look over this way

I've gone back

Probability.

Taste the weirdness of this: my flatmate Robbie has this thing on his computer called Stumble, an application that selects random internet sites that it thinks you might get a kick out of, refining its choices as you tell it yea or nay. If you like sites that feature fluffy kittens in baskets, or violent sodomy, or unsettling/illegal combinations of the two then this puppy will unearth them for you. It's a good way of wasting a couple of hours of your life, and since I'm skiving off work today that's what I'm all about. So I click the button and the first thing it offers me, from all the squidillions of pges on the net, is this page - a dancehall/dub mix track by none other than Dub Boy, AKA Tim Rayner, AKA my mate Tim from Bristol. I used to go to Ruffnek Diskotek, his club night. Well occasionally anyway, because I'm not that into Dub music. Still... what are the fucking odds, eh?

I can't think that that's hygienic.

I think I might have been let in on a secret. A huge, terrible secret know only to women, girls, ladies, females, wenches and their ilk. Apparently this is common knowledge to many girls and it's the kind of thing that boys don't get let in on, which sounds about right. And the secret is this:

In emergency situations macrobiotic yoghurt can be inserted vaginally as a cheap and effective method of curing thrush.

Anyone care to confirm or deny?

Are You There, God? It's me, Pete.

I never ask you for anything - mainly because I have grave doubts about your actual existence - but if you could see your way clear, in your possibly fictional omnipotence, to making the new Batman movie as good as it's cracked up to be and not a heartbreakingly awful piece of bobbins I would be eternally grateful. I am prepared to give up kebabs, Battlestar Galactica and internet pornography for this to happen, which might give you some idea of how much I'm invested in this movie. Thank you.

It's out on Friday and I'm as excited as a kitten in a cotton wool store. The last time this happened, with Batman Begins, and the finished product turned out not to be the greatest superhero movie ever committed to celluloid I was crushed. Gutted. Devastated. I've watched it many times since and now like it fine, but after that first viewing I was bereft. I swore then that I would never again become so het up over a comic book movie because it's just not healthy... but here I am again, three years later, in exactly the same position. Mr Nolan, Mr Bale, poor dead Mr Ledger, please don't let me down. I couldn't take the strain. I beg of you.

Answer The Question!

Hooray, says I, for New Zealand TV. If you want my full, unvarnished opinion I'd have to say it was shit - the very first time I turned on a television in New Zealand I was confronted by Jack Duckworth's glum, pug like visage, staring at me across the oceans from the snug of the Rover's Return - but with one little silver lining, namely their news, which is great. News reportage is New Zealand is an object lesson in how to make a very -a veeeeeeerrrry - little go an extremely long way. Since life in New Zealand is largely free of the wars, terrorism, disease and government corruption that is such a feature of life in other parts of the world the hard working news hounds of the land have to extract the maximum amount of dramatic news coverage from the bare minimum of interesting events.

Take today, for example; I watched the New Zealand Minister for Education (possibly. I think) get comprehensively savaged by a Kiwi Jeremy Paxman, a verbal mauling that ended with a glorious ten to fifteen second shot of the minister struck dumb in front of the camera - sweating, shaking, jowls a-tremble - and completely unable to answer the question put to him. The director must have been loving it, and Kiwi Paxman almost definitely had a boner squirrelled away there under his desk. Luckily the interiew was being conducted via satellite, otherwise Kiwi Paxman would most likely have vaulted said desk, ripped his fly open and started teabagging the minister live on air. It was masterful stuff, great to watch for those of us who like to see governments discomifted in any way possible.

And why? What had the minster done to deserve being disembowelled on national TV? Nothing much, really. There's a school somewhere that's been allowed to fall into a pretty shocking state of disrepair. That's it. Not good, but the 45 minute dossier it is not. But I like that, especially compared to Britain where the people cower in their hovels lest bombs and bird flu strike them and their families dead. I think it makes for a happier populace.

And Now, Sports.

NZ Farcelona 2 - Doddering Old Geezers - 17.


The Wellington Indoor Five-a-Side football league witnessed a clash of titanic proportions last night as NZ Farcelona, the ANZ bank collections team, took on a group of senior citizens only inches away from the cold embrace of the grave. And lost. Badly. It was only the Farce's second game and by God did it show - we were less of a football side than a men's synchronised running in circles team. To make a bad situation worse our opponents, who - as the scoreline suggests - beat us pretty fucking comprehensively - had a combined age of approximately 463. Some of them had white hair, actual white hair, and their immense victory was soundtracked by the gentle squelch of half a dozen colostomy bags. Despite their venerability, however, they were very much a force to be reckoned with, pinging in goals from all angles and distances while we of the Farce ran about aimlessly, collided with each other and, in one extreme case, started to cry.

I haven't played football in any capacity since before the heady days of Britpop and had only volunteered on the proviso that I'd get to be in goal, which at least involves less running about. Unfortunately, after the first three minutes saw me fish the ball out of the back of the net four times it was decided that someone with a bit more hand/eye co-ordination should replace me. Fair enough; I'm man enough to admit when I'm absolutely bleeding useless. And so I spent the remainder of the game attempting to win the ball off these soccer playing pensioners, only to have them nip round me with the panache of a young Georgie Best, hare off down the pitch and score another goal or two.

