"No one listens to Jazz. Science teachers and the mentally ill- that's all jazz is for" says one of the characters from The Mighty Boosh which is screening on TV now. This clip makes me think of Richard and his seeing everything at work in musical keys.
The Mighty Boosh is brilliant. It is inspired TV that cuts through the formulated crap that we are getting now, particularly from the USA. It is done in a simplistic way , a sot of homage to 70's and 80's stuff like Monty Python and The Young Ones. Simple hoky sets, corny dialogue and surreal situations make for a very funny show. Catch it sometime. The man in the moon is great.
THE CURMUDGEON
Thursday, 24 March 2011
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
LUCKY # 13
THE DANGERS OF ELECTRICITY
We are extending the deck at the front of the house at present. This will give us better outside entertaining, a different angled view of the harbour looking West to the hills and will cover the useless bit of lawn at the front so that I won't have to mow it. It all looks pretty good at present except for the fact that from one corner you can now reach up and touch the telephone wires. You can, with a stick or umbrella also touch the power line which annoyingly spoils the view.
I have been reading up on power lines and there are conflicting opinions. Some say that it is perfectly safe to touch power lines unless the rubber coating is damaged. Others say that if you touch them you fry. The answer is probably somewhere in the middle. I will put large pots in the corner where this is an issue so that no one can experiment.
Electricity gives me the creeps as I had a bad experience with it once.
Lucky # 13
My Dad was a tradesman and owned a plastering business. He had lots of jobs going on building sites around Wellington and I used to help him on school holidays. I used to mix concrete and plaster for the men, make the tea and generally help out. I used to enjoy climbing the scaffolding on the tall buildings. No mishaps happened in doing that.
I remember once setting up the concrete mixer in a building. It was about a seven story building that had the framework and concrete floors finished but everything was still pretty rough. I was on one of these floors where there were stacks of timber, piles of sand, cement and lime bags, steel etc. and there was a lot of water. Water on building sites is the norm from taps and hoses, spilled buckets and the elements as invariably there are no windows. I ran the very long power cord from the electrical box to the mixer. I normally would run the cord through a power transformer before the mixer and cannot remember if I had done so on this day. The cord of course ran through several puddles of water and was wet. As I plugged it into the mixer there was a flash and a bang and I was literally thrown about fifteen feet against a wall. If the wall hadn't been there I don't know how far I would have gone.
It was a weird sensation. I had bitten my tongue so that hurt and hitting the concrete wall hurt but I also had a dull ache in my chest and arms. I checked myself thoroughly but had no burns or puncture marks so I don't know where the electricity went. Maybe it stayed inside me.
We are extending the deck at the front of the house at present. This will give us better outside entertaining, a different angled view of the harbour looking West to the hills and will cover the useless bit of lawn at the front so that I won't have to mow it. It all looks pretty good at present except for the fact that from one corner you can now reach up and touch the telephone wires. You can, with a stick or umbrella also touch the power line which annoyingly spoils the view.
I have been reading up on power lines and there are conflicting opinions. Some say that it is perfectly safe to touch power lines unless the rubber coating is damaged. Others say that if you touch them you fry. The answer is probably somewhere in the middle. I will put large pots in the corner where this is an issue so that no one can experiment.
Electricity gives me the creeps as I had a bad experience with it once.
Lucky # 13
My Dad was a tradesman and owned a plastering business. He had lots of jobs going on building sites around Wellington and I used to help him on school holidays. I used to mix concrete and plaster for the men, make the tea and generally help out. I used to enjoy climbing the scaffolding on the tall buildings. No mishaps happened in doing that.
I remember once setting up the concrete mixer in a building. It was about a seven story building that had the framework and concrete floors finished but everything was still pretty rough. I was on one of these floors where there were stacks of timber, piles of sand, cement and lime bags, steel etc. and there was a lot of water. Water on building sites is the norm from taps and hoses, spilled buckets and the elements as invariably there are no windows. I ran the very long power cord from the electrical box to the mixer. I normally would run the cord through a power transformer before the mixer and cannot remember if I had done so on this day. The cord of course ran through several puddles of water and was wet. As I plugged it into the mixer there was a flash and a bang and I was literally thrown about fifteen feet against a wall. If the wall hadn't been there I don't know how far I would have gone.
It was a weird sensation. I had bitten my tongue so that hurt and hitting the concrete wall hurt but I also had a dull ache in my chest and arms. I checked myself thoroughly but had no burns or puncture marks so I don't know where the electricity went. Maybe it stayed inside me.
My feet are so tired
My brain is so wired
And the clouds are weepin'.
- Bob Dylan 'Lovesick'
I got a new and dry power cord making sure that it was nowhere near water, rigging up a complex system of trestles before plugging in the mixer again. After that I have always had a healthy respect for electricity.
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
LUCKY # 12
THE DANGERS OF THE SEA
I live right next to the sea. At the bottom of our drive I can walk across a narrow, little used dead end road to step into the water (at high tide). I am learning to swim properly at last. I do have swimming certificates from Marist Newtown but in the width one I had one foot on the bottom of the pool and in the length one I kept my face in the water and went the entire length without breathing - a skill that has been useful in one form of lovemaking. Growing up in Wellington with the ice-cold beaches facing out to Cook Straight, swimming was not the first choice leisure activity. Sinking in my first canoe at Princess Bay (it was made out of roofing iron) didn't exactly inspire me with confidence.
As a result I never learned to swim properly. I wasn't scared of the water, I still floated down rivers, played in swimming pools and dived off diving boards but I just floated and flapped until reaching the edges.
Lucky 12 ( a )
In 1972 I went to visit my sister in Perth. Bill Bryson in his book Down Under says that Australia has more things to kill you than all the rest of the countries in the world put together. After some country visits on deserted farms dodging snakes and spiders I went swimming. Now I'm a whimp when it comes to getting into the water but this was the Indian Ocean. The water was warm and inviting. Inviting enough for me to venture out of my depth, lazing around, floating and flapping. At one point I experimented with sinking down to try and touch the bottom, enjoying the crystal clarity of the water. I did this several times until, the last time, my sinking was arrested by landing on something. Not the bottom. Not a submarine. Something very big, very long and grey. Fuck! I spluttered to the surface and struck out for (hopefully) the shore. My frenzied splashing and thrashing should have excited any shark but I like to think that it bewildered and scared it. I didn't time myself but I'm sure that it was the fastest I have ever swum and maybe even faster than most other people I know.
