STICKERS! OH STICKERS! WHEN DID MY LOVE FOR YOU WANE?

Nobody cares once you've bought it. GET IT OFF!

Why do we collect things? I think blokes do it more than the superior sex. Women are probably doing something useful and important with their time. But there can't be too many lads out there who haven't started a collection of something some time or other.

STARTING a collection and HAVING an actual collection are two quite different things, of course.

I once started collecting Smurfs, for example. This was, as they say, back in the day. Way back. Back when Smurfs were around the first time. Back when service stations weren't yet flash enough to have Quick Stops, or ATMs, or Wild Bean Cafes, but they HAD started giving away drinking glasses with every fill over $20.

BP must have been right at the forefront of service station evolution in that era, leapfrogging brands like Shell and Europa. (That's right kids, there used to be service stations called Europa) BP were giving away more than mere glasses and moving onto Smurfs. Now that I think of it, they weren't actually giving them away, they were just selling them. Why a gas station should suddenly decide to stock little, blue, rubber figurines alongside their Bars Bugs and wiper blades is not exactly clear, but stock them they did. I was into it.

I wanted those Smurfs. I wanted them all. The golfing one. The cricketing one. The girl one. The much coveted, red-pantsed Papa. The slightly less coveted, Smurf Normal. Every week, for at least 5 weeks, I'd collect up my meagre pocket money, mount my trusty steed and pedal it down to BP to select the next member of my burgeoning Smurf legion.

Then I got sick of Smurfs and spent the next month making huts in the long grass in the empty section next door. So it never really became a collection at all - especially once I accidentally broke Astronaut Smurf's helmet off and essentially ended up with two Smurf Normals. (Probably two more than anybody really needs, to be honest)

That's how it goes with most collections; you start them, but not many are determined enough to complete them. Occasionally some weirdo, nerdy obsessive finally manages it. Guitars. Cars. Stamps. Spoons. Crockery. You see them from time to time on the telly. Part of you thinks, "What a dork!" while a more secret part of you grudgingly admits, "Good effort."

At one point, I think I thought my sticker collection would achieve such heady heights. Some sad-sack current affairs show with a human interest gap to fill would knock on my door, having heard of room after room festooned with thousands of rare and valuable stickers. I'd tour them through my stickery galleries, demonstrating how important it is to keep the stickers on their backing sheets, pointing out my prized fluro orange Smiley Face, circa 1986.

I was really into stickers - it didn't matter what they were, I kept them all. Radio station bumper stickers. A&P Show Entrant Pass stickers. Rolls of Fragile stickers stolen from Dad's work. If it was a word or a picture and it had an adhesive behind, I collected it. Then one fateful day, and while the specific memory isn't all that clear, I think it happened quite suddenly, I got out my collection, my ENTIRE collection, and given that it all fit in one resealable plastic bag thought, "This is stupid. What's the point?"

Sadly, as often happens at the end of a long-term relationship, from that moment on my feelings toward stickers began to sour. All at once, stickers seemed annoying. Pointless. Almost hardly worth collecting at all. Maybe that's why now, as a reasonably well-rounded 38 year-old grown-up man, I still harbour a slightly irrational sticker aversion.

Hardly surprising given how many we encounter in stupid, unnecessary and inconvenient places. Why are they on CD covers, for instance? I know which songs are on that CD, that's why I wanted that CD. Even if I wasn't quite sure, I think I could manage the hassle of turning the CD over to check the track listing on the back. Don't cover the cover with a stupid sticker! Someone worked long and hard on that picture.

Red dots. Not a bad idea for a sale, but if the only place to stick your red dot is over the size of the garment I'm considering trying on, DON'T DO IT! Purple pegs? Now you're talking.

Glasses, vases and other crockery. What is the point of having really classy wineglasses, if you can't peel that bloody ugly gold brand name off them. Or even worse, you try to remove it and only get the top of it off, leaving behind a smeared, gloopy white smudge. In this instance, eucalyptus oil may be your only hope.