My personal high point: bodychecking someone's grandad and having him bounce off me like a pea off a drum. I'm sure I heard the gentle crackle of a splintering hip as he hit the floor but then he was up and away, seemingly unhurt. Golden generation, my arse.

The Fun of Bulls

A couple of hundred K out of Wellington, halfway to Wanganui, lies the sleepy hamlet of Bulls. Yes, you heard me right. Bulls is a small place, claustrophobically so, the kind of place where you might initially receive a warm welcome before finding yourself mysteriously disappeared and reduced to cutlets on the town barbecue, soaked in special sauce. Maybe you might be the next donor to the mayor's special Belt of Nipples. Who knows?

We didn't stop, only passed through. But the fun of Bulls comes in spotting the pun-based japery the good townsfolk have indulged in to pass the long, lonely days out there in the middle of fuck all. To whit:

On the town gift shop: Collecta-bull.
On the police station: Consta-bull.
On the local branch of Subway: Submersi-bull.
And my personal favourite, the church: Forgiva-bull.

And many more. You've got to admire a town prepared to extract that much mileage from a pun, the dedication required to really get the most out of that sucker. Bulls, I salute you. From a safe distance, because Christ knows I'm not stopping there.

Working For The Man

If there's anyone still out there, listen up. I'll have to be brief because I'm at work and surely can't have long before they come for me, with dogs and searchlights and lengths of rubber hose. Here's a summary of what's what.

1) I work for a bank, in an office. Strange, you might say, that I've travelled 11,000 miles to do exactly the same thing as I was doing at home but a brother's gotta eat, gotta pay the rent and that's all there is to it. There is, however, a strong possibility that I'm going to Hell. I dare say I'll see you there.

2) I spent last weekend in Wanganui (pronounced Wonga-nooey) and hereby declare it to be the Stourbridge of New Zealand. I was up doing the meet-the girlfriend's-parents thing, and very nice it was too.

3) Have now settled in to my new flat. My room smells of feet.

4) It's pissing down with rain. Apparently my life is destined to be eked out in perpetual winter. Am thinking of turning Goth.

5) My net access has been severely restricted, hence the lack of updates. but rest assured, my people: I'm still having a wicked time.

I can hear the snarling of Rottweilers and the clomp of jackbooted feet so I'll sign off. But keep reading. I'm still here!

Call 1-800-GULLIBLE.

I was watching one of those mad evangelical Christian TV channels the other day, the sort where a perma-tanned, middle aged American gentlemen tries to convince you that the best way to do God's Will is to give over your credit card details as soon as possible. It was strangely fascinating, in a faintly disturbing way. The main thrust of the Evangelist's point seemed to run thusly: the first 10% of a person's income belongs to God. If you're fool enough to keep God's cut of your paycheck (here I'm imagining God as loan shark in a 70's blaxploitation movie, complete with the universe's funkiest pimp hat) then he'll curse the rest of your money and you'll generally have a shitty time of it. Therefore, you should get the tainted tithe out of your account as soon as possible, ideally by giving it to Mr Perma-tan.

Which is a really cock-eyed way of justifying a pretty sensible proposal. The world probably would be a better place if we all gave a bit of cash to someone who needed it more. Society would be fairer, people would be kinder. Birds would sing, Christmases would be snowy, Deadwood would never have got cancelled. But can't people reach that conclusion themselves, through thought and reason and the application of morality? Surely we should have got past the stage where we need to believe in God and curses in order to do the right thing? I can't get me head round it.

My hour of Televangelism did throw up one funny moment. Mr Perma-tan, with his pointy white collar and spray-on hair, was beseeching his viewers to pick up the phone and donate, to feel the hand of God moving in them, guiding them, ridding them of the curse that has held them back all these years (that'll be that pesky 10%. And did you know they take all major credit cards?). And he said 'Please, if you get an engaged tone, be sure to dial again.' Because that'd be right pisser, wouldn't it? If it actually happened and the Big Man filled you with his spirit, the full on religious awakening, and you picked up the phone for your conversation with the Almighty, only to discover that the cunt was dealing with someone else? It'd be head in the oven time and no mistake. Or you might decide to put all of your faith, belief and money somewhere else. I hear Oprah is very popular.

My Current YouTube Favourites.

First, thrill to the inventive choreography of 'OK Go, on treadmills':




And don't stand up immediately after you've sat through 'Inoue Waka boob jiggle massage':



That is all. Interested parties (I'm looking at you, Glyn, Anthony) should try searching under 'Inoue Waka' where they will discover enough mental wanking ammunition to last them well into middle age.

A Girl Called Bob.