I didn't venture into the water for the rest of my holiday.
Lucky 12 (b)
In 1985 I went for a two week holiday in Tonga. I was on my own and, after I had been there for a week on a tiny island (Atata) I had explored all there was to explore on land and had taken all the photos of myself that I wanted to
it was time to venture further out to sea. I learned to sail a hoby cat - a small sailed catamaran which was fun. The 100 acre island was a four hour launch ride off Tonga and didn't have a reef. It was smack in the middle of the big blue Pacific.
I also tried to learn to wind sail. I took one of them out and spent a few hours trying to master standing on it and working the sail. Eventually I got it up and going and with a good off-shore wind was skidding along pretty well. Excited by this I didn't take enough notice of the rapidly disappearing island behind me. When I did and saw the tiny dot in the middle of the Pacific I thought that I had better get back there. Unfortunately I hadn't mastered the skill of turning so I had to jump off the board. Manoeuvring it around to face back the way I came and climbing back on I realised that I also hadn't mastered the art of sailing into the wind. I spent an hour trying to get the sail to take me back to the island to no avail. I jumped back into the water and paddled/pushed the board and sail from behind. The sail dragging in the water didn't help at all and it was slow progress. It took me several hours of doing this and the afternoon became late afternoon - threatening to become evening. As the island was more visible and I was about a half mile off I began to feel relieved. A kayak came out with two of the staff from the resort who asked if I needed help. I explained that I couldn't manage the board and so one of the guys took it to sail it back. The other asked if I wanted a ride in but I said no, I would swim it. Why did I say that? All my life I have said stupid things like that - still do. The Old girl gets frustrated when I refuse to ask for directions whether on the road or in stores. Its a man thing I guess. When the two guys had gone I realised that the water was still really deep and that I was more tired than I had previously thought. I began to breaststroke, then dog paddled, then floated and generally splashed and flapped. I was done in. I was beginning to more frequently sink below the water and began to get frightened. I was making very slow progress but just kept trying to stay on top. At a point when honestly I thought that I was gone my toes touched the bottom. The sense of relief was incredible, not unlike touching the ground on my first parachute jump. I scrambled up the beach and lay flat on my back gasping air for about a half hour. Life had never felt so good.
My brother drowned in Wellington harbour and I often think of how he must have felt as he was going under for the last time.
I live right next to the sea. At the bottom of our drive I can walk across a narrow, little used dead end road to step into the water (at high tide). I am learning to swim properly at last. I do have swimming certificates from Marist Newtown but in the width one I had one foot on the bottom of the pool and in the length one I kept my face in the water and went the entire length without breathing - a skill that has been useful in one form of lovemaking. Growing up in Wellington with the ice-cold beaches facing out to Cook Straight, swimming was not the first choice leisure activity. Sinking in my first canoe at Princess Bay (it was made out of roofing iron) didn't exactly inspire me with confidence.
As a result I never learned to swim properly. I wasn't scared of the water, I still floated down rivers, played in swimming pools and dived off diving boards but I just floated and flapped until reaching the edges.
Lucky 12 ( a )
In 1972 I went to visit my sister in Perth. Bill Bryson in his book Down Under says that Australia has more things to kill you than all the rest of the countries in the world put together. After some country visits on deserted farms dodging snakes and spiders I went swimming. Now I'm a whimp when it comes to getting into the water but this was the Indian Ocean. The water was warm and inviting. Inviting enough for me to venture out of my depth, lazing around, floating and flapping. At one point I experimented with sinking down to try and touch the bottom, enjoying the crystal clarity of the water. I did this several times until, the last time, my sinking was arrested by landing on something. Not the bottom. Not a submarine. Something very big, very long and grey. Fuck! I spluttered to the surface and struck out for (hopefully) the shore. My frenzied splashing and thrashing should have excited any shark but I like to think that it bewildered and scared it. I didn't time myself but I'm sure that it was the fastest I have ever swum and maybe even faster than most other people I know.
I didn't venture into the water for the rest of my holiday.
Lucky 12 (b)
In 1985 I went for a two week holiday in Tonga. I was on my own and, after I had been there for a week on a tiny island (Atata) I had explored all there was to explore on land and had taken all the photos of myself that I wanted to
it was time to venture further out to sea. I learned to sail a hoby cat - a small sailed catamaran which was fun. The 100 acre island was a four hour launch ride off Tonga and didn't have a reef. It was smack in the middle of the big blue Pacific.
I also tried to learn to wind sail. I took one of them out and spent a few hours trying to master standing on it and working the sail. Eventually I got it up and going and with a good off-shore wind was skidding along pretty well. Excited by this I didn't take enough notice of the rapidly disappearing island behind me. When I did and saw the tiny dot in the middle of the Pacific I thought that I had better get back there. Unfortunately I hadn't mastered the skill of turning so I had to jump off the board. Manoeuvring it around to face back the way I came and climbing back on I realised that I also hadn't mastered the art of sailing into the wind. I spent an hour trying to get the sail to take me back to the island to no avail. I jumped back into the water and paddled/pushed the board and sail from behind. The sail dragging in the water didn't help at all and it was slow progress. It took me several hours of doing this and the afternoon became late afternoon - threatening to become evening. As the island was more visible and I was about a half mile off I began to feel relieved. A kayak came out with two of the staff from the resort who asked if I needed help. I explained that I couldn't manage the board and so one of the guys took it to sail it back. The other asked if I wanted a ride in but I said no, I would swim it. Why did I say that? All my life I have said stupid things like that - still do. The Old girl gets frustrated when I refuse to ask for directions whether on the road or in stores. Its a man thing I guess. When the two guys had gone I realised that the water was still really deep and that I was more tired than I had previously thought. I began to breaststroke, then dog paddled, then floated and generally splashed and flapped. I was done in. I was beginning to more frequently sink below the water and began to get frightened. I was making very slow progress but just kept trying to stay on top. At a point when honestly I thought that I was gone my toes touched the bottom. The sense of relief was incredible, not unlike touching the ground on my first parachute jump. I scrambled up the beach and lay flat on my back gasping air for about a half hour. Life had never felt so good.