And what's with people who don't remove the stickers that ARE removable? I'm not even sure people care about their big-screen TV's energy efficiency when they're BUYING it. Their guests certainly don't want to see an energy-star rainbow while they're WATCHING it. As for those sneaky clear stickers on the screens of things, TAKE THEM OFF. I'm talking to you here, Mum. While your DVD player's screen may be at some minute risk of being scratched during shipping, I think you'll find that risk drops dramatically once it's safely installed IN YOUR TV CABINET. Besides, which would you prefer... a tiny scratch you can't really see or a stupid bunch of bubbles and bumps under a piece of ill-fitting plastic?

Take the stickers off people! Free yourself from pointless extra information you didn't ask for. Do it now before it's too late. Banish your stickers and help me exorcise the demons of the failed collections of my past.

Yes, I can see that. That's why I put cat food in it

NUDIE RUDIE ROYALS

A nice enough set, but I wouldn't suck them

Any excuse to get their kit off and then complain someone's taken their photo.

As you may be able to detect, I'm not the world's greatest defender of the Royal Family's right to privacy. I just can't help thinking, if I was one of the most photographed women on the planet, maybe I'd think twice before getting my gazungas out in the sunshine.

To be perfectly honest with you, I'm pretty much the polar opposite of the most photographed woman in the world, and I still think twice before getting my gazungas out in the sunshine. It's not because I'm worried photos of my moobs might make the Mirror's front page (They wouldn't, by the way. They're impressive, but not worthy of headlines). I'm worried someone I know might see me. In fact, I'm also worried some teenagers I DON'T know might see me, laugh at me, then go on to do humorous jiggling impressions of me later that night at a party.

I get that everyone has a right to privacy. I'm not sure about the right to nude sunbathe though. And I'm even less sure about the right to play naked billiards. I think that's my issue here; the right to privacy doesn't guarantee the right to weirdness.

As voyeuristic as the great unwashed can be, I don't believe private acts interest us in the slightest. Ringing someone for a catchup is dull. Ringing them to call them "Squidgy" 53 times in the same conversation is... interesting. Hanging out by the pool with a mate in the south of France isn't that dodgy. When that mate isn't your husband, slightly more so. When he starts sucking on your toes though, that's dodgy as. As for the future king thinking it's sexy to compare himself to a tampon, while talking to woman who looks like a horse, this is the kind of thing we need to know, even if we really, REALLY don't want to.

It's easy for me to say, given I'm not a princess, (and perhaps never will be) but I'm thinking the best way to avoid nude photos of yourself going public is to avoid being nude. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of places being nude is probably pretty safe - in the shower, in bed, doing a radio show - but aboard a boat or on a balcony or by the pool (yes, even a "private" one) is all within camera range and is therefore just a dumb idea.

Why is it so essential to get your top off? If it's to avoid tan-lines, surely the royal budget can stretch to several different swimsuits of several different cuts. Why aren't you being more sunsmart anyway? If Kate was down here enjoying a harsh New Zealand summer, it wouldn't be the paparazzi she'd be trying to evade, it'd be gangs of concerned mums telling her to slip, slop, slap and wrap... oh, and then moisturise before she starts peeling.

"Wait just a sun-loving minute!" I hear many of the more liberal of you cry. "Being nude isn't weird! It's perfectly natural, and nothing to be ashamed of." Then don't be. The only reason Topless Kate is a story, is the threat of royal legal action over the impending publication of the pics. If nudie rudie sunbathing is nothing to be ashamed of, why sue? Why are topless photos any more embarrassing than the ones of you riding on the back of a truck that's been decorated to look like a boat? (It didn't look anything LIKE a boat, by the way. It looked like a truck decorated to look like a boat. Now THAT's embarrassing)

When you think about it, life as a royal is just a succession of embarrassing events. Before the "boat-truck", they were suspended up a 130 foot tree in Borneo by a complicated system of ropes and pulleys. Post "boat-truck", Wills and Kate were forced to board an ACTUAL boat sporting a full-sized sofa for them to park their royal arses on. It gets better, once in Tuvalu, they're carried from their plane on the shoulders of bunch of warriors. How is ANY of that more publishable than a bit of bare boob action?

Is it just Kate's funbags we're not allowed to lay eyes on? Or are there other body parts she's a bit sensitive about? I hope she doesn't have excessively knobbly elbows - they could be tricky to keep out of frame. Maybe there's an unsightly mole just above the left knee. Are bum shots kosher if she's in jeans? What about when she's wearing bike shorts? There are a lot of grey areas here... Actually, that's a point - can we publish pictures of her grey areas, or are they out of bounds too?

