Day 101 - stupid article about blokes, beer and kids

Treasures magazine is a baby magazine with articles about babies sleeping, crapping, useless parental guidance and more crapping. Makes for appropriate reading in the toilet.

In any case, I came across an article titled "Fly on the Wall - what men talk about in coffee groups".

This might have been an interesting article. After all, I used to meet my mate Dave the builder with our little ones while we were on parental leave. Aside from the concerned looks we got from the anxious mothers when our kids were poking themselves in the eye with their fluffy spoons, it was all good.

But alas, the article is shite. Here are a couple of examples of the purported dialogue:

Dale: "Sorry I'm late. Had to go to a job in Karori on the way. Beers still cold though.
Matt: Sweet. No worries at all. You know, Dale, I've often wanted to get myself a beer but I worry how it might look to be drinking in a bar while looking after kids. You go right ahead, though".

For f*cks sake. Where do I start? A list of what is wrong with this exchange maybe:

(1) No man would ever drink with someone called Dale who just did a job in Karori.

(2) These blokes would not be in a pub, they would be in a cafe sucking down the strongest triple shot coffee they could find - they are looking after kids and need to stay awake.

(3) This has to have been written by a women. I have never in my life heard any of my mates be as passive aggressive about drinking a beer as this Matt character.

(4) Men don't worry about "how it might look". Why do you think we look so scruffy all our lives?

Here is how the conversation is more likely to go:

Dale: "Double shot flat white?"
Matt: "Yep"
Dale: "Getting any sleep?"
Matt: "Nope"

Day 99999 - The real DIY story

Now you have all seen the Mitre 10 advertisement on TV. First there is the blokey put up a fence, build a deck DIY manly man. This is contrasted with the sad looking "pay someone else to do it type". The advertisement then concludes by stating "You don't wanna be this type."

Actually, I am this guy, and more to the point, I aspire to be this type. You see, I work all week decoding complex legislation, drafting weighty legal opinions and dealing with other irritating bureaucrats,so I can come pay someone "qualified" to do my building stuff. So in the weekends, I can be the sit back, have a beer, play with the kids and read the paper type. Excellent. 

The key word in that last paragraph is "qualified". My mate Nigel the Builder breathes an enormous sigh of relief every time I tell him my local builder mate, Dave the Builder, is doing something to our old house. As Nigel the Builder will tell you, builders spend an enormous amount of their time fixing inept home handyman's errors. Builders by nature are grumpy. Builders are down right terrifying when they discover a botched job.

If you consider the Mitre 10's advertisement closely, it is quite brilliant. It encourages unqualified slobs to undertake DIY that looks good for a short while. Then it leaks, breaks, jams and/or buckles and the wife is forced to call the builder. This keeps surly builders in business, and Mitre 10 wins both times.  

Overall, undertaking DIY when you are clearly incompetent is much like shagging your mate's sister. It seems like a good idea at the time, but never is.










  

Day 501 - Manners Street v The Terrace

In a quirk of fate, or perhaps in an attempt to marginalise it, the Commission of Commission’s offices are located in the dubious surroundings of Manners Street. Of course, any self-respecting Government organisation is located within spitting distance of Parliament. Preferably on the much vaunted “The Terrace”.

The Treasury is at No1 The Terrace and flaunts its address with the drunken strut of a 5/10 women at any Wellington bar at 3am - it just knows it’s going to score. By comparison, Manners Street is like Tawa. One understands it exists, but would never actually visit. Much like Manners Street is on the way to Courtney Place or Cuba Street, Tawa is on the way to anywhere, but Tawa.

Having occupied office space on both The Terrace and Manners Street, I have come to appreciate Manners Street and it’s natives. Some preliminary observations:

- The other day, I saw what I thought was a walking highlighter pen. Alas it was a Manners Street dweller attired in a bright combo of pink and orange. The Terrace, by comparison allows only varying hues of grey on black – or if one is daring, navy blue for a casual Friday.

- The Mucho Mucho Cuban Coffee kiosk has the strongest coffee in Wellington.

- The narrow bus lane is a pleasing process of natural selection. To the Manners Street local, the slender bus lane is a free PlayStation game. To the bus drivers, a chance to vent some frustration at being a bus driver. And to newbies, a reason to buy some new underwear.

- The teenagers outside Burger King seem nice.

Day 0.03 - the private dump

In my view, one of the most important things to check out on your first day at a new job is the toilets. Its crucial. You don't know these people. Its therefore vital that the toilets are conducive to a decent level of privacy.

Nobody likes to to talk about it, but the last thing you want to do is listen to your workmate's toilet sounds. Plop, plop, quickly followed by unsettling machine gun fire. Then comes excruciating wiping sounds. If hell is other people, pure hell is other people taking an audible dump in the cubicle next to you.

In my old job, I used to sneak down to the ground floor disabled toilet to guarantee a serene bowel movement. I don't have any qualms about occupying a disabled space. To be sure, disabled people are entitled to a little extra space to swivel their wheelchairs, but they shouldn't have the monopoly on a secluded poo.