My brother drowned in Wellington harbour and I often think of how he must have felt as he was going under for the last time.
GET FREE MONEY - JUST CLICK HERE.
This post counting thing is great. The counter is whizzing around like the electricity meter on a winter's night.
I should monetise it like Second did. He's probably retired now.
I should monetise it like Second did. He's probably retired now.
POPE LINKED TO INTERNATIONAL PAEDOPHILE INTERNET RING ....
..... or, LUCKY # 11
I used to love to ski. I haven't done much of it for a while and when I have it has been a bit of the sedentary kind. Years ago I used to travel regularly from Auckland to Ruapehu for a day's skiing and, if I stayed longer would stay in the ski lodge at Ohakune that I was a shareholder in or on the mountain in a ski club's lodge that I was a member of. It filled up a lot of my time in winter. When I did the day trips I used to leave auckland at about 4 in the morning, ski all day and drive back to auckland arriving home about 11PM. It was a good day out. I used to do this on my own usually and only sometimes would go with the Waikato University Ski Club members. I didn't go to Waikato University. I went to Victoria University. I didn't belong to the Vic ski club but did stay in their lodge a few times. You don't want to know this of course you probably just want me to get to the part where I broke my neck or wish I would.
Mystyle type of skiing (I'll leave out 'style' because I wasn't graceful) was to go up as far as I could on the chairlifts, climb and traverse as far as I could go to reach open, isolated areas and barrel down without having to worry about hitting anybody. I did this for years without mishap. The majesty of the mountain, any mountain was and is breathtaking. The peace and solitude tinged with an element of danger and brooding power inspires awe.
One day, after having made a couple of good runs I had climbed up to Crater Lake, skiid and tramped down where I couldn't ski and got close to the ski fields. I started to make my way down to Turoa and managed to lose a ski pole. It skidded down a way and was caught on an edge. I took my skis off, planted them and the other pole in the snow and side-stepped down to get the pole. Just as I reached it the snow layer beneath my feet gave way and I went over the edge. It was steep. Very steep. Heights don't worry me and I have had a few drops in my time but this was scary. I was looking a long way down the mountain at what seemed to me a vertical drop. I went straight down, feet first knowing that it was not going to be good.
I saw ground (snow and ice ) coming up at me rapidly and tried to do what I had learned with parachuting - flex and roll. I did this but on impact heard/felt a disturbing crack. I knew that I had done damage but wasn't sure what or how bad. Going down it hadn't registered with me that I was going to land on a kind of ledge/path that was an unofficial part of the ski run, the major part of which was still a good way down below. The fall before hitting this was about 30 foot which was a lot better than the couple of hundred further over the edge of the path to the valley below.
I lay there a while, not stunned exactly but a bit breathless and embarrassed. I knew that I couldn't make my own way down, that my skis were up above me and that I would have to rely on someone to help me. I hate that as most men do. Hey! We never ask for directions or advice in hardware stores. We just do OK? About 5 minutes later two skiiers making their way down the narrow path I was lying on found me and went down the mountain to get the ski patrol. These guys, the ski patrol, are really good skiers and do what they do for love of the sport. They travel the world skiing and generally come from countries like Austria, Norway, Sweden, USA, France etc. Young, fit, good looking and tanned, if I were a young woman or Richard (of RBB) I would have fancied them.
They put me in a 'banana boat' a long plastic stretcher that one of them could tow behind him. One of them retrieved my skis. They took me to the field clinic and assessed my injury as a bad ankle fracture that needed hospital treatment. When they asked me if I had someone to take me to hospital (nearest one Raetihi about 20 minutes from Ohakune) I said sure. I don't know why I said sure perhaps it was that stupid male independence thing coming out again. I got help from the rescue team to the car with my skis. They left me to my own devices. If I had been a young attractive woman or even just attractive I bet that at least one of them would have stayed but there you go. I drove down the mountain ( a tricky exercise in winter conditions from Turoa to Ohakune especially when the car is a manual). A few minutes into the drive I was wishing I had any number of previous cars that were automatic. Trying to work brake, accelerator and clutch with one foot while the other foot is sending shock waves of pain up your body at every bump is not good. Going down a snow and ice covered road without having fitted the snow chains necessitates a great deal of brake and clutch work. What a stupid c##t! At Ohakune I looked at the map to Raetihi and was relieved that it wasn't far away and on the relative flat. When I got there I parked as close as possible to the front doors and hopped in. This was late afternoon on a Sunday and the staff weren't rushed off their feet being a country hospital but were about to do some staff changeovers. I bet they didn't want to see me. They were wonderfully courteous though and helped me to a cubicle and a bed to sit on. When they had a look at my foot there was a lot of 'tut-tutting' going on. They asked me how I had done it and I explained which was OK but when they asked how I had got to the hospital they were horrified to hear that I had driven. Irresponsible I know but this was the 80's ( 1987 to be precise).
They explained that the injury looked bad and needed the orthopaedic surgeon to look at it . They also explained that the orthopaedic surgeon would not be available until the next day. Naively I thought that they could just strap it up and I would drive off home to auckland. I had to go to work the next day didn't they know. They politely told me to have a couple of aspirins, a cup of tea and a good lie down. And, by the way, seeing that there was always a nice big roast for Sunday dinner (midday in rural New Zealand) there wasn't going to be any tea (evening meal in rural New Zealand). "Great" I thought having had no food since a Caesar salad the night before as I had driven down at 4 AM and skied all day.
I was helped to a bed in a tiny ward that had two other inmates.
One apparently had been there for a couple of years with an arm and a leg amputated due to a car accident, the other because he was recovering from an appendectomy operation. Oh, the versatility of country hospitals. I tried to settle down for the evening/night. I don't like being in hospitals. I had been in one for a week when I was young and it made me stir-crazy. as I grew older I realised that I have mild claustrophobia. This, combined with a natural shyness and maybe unnatural dislike of close association with strangers made the looming night and day stay in this hospital unpalatable. The next day (interminable) the orthopaedic surgeon arrived in the afternoon and after looking at my ankle said that the swelling as a result of my stupid actions made it impossible to do anything to it.