You can't have it both ways, Kate. Either be nude, and let people see you being nude, or don't be nude. Most of us choose not to be nude, but maybe we're not as liberated as you royals.

I figured I'd get in first an publish my moob before anyone else can. Gross, eh?

MAN VS CHILD (HOME... BUT NOT ALONE)

If you look carefully, you'll find items from each of the major food groups

The Domestic Manager has upped and left me. Not permanently. At least, I hope not. Geez, maybe she has... No, surely I would have noticed if she'd left me for good, although being a bloke, active listening isn't one of my strong suits. Now I think of it, me being a terrible listener would itself be a great reason for calling it quits. But no, I'm pretty sure she's just gone to a work conference in Sydney for a week.

(Either that, or she's left the country with someone CALLED Sydney)

Whatever. The upshot is, I've been left completely and utterly alone, with no-one to fend for me or to protect me in the urban wilderness. She's literally failed to provide me with the necessaries of life. Now I am cold. I am hungry. And I am very, very afraid.

I'm cold because there seems to be some sort of latent Scottish ancestry in my gene-pool that prohibits me from turning on the heater when I'm the only person in the house. I'm hungry because it turns out eating 2-minute noodles straight from the packet isn't actually as nutritious as it sounds. I'm afraid because I am currently under attack from two of the most devastating weapons of mass-destruction known to mankind; my children.

I'm exaggerating of course - I know how to cook 2-minute noodles (although I've always been mystified it still takes 2 minutes even when you do them in the microwave). In fact, since the Domestic Manager deserted me, I've gone to the trouble of cooking a few real dinners. Nachos counts as a "real" dinner if you serve it with a salad, right?

I'm not exaggerating about the kids though, or the fact I'm currently fearing for my life. Don't let their ages fool you. At 11 and 8, that's a combined experience of 19 years of concerted psychological warfare and they have an impressive arsenal at their disposal as a result.

They began the assault with perhaps the most obvious, yet potentially the most lethal tactic: germ warfare. Domestic Manager hadn't even left the house before the smaller, blonder one started running a temperature and complaining of a headache. The demoralising effect of this on the adult population can't be overstated. Domestic Manager leaves, feeling like a bad mother, abandoning her brood. (Which she kind of was) Hapless father is enveloped in a darkening cloud of impending doom. Only Monday and uncertainty and doubt are already setting in. Of course, small blonde recovers completely for Nana to deliver her to school. When Dad picks her up though, complete relapse. Headache. Stomach ache. Then ultimately, inevitably... spew.

Now here's where my children (or "the insurgents" as I've come to know them) really stepped up the hostilities. To capitalise on the impact of their virulent opening germ-based salvo, they proceeded to bombard me with the more conventional, but no less deadly, SCHOOL COMMITMENTS. Oh, and I'm not talking, "commitment" singular... Oh no, no, no. We're dealing with two concerts (both at night), an all-day band festival and something called a "student led conference".

While my attendance is not required at the band festival, I am faced with the logistics of a 7:15AM drop-off and an 8:30PM pickup. However, the 2 concerts were "must see". It gets better. One of the concerts featured a combined choir of FIVE-HUNDRED primary school kids and Suzanne Prentice. And it was on a Monday night. And the interval lasted over 40 minutes (longer than either of the halves). Best of all, it featured the aforementioned upchucking blonde.

Miraculously, or suspiciously, depending on how you look at it, once again a recovery was made in the nick of time for the performance. Sick again next day, of course. Far to ill to go to school... even on the day of the Student Led Conference. Student Led Conferences are the evolution of what used to be parent-teacher interviews. Disturbingly, as the name implies, the teacher is no longer really required. The parent still is though, you better believe it. The parent is led by the student for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES (yes, about the length of an interval at a Kids for Kids concert).

So this is where the insurgents shot themselves in the foot.

By being too sick to go to school, there is now no student to lead the conference. What a bugger, eh? Here's where the fight-back begins in earnest. I'm adding an actual doctor's appointment to the equation now, see how you like that, Blondey!

