesterday.

Take Two Before Bed

Can I be
Your Vitamin C
Your shot in the arm
Your can of V
Your fizzing fix of Vitamin B
Bubbling Effervescently

Can I be
Your ecstasy
Your Codral Cold
That’s non-drowsy
Your speed, your coke, your Herbal E
That makes your heart beat wildly

Can I be
Your cup of tea
Your trim flat white
Your Diet Pepsi
Your PCP or LSD
A tab on your tongue of TNT

Can I be
Your potpourri
Your essential oil
Your scent of the sea
Your Glade plug-in Pine Tree
With Pheromone Aromatherapy

Can I be
Your vitamin C
Your strength in the face
Of adversity
When I need you and you need me
A dose of love, that’s orangey


AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

Imagine my horror when faced with the prospect of driving all the way to Alexandra, deep in New Zealand's South Island, without any musical accompaniment.

I was borrowing my parents car which had had a CD player, but it decided to kark it just before my SIX hour drive.

I was so annoyed I said cunt in front of my Mum! Imagine that.

Relax, she laughed. Possibly a nervous reaction covering her inner monologue of "That'll be her father's influence" but she laughed nonetheless.

Then she said "why don't you check out our tape collection?"

I bit my lip so as not to say; "Actually I'd rather undergo a female circumcision than listen to Richard Clayderman does the Beatles accompanied by the Pan Pipes of James Galway" when I realised that beggars couldn't be choosers and scuttled inside.

And what a nostalgic blast from the past that all was!

First up The Best of Bread. Now you might not imagine that one so funky and hip and down with kids as I might be interested in an old 70's band with frankly a stupid name BUT you see it takes me back to 1992 and to a boy. He was enamoured with Bread and I was enamoured with him, quid pro quo I became enamoured with Bread.

Ahhhh youth.

SO when after a whole intense week of lazing in bed listening to "If a picture paints a thousand words then why can't I paint you...." he broke up with me after shagging Catherine Talbot on the Law Trip, I was devastated. I cried listening to "If a picture....." ahhhhh you get the idea.


Pathetic.

Next up was the soundtrack to Grease Two.

For those of you unfamiliar with this frankly stupid movie from 1982, it is a role reversal on the original concept of "If your man doesn't like you just change". This time it is the girl, Michelle Pfeiffer, starring in her greatest dramatic role as a Pink Lady, who is the cool one and she is looking for a "Cool Rider". Instead she finds geeky Maxwell Caufield who then transforms into a leather clad Lothario just for her. Oh with some singing and dancing along the way of course.


And in 1982 I LOVED it.


Rotten Tomatoes gives it a high 14% quality rating and on listening again for the first time in years I too have had a role reversal, it's fucking terrible!


Next up was Solid Gold Hits 1984 which kicked in with that rollicking classic "Wired for Sound" which I so was. Other smashes included "Tainted Love", "Hands Up" and of course those massive hits....."Chariots of Fire" and "The Hill St Blues Theme."


Not much happening in 1984 obviously.


BUT the best one was "How Great Thou Art" by Sir Howard Morrison. Good fucking grief, a hymn, hilarious.


Anyway you get the idea, there was Eurythmics, Culture Club, Neil Young and ......... Richard Clayderman and I had a lovely trip down to the wedding, which was also very lovely.


So go ransack your parents tape drawers, there's a plastic world of fun waiting to be shared!


Choice.

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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