A couple of days went past waiting for the swelling to subside before x-rays could be taken, the injury evaluated and measures taken to fix it. It was a spiral fracture, not a straight break so that was good but the surrounding muscles and ligaments were stressed. Dressing and plaster-casting and various other procedures took to the following weekend. I was able to leave the hospital a week after I went in. I had a manual car outside (that someone had driven around the back to a secure parking space at no cost) and had a heavy, old-fashioned plaster - cast on my leg. How was I going to get back to Auckland? The hospital staff who had looked after me superbly during the week had a solution. One of them had a relative who was going to Auckland on Monday. He cancelled his travel arrangements to drive me in my car here which he did getting me to my home. I arranged a taxi to take him to where he needed to go to. On the way I had him stop at Ohakune at a flower shop and I bought the biggest bunch of flowers they had and sent them to the Raetahi hospital staff.
The week I had there was eye-opening. The attention and care that the small staff showed to the patients was a model in customer service. The guy with the amputated limbs received as much love and consideration as he would from his family (if they had bothered to look after him). I was frankly gog-smacked. As a New Zealander I am sorry and ashamed that small hospital units like the Raetahi ones have been allowed to be disbanded. The community care and work ethic is something to be valued not evaluated in terms of inefficiency and waste. I feel proud to have experienced it at first hand when it was still alive and well.
I used to love to ski. I haven't done much of it for a while and when I have it has been a bit of the sedentary kind. Years ago I used to travel regularly from Auckland to Ruapehu for a day's skiing and, if I stayed longer would stay in the ski lodge at Ohakune that I was a shareholder in or on the mountain in a ski club's lodge that I was a member of. It filled up a lot of my time in winter. When I did the day trips I used to leave auckland at about 4 in the morning, ski all day and drive back to auckland arriving home about 11PM. It was a good day out. I used to do this on my own usually and only sometimes would go with the Waikato University Ski Club members. I didn't go to Waikato University. I went to Victoria University. I didn't belong to the Vic ski club but did stay in their lodge a few times. You don't want to know this of course you probably just want me to get to the part where I broke my neck or wish I would.
My
One day, after having made a couple of good runs I had climbed up to Crater Lake, skiid and tramped down where I couldn't ski and got close to the ski fields. I started to make my way down to Turoa and managed to lose a ski pole. It skidded down a way and was caught on an edge. I took my skis off, planted them and the other pole in the snow and side-stepped down to get the pole. Just as I reached it the snow layer beneath my feet gave way and I went over the edge. It was steep. Very steep. Heights don't worry me and I have had a few drops in my time but this was scary. I was looking a long way down the mountain at what seemed to me a vertical drop. I went straight down, feet first knowing that it was not going to be good.
I saw ground (snow and ice ) coming up at me rapidly and tried to do what I had learned with parachuting - flex and roll. I did this but on impact heard/felt a disturbing crack. I knew that I had done damage but wasn't sure what or how bad. Going down it hadn't registered with me that I was going to land on a kind of ledge/path that was an unofficial part of the ski run, the major part of which was still a good way down below. The fall before hitting this was about 30 foot which was a lot better than the couple of hundred further over the edge of the path to the valley below.
I lay there a while, not stunned exactly but a bit breathless and embarrassed. I knew that I couldn't make my own way down, that my skis were up above me and that I would have to rely on someone to help me. I hate that as most men do. Hey! We never ask for directions or advice in hardware stores. We just do OK? About 5 minutes later two skiiers making their way down the narrow path I was lying on found me and went down the mountain to get the ski patrol. These guys, the ski patrol, are really good skiers and do what they do for love of the sport. They travel the world skiing and generally come from countries like Austria, Norway, Sweden, USA, France etc. Young, fit, good looking and tanned, if I were a young woman or Richard (of RBB) I would have fancied them.
They put me in a 'banana boat' a long plastic stretcher that one of them could tow behind him. One of them retrieved my skis. They took me to the field clinic and assessed my injury as a bad ankle fracture that needed hospital treatment. When they asked me if I had someone to take me to hospital (nearest one Raetihi about 20 minutes from Ohakune) I said sure. I don't know why I said sure perhaps it was that stupid male independence thing coming out again. I got help from the rescue team to the car with my skis. They left me to my own devices. If I had been a young attractive woman or even just attractive I bet that at least one of them would have stayed but there you go. I drove down the mountain ( a tricky exercise in winter conditions from Turoa to Ohakune especially when the car is a manual). A few minutes into the drive I was wishing I had any number of previous cars that were automatic. Trying to work brake, accelerator and clutch with one foot while the other foot is sending shock waves of pain up your body at every bump is not good. Going down a snow and ice covered road without having fitted the snow chains necessitates a great deal of brake and clutch work. What a stupid c##t! At Ohakune I looked at the map to Raetihi and was relieved that it wasn't far away and on the relative flat. When I got there I parked as close as possible to the front doors and hopped in. This was late afternoon on a Sunday and the staff weren't rushed off their feet being a country hospital but were about to do some staff changeovers. I bet they didn't want to see me. They were wonderfully courteous though and helped me to a cubicle and a bed to sit on. When they had a look at my foot there was a lot of 'tut-tutting' going on. They asked me how I had done it and I explained which was OK but when they asked how I had got to the hospital they were horrified to hear that I had driven. Irresponsible I know but this was the 80's ( 1987 to be precise).
They explained that the injury looked bad and needed the orthopaedic surgeon to look at it . They also explained that the orthopaedic surgeon would not be available until the next day. Naively I thought that they could just strap it up and I would drive off home to auckland. I had to go to work the next day didn't they know. They politely told me to have a couple of aspirins, a cup of tea and a good lie down. And, by the way, seeing that there was always a nice big roast for Sunday dinner (midday in rural New Zealand) there wasn't going to be any tea (evening meal in rural New Zealand). "Great" I thought having had no food since a Caesar salad the night before as I had driven down at 4 AM and skied all day.
I was helped to a bed in a tiny ward that had two other inmates.