Am I a bad dad? Do I sound somewhat callous and flippant when discussing the health and well-being of my progeny? Is my attitude toward parenting a little too adversarial? Perhaps. But then, perhaps they should have thought of that before they started it.

It's not just me, right? 40 minutes is WAY too long for an interval

PLEASE DON'T READ THIS, CHARLOTTE

Don't look now, Charlotte...

I'm serious. If you're Charlotte Dawson, I really don't think you should go any further. As far as I am aware, I'm not a troll - although one ear does stick out slightly suspiciously. However, as this glog will reveal, Charlotte, I'm not particularly sympathetic to your cause, so please stop here. I don't want to be responsible for any further emotional torment.

You see, I too have been bullied, although not recently. Let's see, how long would it be since Patrick Lowry last smacked me in the head? I'm thinking fourth form... so about... ah, yes, only about 24 YEARS AGO! Actually, now I picture him, he genuinely may have been part-troll - turned-up pig-nose, crazy mop of unnaturally black hair (fur?)... definitely not New Zealand's next top model. I have no compunction in naming him publicly because
1) it was 24 YEARS AGO
b) not really sure that many people are reading this
and thirdly) he used to smack me in the head

I actually don't blame Patrick for his bullying because I probably had it coming. Patrick was big, stupid and ugly (not sure about smelly, but for the sake of argument, let's say he was) and I reminded him of that loudly, publicly and regularly. In fact, when I put it like that maybe I was bullying HIM... hmmm. Still, you don't punch someone just for stating the obvious do you?

My point here is, and yes there really is one, in my book, being thumped qualifies as bullying. Being told to stick your head in a toaster does not. (Charlotte, seriously, why are you still reading?) What's more, being told to stick your head in a toaster by someone you don't even know over the internet is something so insignificant, it very nearly hasn't even happened at all.

I have another example of bullying experienced first-hand, roughly around the same time as the Patrick Lowry stuff was happening to my ACTUAL head. This example is named Manaroa. Manaroa is not the location of the bullying, but the perpetrator. Unlike Mr. Lowry, I cannot out him completely, as I have no knowledge of Manaroa's surname. It is more than possible he has no use for a last name in the same way Beyonce, Kimbra and the Hulk need no further embellishment. Manaroa's only distinguishing troll-features were massive lips. (I'm not certain if trolls really possess massive lips, but I made fun of Patrick's appearance so it seems only fair)

The details surrounding Manaroa's particular mien of bullying are sketchy to me now, all these years on. I think it was some form of extortion... he was demanding either my lunch, my money or possibly my virginity in exchange for not throwing me down the bank into the lake. (I'm almost definitely lying about the virginity option, just go with it though)

Why I refused, I cannot say. Was I making some heroic, anti-bullying statement? Had I already spent my money? You can rest assured by now my lunch was well digested, and try as I might, nobody really seemed interested in my virginity. I'll say this for Manaroa though, the guy knew how to follow through on his threats. I can't rule out the possibility I may have made a few troll-lip taunts while pleading my case, which probably didn't help my cause at all. Just goes to show, no-one likes a smart-arse... especially not Patrick Lowry and Manaroa.

While the bank was steep and muddy, the lake was not especially deep and I lived to insult other bullies another day. Once again though, spending the rest of my walk home emptying mud out of my shoes and leaves out of my school bag was real proof of real bullying. A Twitter feed which has since been half-deleted doesn't take nearly as long to dry out in front of the heater.

Charlotte, if you're still with us by this point, you're even more of a masochist than I already had you pegged for. Stop it. Stop reading. I'm certainly not the first person over the last few days to offer you the same bit of obvious advice. If a troll suggested I should kill myself via Twitter, I probably wouldn't even notice. Mind you, I do follow some pretty weird shit. (Pebbles Hooper for example. What's that about?) If your celebrity is so reliant on staying in touch with your Tweeps, it could be worth hiring someone to filter it for you. If not, delete your account. It's not like it's Facebook or anything.

Why would you spend hour after hour reading horrible things about yourself? How can you take "Stick your head in the toaster" seriously? Who even owns a toaster that can fit a bagel, let alone a whole head?