Some food for thought for my gentlemen readers: next time you're working your charming sex magic on some lucky lady in a club or at a party or maybe even a funeral, remember this - you're not just pulling her, you're pulling her friends as well. I had this the other night when I met a girl who goes by the slightly unusual name of Bob. I didn't find out about this until much later but Bob and her mates held an impromptu council of war, where I was vetted and my suitability assessed. Luckily for me, I was given the nod - I've got good teeth, apparently - but it could easily have gone the other way, and then where would I have been? If they've decided that you're no good then all the clever puns about biscuits (my one and only pulling tactic. I'd like to say it never fails but it does, often) in the world aren't going to save you. It ain't. Fuckin'. Happening.

So think on, lads. You may believe that you're making progress with that hot chick you've had your eye on but if you've wronged, neglected or in any way offended her mates then you're fucked. Or rather, you're not.

Bob's just a nickname, by the way. Still, it could make my next call to the parental homestead a tricky sell, as in:

Me: Ma, I've met a girl.
Ma: That's great news, Pete. What's her name?
Me: Bob.
(pause)
Ma: (slightly weepy) Is there anything you want to tell us, son? Because you know we'll always love you no matter what you do.

I don't need that kind of drama.

Stuff What I Seen.

Spotted while driving out to the supermarket: a crowd of people standing on the beach, staring at something out in the bay. Pointing, taking photographs. We pulled over for a nosy and there they were, about 300 metres out into the water - dolphins, probably ten or fifteen of them, accompanied by a small escort of dinghies and sail boats; tourists out for that perfect photo opportunity. Birds flocked and squawked overhead and dived for the fish that had drawn the dolphins into the bay, while above us a prop-powered Cessna sputtered and wobbled for a landing at Wellington airport. For half an hour or so all attention, human and animal, was concentrated on one small area, a square of hot light and cold blue water. For that little block of time everything seemed, for once, right with the world.

Sunday, 13th April. About four in the afternoon. Sort of makes me wonder what I'm going to come across next.

Pete's NewsPoke.

This is an artist's impression of the proposed Universitas Leadership Sanctuary, to be possibly built out in Nevada. It's supposed to be a sort of super exclusive hotel for world leaders, free from the stresses and strains of their lordly duties. A place where a tired El Presidente can relax, play Nintendo Wii in his pants and presumably enage in many many sessions of the Biscuit Game with the other presidents and prime ministers.

Firstly, I'm not sure I like the idea of the Prime Minister buggering off to Nevada to play table tennis with the President of Benin when he should be at home taking care of business. Secondly, and more pertinently, it seems like the worst kind of folly to put the most powerful men on the planet in a building like that. They already have the ability to wipe out humankind many times over - put them all together in something that looks like a cross between the Death Star and Superman's Fortress of Solitude and there'll be no telling what kind of crazed power-trips they'll embark on. Have another look at the picture. Now imagine it choked with corpses, with dead Mexicans impaled on the spikes and the mountains ablaze in the background. Screams fill the air. Roving deathsquads rove their roving way about. There are lasers. People shitting themselves. It's nightmarish. And, if you look very carefully at the central ball structure, you'll see Gordon Brown playing underpants Wii tennis with John McCain, while Nicholas Sarkozy gags on the biscuit.

That'll be the scene ten years after this thing gets built. We'd basically be installing them as supervillain dictators. We might as well issue them all Doctor Doom costumes and have done with it. The Universitas Leadership Sanctuary: it's a shit idea and no good will come of it.

Stuff What I Seen.

On the bus, cruising along Willis Street and into town, we passed a church. Most Kiwi buildings are timber and the churches are no exception. They look like regular English churches with spires and naves and all that but they're made of wood, in green or blue or yellow, and when the sun catches them they look stunning. Best of all, the church we passed had a little car park with garage, on the door of which was written:

XI: Thou Shalt Not Park.

I just love that.

Brand Awareness.

I had no difficulty buying a mobile phone. I had no difficulty opening a bank account. Catching the bus was easy, as was obtaining fish n' chips. Ditto chinese curry, and beer. Life in New Zealand is passing smoothly and without undue fuss.

But I do have trouble buying a loaf of bread. In England if I want bread I'll breeze into a shop and pick some up in under a minute. I can see some Hovis, for example, and know exactly what buying a loaf of hovis entails - how expensive it is or isn't, what it tastes like, whether it's brown or white, whether it has those annoying lumpy bits, whether it's suitable for my purposes, how it compares to the other available types of bread, everything - from only the briefest of glances at the packaging. And it all happens automatically, without any conscious effort on my part, not only with bread but with all groceries and general household stuff.

Here, there's none of that. I'm adrift. I have no brand awareness. It's all unfamiliar. Everything needs to be examined in careful detail, lest I drop a bollock and come home with drain cleaner when I was sent out to buy jam. In my head I'm converting from dollars to pound sterling, weighing my options, and then the old Asian bloke manning the counter (who fears and despises me) starts questioning me and I panic and leave without half of what I came in for. Creature of the 21st century that I am, without recognisable brand names I am lost. God knows how long I'll last after the apocalypse; hopefully I'll get taken out in one of the opening nuclear exchanges. Fingers crossed!

Good Morning Sunshine

I'm not the cat you saw yesterday
at least by tomorrow Iwon't be any way.
Whole new ball game, brand new day.

Quasimoto, 'Good Morning Sunshine'.