One apparently had been there for a couple of years with an arm and a leg amputated due to a car accident, the other because he was recovering from an appendectomy operation. Oh, the versatility of country hospitals. I tried to settle down for the evening/night. I don't like being in hospitals. I had been in one for a week when I was young and it made me stir-crazy. as I grew older I realised that I have mild claustrophobia. This, combined with a natural shyness and maybe unnatural dislike of close association with strangers made the looming night and day stay in this hospital unpalatable. The next day (interminable) the orthopaedic surgeon arrived in the afternoon and after looking at my ankle said that the swelling as a result of my stupid actions made it impossible to do anything to it.
A couple of days went past waiting for the swelling to subside before x-rays could be taken, the injury evaluated and measures taken to fix it. It was a spiral fracture, not a straight break so that was good but the surrounding muscles and ligaments were stressed. Dressing and plaster-casting and various other procedures took to the following weekend. I was able to leave the hospital a week after I went in. I had a manual car outside (that someone had driven around the back to a secure parking space at no cost) and had a heavy, old-fashioned plaster - cast on my leg. How was I going to get back to Auckland? The hospital staff who had looked after me superbly during the week had a solution. One of them had a relative who was going to Auckland on Monday. He cancelled his travel arrangements to drive me in my car here which he did getting me to my home. I arranged a taxi to take him to where he needed to go to. On the way I had him stop at Ohakune at a flower shop and I bought the biggest bunch of flowers they had and sent them to the Raetahi hospital staff.
The week I had there was eye-opening. The attention and care that the small staff showed to the patients was a model in customer service. The guy with the amputated limbs received as much love and consideration as he would from his family (if they had bothered to look after him). I was frankly gog-smacked. As a New Zealander I am sorry and ashamed that small hospital units like the Raetahi ones have been allowed to be disbanded. The community care and work ethic is something to be valued not evaluated in terms of inefficiency and waste. I feel proud to have experienced it at first hand when it was still alive and well.
Monday, 21 March 2011
PRINCE WILLIAM IN NUDE ROMP WITH LADY GAGA AT GADAFFI'S PALACE
Just want to see if this post will get more hits than Richard's or TSB's
Sunday, 20 March 2011
LUCKY # 10
Nicola and Richard will be disappointed to learn that I have more than 9 lives.
Keeping with a hunting theme, in 1980, my 10th life was put at risk.
My brother and his friend Richard invited me to join them in flying by helicopter into the Tararuas one weekend.
We assembled early Saturday morning at Wellington airport to fly in Peter Button's jet ranger. Peter was famous for his search and rescue exploits and was a pioneer in helicopter rescues.
Sadly he was killed some years ago in a crash in Tawa while helping the police look for an escaped prisoner.
Peter was a superb flyer and, flying up the river valleys in the Tararua ranges he demonstrated some of his skills.
At one point, banking at a 45 degree angle, the rear door flew open. As I was sitting next to the door I popped out.
Fortunately I was wearing my gunbelt strapped across my chest. It wasn't exactly practical but looked good in the mirror.
I was glad that I was wearing it however and that I had securely done it up (but not the seatbelt) because Richard, who was sitting next to me grabbed the belt and held on. Terry, my brother held on to him so we had this scenario of me half out of the jet ranger, Richard leaning out holding me and Terry being the anchor until Peter Button finished the turn and straightened up. I have to admit that I was scared, watching the river and rocks flashing past below.
We landed quite a way up the river (The Otaki I think) and set up camp. Our intention was to do some hunting on Saturday night and Sunday morning and make our way out following the river to a prearranged pick-up point somewhere north of Waikanae. The rain put paid to this idea. It bucketed down and the river was rising rapidly. As we were in a gorge we decided to get out of there. It was lucky we did as a couple of hours into the tramp/run the river had risen to the point where the tracks were covered and we had to float down it using our packs for buoyancy. At this stage the river while flowing fast was merely deep. If we had stayed where we were we would have been forced out by flood waters and these are most dangerous because of the debris in the water. We were, I guess. ahead of the tree trunks and other stuff that were no doubt hurtling down the river further up.
We ended up at our pick up point wet and bedraggled. Luckily the pick up point was a pub so we wet our insides to match our outsides while waiting for our early transport home.
Keeping with a hunting theme, in 1980, my 10th life was put at risk.
My brother and his friend Richard invited me to join them in flying by helicopter into the Tararuas one weekend.
We assembled early Saturday morning at Wellington airport to fly in Peter Button's jet ranger. Peter was famous for his search and rescue exploits and was a pioneer in helicopter rescues.
 |
| Peter Button rescue |
Sadly he was killed some years ago in a crash in Tawa while helping the police look for an escaped prisoner.
Peter was a superb flyer and, flying up the river valleys in the Tararua ranges he demonstrated some of his skills.
At one point, banking at a 45 degree angle, the rear door flew open. As I was sitting next to the door I popped out.
Fortunately I was wearing my gunbelt strapped across my chest. It wasn't exactly practical but looked good in the mirror.
I was glad that I was wearing it however and that I had securely done it up (but not the seatbelt) because Richard, who was sitting next to me grabbed the belt and held on. Terry, my brother held on to him so we had this scenario of me half out of the jet ranger, Richard leaning out holding me and Terry being the anchor until Peter Button finished the turn and straightened up. I have to admit that I was scared, watching the river and rocks flashing past below.
We landed quite a way up the river (The Otaki I think) and set up camp. Our intention was to do some hunting on Saturday night and Sunday morning and make our way out following the river to a prearranged pick-up point somewhere north of Waikanae. The rain put paid to this idea. It bucketed down and the river was rising rapidly. As we were in a gorge we decided to get out of there. It was lucky we did as a couple of hours into the tramp/run the river had risen to the point where the tracks were covered and we had to float down it using our packs for buoyancy. At this stage the river while flowing fast was merely deep. If we had stayed where we were we would have been forced out by flood waters and these are most dangerous because of the debris in the water. We were, I guess. ahead of the tree trunks and other stuff that were no doubt hurtling down the river further up.
We ended up at our pick up point wet and bedraggled. Luckily the pick up point was a pub so we wet our insides to match our outsides while waiting for our early transport home.