Of course, the ultimate lesson here is for me, not you, Charlotte. (I've given up hoping you won't read the whole thing) Ignoring the bullies actually works. Even the real ones. I didn't have to tell Patrick he was ugly - everyone could already see that. As for Manaroa OneName, why didn't I just cross the road the moment I saw him? Because I've got a smart mouth and I can't resist opening it, that's why. Sometimes, just because the joke is there to be made, doesn't mean you should make it. I learned that lesson the hard way Charlotte, surely you're smart enough to realise the trolls out there just never did.

The stuff of cyber nightmares!

IF WOMEN ARE FROM VENUS... HOW THE HELL DID THEY GET HERE?

Could this be the coolest invention of the decade?... Probably not

So I'm literally sitting here trying to watch "Eat, Pray, Love", unarguably one of the quintessential chick-flicks of our time. I'm trying, I really am. I've made it as far as India, but I'm not sure if I'll get all the way to Bali. Italy was easy... pasta... pizza... that's my religion. Turns out that bit was Julia's eating section of the movie, she's only just on to the praying now.

Not enough robots or car chases or John Cusak in this one for my liking.

It's one of those man versus woman things again. In spite of millions of years of evolution, some things just never seem to change. I think it all starts with the basic premise that men are stupid and women are not. I'm generalising of course, I'm sure there are millions of really thick chicks out there. Genuinely switched-on blokes though? Probably not quite so many.

You ladies should thank your lucky stars for male stupidity though, where would you be without it? You'd be cold for a start, I reckon.

Way back, a gazillion years B.C., when caveman glennzb brought some fire home for the Domestic Manager to have a look at, I bet she said something like, "Put that down, before you hurt yourself." By that stage of course, caveman glennzb had probably already suffered 3rd degree burns mucking around with his new discovery, but at least he now knew it was hot. Pretty handy when you've only got a 3 bedroom cave to spend the winter in.

Given my recent history of scooter-related shoulder dislocations, even I'M not totally convinced that wheel invention was a good idea, although it has gone on to be useful in certain circumstances that don't involve wet footpaths at 4AM. Most ladies would have to admit Ben Franklin did us quite the favour when he flew his kite in a lightning storm, despite  the inevitable protests from Mrs. Franklin. I can just hear it, "Benjamin! You come back inside this minute! You'll catch your death out there in the rain! Where did a grown man even get a kite in the first place?" She had a point - as stupidity goes, flying a kite in a downpour is right up there, but you've got to be happy with electricity.

This is what I'm saying; men are idiots, almost without exception, and it's just as well or we might not have made it to the moon.

Now I can really feel the estrogen levels rising at this point, as many of you reading this start to think, "Why DID we go to the moon? Seems like a lot of trouble, risk and expense for a few photos and some rocks." I'm sure Janet Armstrong said more or less the same things to Neil, back in '69. "Is there even a Duty-Free up there?" she would have asked, and justifiably so. Neil went anyway and now we have all kinds of cool stuff like velcro and microwave dinners. No wonder she divorced him.

Women need men to keep pushing the boundaries of what's acceptable, what's normal and what's smart, just like men need women to tell us to grow up and stop messing about with that soldering iron. Of course, neither Steve listened (Jobs OR Wosniak) and the rest is Apple history. Still, isn't it a shame no-one ever managed to convince Steve J. that you just can't wear black turtle-necks EVERY SINGLE DAY. You see, mostly we're wrong, but very occasionally, and usually by accident, we're brilliantly right. (Not about the turtle-necks though, that was bloody weird and there's no two ways about it)

Like I said at the beginning, I'm not saying men have the sole claim on stupid. Take Marie Curie for example; I mean, top marks discovering all that radioactive stuff, bummer you also had to discover the deadly effects of radiation exposure at the same time. How very man-like of you to teach us that particular lesson.

However, I'd be willing to bet the person who invented the iPlunge Smartphone Stand was more XY than XX. I saw the iPlunge for the first time at one of those homeware-cum-gift shops that for some reason sell both high-end frying pans and barbecue aprons with fake boobs on them.

The Domestic Manager and I were looking for the perfect pressie for an impending birthday and when I spotted the iPlunge I was sold. A miniature toilet plunger that sticks on the back of your phone so you can stand it up to watch videos and take photos? It doesn't get any more brilliant than that! Why hadn't I thought of it? Simple, yet effective. What's more, TOTALLY HILARIOUS.