At the Commission of Commission, I have encountered near lavatory utopia. To even get to to the dunny, one must swipe through two security doors - its the Fort Knox of toilets. Even better, when you get there it is a fully enclosed room with only one toilet. Absolute bliss. I will never leave this job - they have got me for life. I call it "commode capture".  

 

For completeness sake, I googled "how much of your life do you spend on the toilet?" One Wiki answer said: "about one 2-5 years but women take longer on the toilet so it depends and that is just for the average person as well ... imagine a fatty". I'd rather not.

Day 5.76 (AA) - The dark alley and Adele

Life moves fast at the Commission of Commissions. Just last week a special meeting was convened to standardise stationary. When I pointed out that stationery is well, pretty standard, I was chastised for being a "resister to step change". That's the problem with being the FNG (f*cking new guy), no-one takes you seriously for at least 6 months.

Later that night. I was walking our small horse around Island Bay. As some of you might recall, we own a lethargic retired greyhound. She spends most of her time in a state of near slumber, curled up on cheap blankets we bought at the Warehouse. A life to envy.

Having completed her emissions on the front lawn of a chardonnay swilling Island Bayer, we headed for home via the dark alley which connects Clyde Street with the The Parade. At this point the mutt and myself were confronted by 4 unruly teens dressed like Jay-Z from the hood. Three things occurred to me:

(1) The dog must be furious at me. Being a bit chilly, I dressed her in a dog coat which was red with cute white paw prints all over it. She had lost all credibility as a noble beast. Her contempt was palpable.

(2) I am listening to Adele on the iPod - clearly I had lost credibility sometime ago.

(3) The dog might be able to run pretty fast, but I can't.

I needn't have worried. Here is what happened;

Jay Dog Gangster 1: "Choice dog bro"
Me: "Cheers"
Jay Dog Gangster 2: "He is massive - can we pat him?"
Me: "Sure"

The boys proceeded to fuss over the chuffed mutt and eventually said their goodbyes. The moral of the story - never listen to Adele on your iPod.

 

Day 3.3 - A technicality on the buses

Travelling on Wellington's buses from the South Coast to the city is pure misery. Gavin from the Hutt once travelled with me - it was a rare excursion south of the Basin Reserve. Never again he proclaimed as he quickly scuttled back to the relative safety of car yards and fried chicken outlets.

Do people from the Hutt ever venture to the South Coast? Well, not unless they have too. If they do, I've never seen them. And you would see them for Hutt natives are instantly recognisable. With a slightly dishevelled air, the Huttonian never quite believes they have made it to the bright lights across the harbour. The Huttonian never shakes the belief that the men in dark suits will one day banish their bogan butt back to the low lights of the Petone Pak n Save or Bob's Burger bar on High Street.

But I digress. As I boarded a full bus, I noted that at least half of the bus seats were taken by bleary eyed high school students. I noted with some amusement as the adults on the bus tried to reconcile the situation. The introverted  middle class policy wonks (is there another kind?) suspected that the students are supposed to offer their seats to adults. Unfortunately, their fear of making a scene and confronting a pack of surly teenagers prevented anyone from pointing out the possible breach.

Nowadays, I am stickler for the rules. Being a process and framework adviser at the Commission of Commissions my day consists of frustrating most everyone at every turn. Accordingly, I looked up the Wellington Bus Fare Rules on student fares. Rule 3.3 states "Any Passenger travelling on a child fare must stand if an adult requires a seat". Now the key word here is "requires". This means the manky high school seat hoggers were in the right. No adult actually asked them for a seat so they were not obliged to move.

Nevertheless, some sort of social etiquette might dictate that the students should stand up regardless. I wouldn't entirely agree.Most of the grumpy adults on the bus will be siting at a desk checking their facebook, sipping instant coffee and sometimes undertaking policy analysis. Frankly they could stand to, well, stand up, for a while.

Day -1 Back by some demand

Hamish of Featherston, sock entrepreneur, shadowy beer manufacturer and part time economist demanded the return of my sometimes self-indulgent, occasionally amusing, but always mildly offensive rants. Given that I have moved to the Commission of Commissions (an entity set up in a panic to regulate the multitude of Commissions set up in the early 2000s by a well meaning but ultimately madcap Minister) I can happily oblige.

Island Bay has remained much the same. Champagne socialists abound. They are only occasionally troubled by loony’s who have strayed too far from the spiritual home of fruitcakes, Newtown. The other day I saw a bloke in Newtown with a tee-shirt proclaiming "Newtown is shit". I had to agree. The tee-shirt could have been improved with a message on the back saying "but at least I don't live in Karori".

As always, there is much fun to be had in the Island Bay New World supermarket. Just last week a well meaning old crone stopped to admire my 1.5 year daughter. Her exact words "She is gorgeous, you must have a very beautiful wife". This could be construed as implying that I am physically unappealing leading to surprise at the relative and very surprising attractiveness of my daughter. While the aforementioned old crone might have lost all ability to filter socially inappropriate comments, she had the defence of truth. I smiled politely and indicated that the adult diapers were in aisle 3. She was momentarily alarmed, but slowly made her way to aisle 3. I love old people.