Saturday, 19 March 2011
LUCKY # 9a and 9b
I have a liking for guns. When I was younger I was a member of a gun club and my brother and I used to win the junior championships each year, either him being first and me second or vice versa each year. Whilst I don't own a gun anymore I would still like to fire one. At targets though, not at live things. My brother didn't mind shooting animals. I did. He would go on deer, pig, goat, duck etc. shooting trips. I would take a camera. In the early days I used to own guns and did go on a couple of shooting trips. The only animal I ever shot was a deer and I am really sorry that I did that.
9 a. In 1978 I went for a weekend trip with my brother's friend Richard (not Richard of RBB) to the Orongaronga's (part of Rimutaka Forest Park). This is a mountain range close to Wellington. Richard's parents owned a bach at Palliser Bay which we used to use as a stepping off point to go up the rivers into the bush. We drove over there late on Saturday night and stayed in the bach before walking pre- dawn along Ocean Beach and up one of the rivers. We climbed up scree slopes and cut across the bush line looking for game. I had my Parker Hale Lee Enfield based .303. This was a fantastic gun that I had bought when I was 15 and still at school. I remember buying it at Tisdalls in Willis street at lunchtime, carrying it back to school (with a couple of boxes of ammo) and giving it to Father Scanbury the sports master to look after until after school. Oh the good old days (pre Columbine) eh!
When we shifted our position for a better vantage point of the river below my feet gave way beneath me and off I went down a steep bit of stony ground, over a small cliff and crashed into a second line of bush. This had the positive effect of slowing my descent but the Manuka and other small trees had very sharp branches that ripped and scratched my face, arms and legs while the rocks bashed and bruised the muscles underneath. All this time I had the trusty .303 firmly in my grip and it twisted and twirled under my body as I went down. At this time of my life we were cowboys in a lot of things we did but we did have gun sense. We never walked about with a round up the chamber. We only chambered a round immediately prior to taking a shot. If it hadn't been for this there is the possibility I might have shot myself or Richard. When I finally came to a standstill I was too far down the bank to climb back up so made my way down to the river and walked back to the coast. Richard abandoned the hunt and eventually joined me on the river bank. We cleaned up as best we could and headed back to wellington. My scratches and bruises were hurting like hell but my girlfriend Suzanne was very sympathetic making it all worthwhile.
This little experience wasn't life threatening but could have turned out badly.
My other bad experience with a firearm still sends shivers down my spine.
9 b 1972. My brother was off to a friend's farm and asked if I wanted to come along. He said bring a gun as the farmer had a rabbit problem that needed sorting. Now, I've never shot a rabbit and never will do so but I said yes. Why? A bit of sibling bonding I suppose. My brother and I had grown apart over the years. I picked up the old Anschutz .22 from my Dad's place. The gun hadn't been used in a while and I hadn't shot a gun for a while either.
At the farm when we went out shooting there was a point where I had a rabbit lined up in my sights. I had the stock pressed against my cheek, sighting down the barrel across open sights and was gently squeezing the trigger when my brother fired and brought down 'my' rabbit. I was secretly pleased that I didn't fire. As this was late in the day we were calling it quits. I still had a bullet in the chamber of the single shot .22. Before getting in the jeep I stretched out the rifle at arms length, pointing it at a clay bank and pulled the trigger. There was a very loud explosion, much louder than a .22 report is normally. I felt something sting my cheek and my eyes were blinded by smoke and dust. After the shock (mine and the others around me) we established that the bullet in the chamber had exploded and back-fired from the bolt mechanism. My face was black with gunpowder and my cheek was bleeding from a deep cut that a piece of the brass cartridge had made when it exited. On checking the rifle we established that there was a piece missing from the bullet carriage in the gun. It was a small piece that had the double function of carrying the bullet and closing off the rear of the brass cartridge ensuring that all the impetus goes down the barrel. Fairly important I should think. If I had pulled the trigger when I was sighted on the bunny (that chewin' the carrot guy springs to mind) with the rifle so close to my eye the explosion and backfire could possibly have sent the cartridge piece into my brain and the gases and gunpowder would undoubtedly have permanently blinded me. Someone was looking after me that day.
9 a. In 1978 I went for a weekend trip with my brother's friend Richard (not Richard of RBB) to the Orongaronga's (part of Rimutaka Forest Park). This is a mountain range close to Wellington. Richard's parents owned a bach at Palliser Bay which we used to use as a stepping off point to go up the rivers into the bush. We drove over there late on Saturday night and stayed in the bach before walking pre- dawn along Ocean Beach and up one of the rivers. We climbed up scree slopes and cut across the bush line looking for game. I had my Parker Hale Lee Enfield based .303. This was a fantastic gun that I had bought when I was 15 and still at school. I remember buying it at Tisdalls in Willis street at lunchtime, carrying it back to school (with a couple of boxes of ammo) and giving it to Father Scanbury the sports master to look after until after school. Oh the good old days (pre Columbine) eh!
 |
| Parker Hale .303 |
When we shifted our position for a better vantage point of the river below my feet gave way beneath me and off I went down a steep bit of stony ground, over a small cliff and crashed into a second line of bush. This had the positive effect of slowing my descent but the Manuka and other small trees had very sharp branches that ripped and scratched my face, arms and legs while the rocks bashed and bruised the muscles underneath. All this time I had the trusty .303 firmly in my grip and it twisted and twirled under my body as I went down. At this time of my life we were cowboys in a lot of things we did but we did have gun sense. We never walked about with a round up the chamber. We only chambered a round immediately prior to taking a shot. If it hadn't been for this there is the possibility I might have shot myself or Richard. When I finally came to a standstill I was too far down the bank to climb back up so made my way down to the river and walked back to the coast. Richard abandoned the hunt and eventually joined me on the river bank. We cleaned up as best we could and headed back to wellington. My scratches and bruises were hurting like hell but my girlfriend Suzanne was very sympathetic making it all worthwhile.
This little experience wasn't life threatening but could have turned out badly.
My other bad experience with a firearm still sends shivers down my spine.