I showed it to the Domestic Manager for budgetary approval and you would've thought I was the cat bringing home half a rabbit and proudly leaving it on the family room mat. "But would he actually USE it?" she asked, and I simply had no comeback. "No, possibly not," I agreed, quickly re-shelving the iPlunge, but not before giving it one last, longing look. He may not have used it, but what if he had? What if he'd unwrapped it at the exact moment everyone at his birthday party was gathering for a group photo? What if there were long lost relatives from another country there, who were due back in their homeland the very next day, and may never be able to afford to travel here again? What if the iPlunge was just the perfect implement to bung on the back of his Nokia Lumia, so he could set the self-timer and capture the most magical of moments? (Okay, he doesn't actually OWN a Nokia Lumia, but you get where I'm going with this, right?)

I'll tell you what would have happened, his wife probably would have said, "You can't use that stupid thing, it'll never work. Here, let me take it." But just because he never got the iPlunge out of it's box (primarily because we ended up sending him an After-Dinner Trivia Quiz instead) doesn't make it any less cool. Like most blokes, I have a whole box of leads, plugs and adapters under the stairs I'll probably never ever need... but imagine if one day I did. That's man logic right there. You can throw out my favourite sweatshirt I haven't worn for 6 years because of the stain, but you never know, some day I actually might use that double plug to invent something ridiculous - like the internet. Who'll be laughing then?

It's often been said that behind every great man, you'll find a great woman. I don't believe that for a second. I think behind every great man is a woman who popped out for the evening to watch a chick-flick with her mates so he was left to his own devices and ended up doing something stupid. Insert kite and accompanying thunderclap here.

I know what you're thinking... "What an AWESOME box of leads!" ...right?

THE SCAN

What horrors await behind these doors?

If you follow me on Twitter, or especially if you choose to catch the odd episode of glennzb tv, by now you're probably sick to death of hearing about my dislocated shoulder and the unique challenges presented by my recovery. However, as I was casting about for a topic for this week's glog, I couldn't really go past my M.R.A. scan - for me it rated as a significant event.

To be honest, I wish I had lied. When the specialist asked me if I was claustrophobic, I should have said yes, very. When he asked me if I had a pacemaker, I should have said yes, two of them; one in each eye. I'm pretty sure that would have ruled me out of contention for my 90 minutes of good times at Auckland Radiology. And yes, I did mean eyes, but I'll explain all that shortly.

I didn't lie of course. I leapt at the opportunity. I've always secretly wanted to have an M.R.I. I've seen people having them on TV and it looks so space-aged and science-fictiony. I've heard some people say they're a bit scary, but those people were obviously complete wusses and not pioneers of medical innovation like me. "What's the difference between an M.R.I. and an M.R.A.?" I asked. "It's like an M.R.I., but they'll inject some dye into your shoulder so I can see what's going on," my specialist answered. I really should have picked up on that whole, "inject some dye into your shoulder" thing, but I was just so darn excited by the whole process.

Of course, technically I didn't know what an M.R.I. was either. As it turns out and both M's stand for Magnetic, both R's stand for Resonance. The "I" is for Imaging, the "A" is for Angiography. I've only just googled all that up now, so probably not that pertinent to the story - I just thought you might like to know.

I arrived at the x-ray place and filled out the forms. Lot's of questions about pacemakers. Also lots of questions about ever having anything metal getting in my eyes. Odd questions. I answered no.

I was then shown to a cubicle to undress. "You know it's just my shoulder, right?" I said it as though I was sort of joking, but I sort of wasn't. The technician didn't even sort of laugh. She just told me to put on my gown. She then asked me about pacemakers, and whether I'd ever had any metal in my eyes.

Funny how odd questions seem more serious once you're not wearing pants. You'd think I'd remember if I'd ever had a pacemaker, although the metal-in-the-eyes scenario may not have made such an impact. Fourth Form Workshop Technology was many years ago - was there some freak candlestick construction accident that had slipped my mind? Had I ever made one too many extravagant arm gestures over dinner and left part of my fork optically embedded without noticing? These are the sorts of vague worries I was starting to concoct.