9 b 1972. My brother was off to a friend's farm and asked if I wanted to come along. He said bring a gun as the farmer had a rabbit problem that needed sorting. Now, I've never shot a rabbit and never will do so but I said yes. Why? A bit of sibling bonding I suppose. My brother and I had grown apart over the years. I picked up the old Anschutz .22 from my Dad's place. The gun hadn't been used in a while and I hadn't shot a gun for a while either.
 |
| Anshutz .22 |
At the farm when we went out shooting there was a point where I had a rabbit lined up in my sights. I had the stock pressed against my cheek, sighting down the barrel across open sights and was gently squeezing the trigger when my brother fired and brought down 'my' rabbit. I was secretly pleased that I didn't fire. As this was late in the day we were calling it quits. I still had a bullet in the chamber of the single shot .22. Before getting in the jeep I stretched out the rifle at arms length, pointing it at a clay bank and pulled the trigger. There was a very loud explosion, much louder than a .22 report is normally. I felt something sting my cheek and my eyes were blinded by smoke and dust. After the shock (mine and the others around me) we established that the bullet in the chamber had exploded and back-fired from the bolt mechanism. My face was black with gunpowder and my cheek was bleeding from a deep cut that a piece of the brass cartridge had made when it exited. On checking the rifle we established that there was a piece missing from the bullet carriage in the gun. It was a small piece that had the double function of carrying the bullet and closing off the rear of the brass cartridge ensuring that all the impetus goes down the barrel. Fairly important I should think. If I had pulled the trigger when I was sighted on the bunny (that chewin' the carrot guy springs to mind) with the rifle so close to my eye the explosion and backfire could possibly have sent the cartridge piece into my brain and the gases and gunpowder would undoubtedly have permanently blinded me. Someone was looking after me that day.
LUCKY # 8
Staying with a car theme I have had a few lucky escapes whilst driving. The first company car I had in 1981 was a Ford Cortina Ghia. It went like the clappers. One day a huge quarry truck loaded up with boulders turned right in front of me. I tried to avoid it but still hit it amidships. It didn't move an imch but the Cortina crumpled. I was carted off to the emergency doctors as I hit my head on the windscreen but was OK. The car was written off. My second company car, a Holden Commodore was squashed between two trucks. I was stopped at lights in Otahuhu at the bottom of a hill behind a big truck and could see in my rear view mirror a huge truck careering down the road obviously out of control. I took the car out of gear so as not to wreck the automatic gear systems and put the handbrake on. The truck slammed into the back and catapulted me into the back of the truck in front which in turn smashed into the car in front of it. My car was considerably shortened and was written off.
My third company car, another brand new Holden Commodore .... nothing happenned, I drove it without incident until it was replaced.
What this post is about is my 11th company car, a VW Passat. One Saturday I was driving out to work on the Western motorway in Auckland. This is a multi lane highway, at the point I was on it it was three lanes each way. It was very very windy. Up ahead I saw, way up in the sky what looked like flying paper.
As I got closer I saw that it wasn't paper but full-sized sheets of Gib board.
Gib (Gibralter) board is plaster board about 13 mm thick, 1200 mm wide and 3 metres long. Each sheet is reasonably heavy (about 8 kilos). It is used for lining walls and ceilings in houses. It shouldn't be flying through the air.
My first thought once I realised what it was, was "That looks dangerous, it could land on someone". It was still higher than the very high motorway lampposts at this stage. My next thought was "That looks even more dangerous, it looks like they are going to land on me." Two of them did. One of the boards hit the front of the car damaging the grille, lights and bonnet. Luckily it hit in a vertical position rather than horizontal as it may have skidded across the bonnet and through the windscreen on the drivers side. Result - decapitation.
The second board smashed into the windscreen on the passenger side, again fortunately vertical.
The windscreen 'starred' making it hard to see through.
What was worse though was that as this was plasterboard the white plaster instantly covered the entire windscreen. It was the Hillman Minx experience all over again.
I was in the outside lane. I was travelling at over 100 kph. I thought "Holy shit" all over again. Driving blind I ket the car going straight by using the side mirrors hoping that there was nothing in front of me while I slowed down and manoeuvred over the three lanes to the side of the motorway. Thank God it was Saturday (and not Friday). Traffic was light. When I finally stopped and inspected the damage another car pulled up and said that he had rung *555 for motorway patrol. When the police came it was established that there was a car and trailer on the other side of the motorway with a load of plasterboard. He hadn't tied it down properly. His wife was distraught as she thought that someone would get killed as they saw the board take off. The policeman told me that the driver would be charged with careless use of a motor vehicle, insecure load etc. He was lucky that it wasn't also manslaughter. Hey! I was lucky too.
My third company car, another brand new Holden Commodore .... nothing happenned, I drove it without incident until it was replaced.
What this post is about is my 11th company car, a VW Passat. One Saturday I was driving out to work on the Western motorway in Auckland. This is a multi lane highway, at the point I was on it it was three lanes each way. It was very very windy. Up ahead I saw, way up in the sky what looked like flying paper.
As I got closer I saw that it wasn't paper but full-sized sheets of Gib board.
Gib (Gibralter) board is plaster board about 13 mm thick, 1200 mm wide and 3 metres long. Each sheet is reasonably heavy (about 8 kilos). It is used for lining walls and ceilings in houses. It shouldn't be flying through the air.
My first thought once I realised what it was, was "That looks dangerous, it could land on someone". It was still higher than the very high motorway lampposts at this stage. My next thought was "That looks even more dangerous, it looks like they are going to land on me." Two of them did. One of the boards hit the front of the car damaging the grille, lights and bonnet. Luckily it hit in a vertical position rather than horizontal as it may have skidded across the bonnet and through the windscreen on the drivers side. Result - decapitation.
The second board smashed into the windscreen on the passenger side, again fortunately vertical.
The windscreen 'starred' making it hard to see through.
What was worse though was that as this was plasterboard the white plaster instantly covered the entire windscreen. It was the Hillman Minx experience all over again.
I was in the outside lane. I was travelling at over 100 kph. I thought "Holy shit" all over again. Driving blind I ket the car going straight by using the side mirrors hoping that there was nothing in front of me while I slowed down and manoeuvred over the three lanes to the side of the motorway. Thank God it was Saturday (and not Friday). Traffic was light. When I finally stopped and inspected the damage another car pulled up and said that he had rung *555 for motorway patrol. When the police came it was established that there was a car and trailer on the other side of the motorway with a load of plasterboard. He hadn't tied it down properly. His wife was distraught as she thought that someone would get killed as they saw the board take off. The policeman told me that the driver would be charged with careless use of a motor vehicle, insecure load etc. He was lucky that it wasn't also manslaughter. Hey! I was lucky too.
Friday, 18 March 2011
LUCKY # 7
Writing Lucky # 6 reminded me of another time, another car and another dangerous event. The car was my third car, a Hillman Minx 1963.
This was a great car bought for $599 in 1972. My Triumph Herald had been ordered off the road by then - yes, officially ordered off the road. One evening a traffic cop pulled me over and told me that he was going cross-eyed following me as the car seemed to be going sideways whilst going forward. It seems that the initial crash and a subsequent one where a milk tanker went into the back of it had twisted the chassis. This and the fact that the bonnet was held down by ropes made Mr Plod order me off the road. There wasn't a stickering system back then. He just made a record of it and said not to ever, ever put the car on the road again. It was a smaller community then in Wellington so sure as eggs if I did drive it I'd be caught. I advertised it in the paper as a 'buy for wrecking' deal. A guy came along and bought it for $100 (the wrecking yards offered me $30). He said he needed a car to drive to Napier to visit his girlfriend. I told him that it had been ordered off the road but he didn't care. I don't know if he made it or not.
You know, like those mysterious things that happen and you never hear of the outcome like when you threw that stone right up in the air in the playground and it came down amongst a crowd of kids and then an ambulance came and a kid was taken away and you never saw that kid again. Remember? .....
This was a great car. It just kept going and going. It travelled at a really good clip (Second remembers a trip through the South Island when we were going to Tony's wedding in Christchurch. 80 mph was sort of the norm).
Once when travelling from Wellington to Auckland, after filling up with petrol and oil at Te Kuiti we were as usual barrelling along at a pretty serious speed. I don't entirely recall everyone who was in the car but there was definitely Tony and Mike and one other, If the one other was Richard he would have been in the passenger seat, chain smoking and holding on to the dashboard with his eyes closed but as I was in the passenger seat it couldn't have been him. It might have been Noel who would have been sitting in the back seat wrapped up in an army surplus greatcoat several sizes too large for him and farting. Mike, a lovely guy, very intelligent and because of his good looks (well better than Richard's, Tony's and mine) was the front person to get us in to parties. His mechanical abilities were somewhat lacking though. It was he that, at one of the Wanganui Folk Festival weekends on a trip to Raetahi while the rest of us were sleeping in the car, drove all the way back with the handbrake fully engaged and burnt out the brakes. After checking the oil at the service station Mike failed to properly close the bonnet of the car.
A few miles down the road as Tony had the car up to our normal cruising speed (about 70 mph), the view in front of us suddenly changed from this:
to this:
Holy shit!
Have we gone blind?
Is there a snow storm?
No. The bonnet of the car had flown up totally obscuring the windscreen. After a few seconds Tony and I realised what had happened and he wound down the drivers window and stuck his head out while I leaned horizontally to look through the tiny space between the bottom of the windscreen and the bottom of the bonnet to direct him along the road until we could stop. We made a wobbly couple of hundred yards on both sides of the main highway before safely pulling over to the side of the road. Our hearts were hammering and it took a few minutes for us to regain our composure.
If a logging truck or nay other traffic had been coming the other way we would have been toast. Certainly if this had happened on a corner we would have gone off the road. Lucky I guess.
This was a great car bought for $599 in 1972. My Triumph Herald had been ordered off the road by then - yes, officially ordered off the road. One evening a traffic cop pulled me over and told me that he was going cross-eyed following me as the car seemed to be going sideways whilst going forward. It seems that the initial crash and a subsequent one where a milk tanker went into the back of it had twisted the chassis. This and the fact that the bonnet was held down by ropes made Mr Plod order me off the road. There wasn't a stickering system back then. He just made a record of it and said not to ever, ever put the car on the road again. It was a smaller community then in Wellington so sure as eggs if I did drive it I'd be caught. I advertised it in the paper as a 'buy for wrecking' deal. A guy came along and bought it for $100 (the wrecking yards offered me $30). He said he needed a car to drive to Napier to visit his girlfriend. I told him that it had been ordered off the road but he didn't care. I don't know if he made it or not.
You know, like those mysterious things that happen and you never hear of the outcome like when you threw that stone right up in the air in the playground and it came down amongst a crowd of kids and then an ambulance came and a kid was taken away and you never saw that kid again. Remember? .....
This was a great car. It just kept going and going. It travelled at a really good clip (Second remembers a trip through the South Island when we were going to Tony's wedding in Christchurch. 80 mph was sort of the norm).
Once when travelling from Wellington to Auckland, after filling up with petrol and oil at Te Kuiti we were as usual barrelling along at a pretty serious speed. I don't entirely recall everyone who was in the car but there was definitely Tony and Mike and one other, If the one other was Richard he would have been in the passenger seat, chain smoking and holding on to the dashboard with his eyes closed but as I was in the passenger seat it couldn't have been him. It might have been Noel who would have been sitting in the back seat wrapped up in an army surplus greatcoat several sizes too large for him and farting. Mike, a lovely guy, very intelligent and because of his good looks (well better than Richard's, Tony's and mine) was the front person to get us in to parties. His mechanical abilities were somewhat lacking though. It was he that, at one of the Wanganui Folk Festival weekends on a trip to Raetahi while the rest of us were sleeping in the car, drove all the way back with the handbrake fully engaged and burnt out the brakes. After checking the oil at the service station Mike failed to properly close the bonnet of the car.
A few miles down the road as Tony had the car up to our normal cruising speed (about 70 mph), the view in front of us suddenly changed from this:
to this:
Holy shit!
Have we gone blind?
Is there a snow storm?
No. The bonnet of the car had flown up totally obscuring the windscreen. After a few seconds Tony and I realised what had happened and he wound down the drivers window and stuck his head out while I leaned horizontally to look through the tiny space between the bottom of the windscreen and the bottom of the bonnet to direct him along the road until we could stop. We made a wobbly couple of hundred yards on both sides of the main highway before safely pulling over to the side of the road. Our hearts were hammering and it took a few minutes for us to regain our composure.
If a logging truck or nay other traffic had been coming the other way we would have been toast. Certainly if this had happened on a corner we would have gone off the road. Lucky I guess.
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