A doctor arrived to "inject some dye into my shoulder". The reality of this was beginning to hit home as she detailed the possibilities of infection in my shoulder joint if they didn't keep everything sterile. I wanted to point out the proximity of my armpit to my shoulder, given I'd never considered armpits to be particularly sterile, but I was distracted by the doctor swabbing me with something REALLY QUITE FIRMLY on my injured shoulder, so I just clenched my teeth and grunted a bit. Anaesthetic next. Goodo, "injecting some dye into my shoulder" would probably prove a tad uncomfortable without some numbing. "This'll sting a bit." She was right, but at least the worst was over no, NO, NOOOOOOOO it wasn't!

"Aaaaarrrrrgggh!!!" I said. "Try and hold still," she said. I was really starting to not like this woman.

Here's what you should know if your specialist ever suggests, "they'll inject some dye into your shoulder"... what he actually means is, "there's a bone stabbing in your near future."
You see, if he'd asked me to attend a bone stabbing, I think I would have found a way to politely refuse. Now I've experienced my first bone stabbing, I'll be looking to opt out of any future ones. I said quite a few rude words in my head, then apologised out loud for being such a wimp. "Don't worry," the doctor said, "No-one really likes needles." Oh, how I hated her in that moment.

That was just the dye, by the way. The giant magnet was still to come. I picked up the little basket containing my clothes and belongings and shuffled down the corridor - now feeling a bit like how I imagine new convicts do on their first day in prison. I'd only been inside half an hour and already someone had had their way with me with their oversized prick.

Wait! Giant magnet? Now it was all falling into place. I was about to be stuffed inside a giant magnet which explained all the questions about pacemakers, foreign objects and metal eyes, which I was now being asked for the third time by a new crew. Oh god, were my eyes about to be torn from their sockets because I had inadvertently blinked in some iron dust last time I drove past Glenbrook Steel Mill?

Panic had really set in by this stage and I was starting to make some damn poor choices. "What radio station would you like to listen to?" I was now asked, "It gets pretty loud in there." What station? What station? I wanted to say Newstalk ZB, of course - but the thought of Leighton Smith talking me through this nightmare seemed surprisingly uncomforting. What station? What station? Coast has less ads of course, but I can't stand the mix. Would Classic Rock That Rocks provide the distraction I required?

"Hauraki!" I blurted. "Hauraki it is. Now make sure you're comfortable, we need you to try and stay perfectly still." I was as comfortable as I was going to get... right up till the point I was actually inside the machine, when I immediately realised I wasn't comfortable in any way and would be completely incapable of keeping still for 1 minute, let alone 20.

She wasn't kidding about the noise. Why does a giant magnet make a sound like a jackhammer? I then realised Hauraki hasn't been Classic Rock That Rocks for ages and I had no idea what song was playing. I couldn't really hear it anyway - their headphones were useless. Not aeroplane only-working-in-ear useless but close. The jackhammer stopped suddenly, followed by what sounded like the introduction to Led Zep's "Communication Breakdown". It wasn't Hauraki back on track with its playlist though, just the M.R.I. working through its repertoire. Hauraki was now playing a long stream of ads. Why hadn't I gone with Coast? Why? I kept my eyes closed. I'm not claustrophobic... but it IS pretty tight in there.

Then it stopped. I was extracted. Thank god. Except... It wasn't over.

"Can I just get you to bend your arm behind your back?"

"Not really," I said. "I recently dislocated my shoulder." They knew that was why I was doing this, right? Surely it was written down somewhere.

They made me bend it there anyway. What a fun voyage of medical discovery this was turning out to be. Two more minutes of jackhammer and we really were done. An hour and a half of torture a CIA interrogator would be proud of. I'll talk, by the way, I'll say whatever they want me to.

Now I almost want them to find something, just to make it all worth it. Otherwise it'd be like going to the dentist only to be told you have perfect teeth. Except I usually get to keep my pants on at the dentist.

Don't worry, it's just my shoulder - post the bone-stabbing

BASKING IN THE OLYMPIC AFTERGLOW

A really arty shot of the cauldron taken with my Windows phone off the telly

As I watch the Petshop Boys circumnavigate the stadium in a chariot pulled by what appear to be fluro-orange Ku-Klux-Klan members, I begin to worry. I'm not particularly worried about the Petshop Boys specifically, although the guy on the keyboard's going to have someone's eye out with those impressive shoulder pads if he's not careful. No, I'm worried about what happens next. Now London's great copper cauldron has cooled, what could ever fill the void?

Like some wide-screen, multi-channelled pusher, Sky TV has hooked us on the greatest reality show of all time. Jesus, I only have Prime and I'm already suffering withdrawal symptoms, imagine the state of me if I'd forked out for all EIGHT dedicated Olympics channels! (And I don't think that even includes "Olympic News" - whatever that could mean)

"But the Olympics isn't just reality TV!" I hear you protest, "This is the ultimate test of skill and athleticism!" Don't kid yourself. Here's the formula for a successful reality show (or "Unscripted Television" as Julie Christie would call it)... First, take one group of people, preferably with annoying personalities. If they're good looking, even better. If they have really WEIRD bodies, better still. Oh, and make sure they're willing to take off most of their clothes for no real reason.

Sound familiar yet? No? Well here's what we'll do with our... let's call them... "competitors" shall we? Take the competitors and divide them into several teams. Separate them out of everyday society and make them all live together in their own little village. Then force them to take part in a variety of ridiculous, bizarre and sometimes almost impossible events. They'll have to use wacky equipment, wear crazy outfits and will often injure themselves or each other, all for our amusement.

The winners will achieve instant celebrity while the losers just go home early. Unless they're REALLY useless, then we'll love them BECAUSE they can't swim, row or ski-jump.

Yep. Doesn't get any more real than that.

For some reason, this Olympiad we seem to have been exposed to even more Ripley's-Believe-It-Or-Not-style strangeness than I can ever recall.

We've all debated the worthiness of certain Olympic sports, or their Olympic-ness, if you will. Most people seem to hate beach volleyball for example, yet it's been coming back every 4 years since 1996. Maybe we're only watching it for the articles. Handball's another one that seems to cop flack - but just because we don't play it in New Zealand, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. The rules of fencing, taekwondo and even wrestling have become very complicated since they stopped doing those ones to the death, but it gets way sillier than that.

What's with those water polo ear hats? Are they listening to their iPods under those things? They have a 20km walk and a 50km walk, but until they introduce the Everyday Casual Walk, there's no way I can take those wiggly-waddlers seriously. As for the modern pentathlon, if that's not straight out of an episode of Wipeout, I don't know what is. Don't tell me you missed the modern pentathlon! Fencing, 200m swim, showjumping (yes, on a horse), shooting (yes, with a gun - AND you have to run to the range!) and wrap it all up with a 1km run. Those slackers on The Block are kidding themselves if they think they're doing it hard.

Never have we been more entertained by our goggle-box! I haven't even brought up the sheer comic relief of the silly names... Dong Dong on the trampoline. Baltacha touching her tennis balls. The Japanese rhythmic gymnast, Natsuki Fukase (although I'm sure it can't be pronounced that way). We have our own representatives in this field of course - Michael Arms the rower and the inexplicable Brent Newdick. But why runner Sparkle McKnight and volleyballer Destinee Hooker decided to enter under their porn-star names is anyone's guess.

The hits kept coming right up till the last day. Kiwi cyclist Sam Bewley was a no-show in the men's mountain bike, although nobody cared because they'd only entered him in that so he could be a reserve for the men's pursuit team. How this could possibly be a viable strategy utterly defies logic, yet logic seldom applies on reality TV, and it all paid off brilliantly as the men's T.P. came home with bronze.

Don't think for a moment just because the games are officially finished, the drama ends there. Just like any reality show worth its salt, there's a follow up episode after the finale, featuring behind-the-scenes revelations of drug abuse by the apparently trans-gender Belarussion contestant, resulting in the ultimate surprise ending for our local heroine, Valerie.

What race has ever been more amazing? When have more contestants attempted to outwit, outplay and outlast? If it's idols with the x-factor you want, London 2012 provided more than ever before.

Ah well, back to customs searches and kitchen capers now I suppose. Two weeks seems like a very short season. I wonder what the producers have in mind for the Rio series...

Bulgaria's poor old Vania Stambolova actually stumbles over. First hurdle too. Good times