MILESTONES AND MEMORIES

My brother is about to turn 50.

I know what you're thinking; there's no way glennzb could possibly have a sibling that old! Is this some quirk of time distortion created by a bizarre blended-family situation? (I've met people who are actually older than their uncles, for example)

But no, he's just real ancient and the gap between us is massive. REALLY massive, okay?

The trouble with 50 year-old brothers is what to get them for such a major birthday. I was just beginning to mull this over (or rather, the Domestic Manager had brought this to my attention in a valiant attempt to get me to do something about it instead of her being left to organise something at the last minute because of my uselessness) when he sent an email through with this request...

"My challenge to you is to send me a memory from my younger days of something nice that I can read on my birthday and reminisce over."

So I got him this blog.

Trouble is, remembering stuff from my childhood has never been by strong point. In fact, remembering stuff from last week hasn't exactly been my strong point either.

That's why it probably means something that so much of what I CAN remember has something to do with him.

The first thing that pops into my head is musical farts. It's always been my firm belief there's nothing funnier than a well-timed fart. It just so happens the funniest farts I've ever heard came out of my brother one night when we were sharing a bedroom. The pitch and and pace varied in a way which immediately left us wondering if perhaps he would some day be able to perform live on stage, perhaps with the backing of a full brass band.

I remember laughing at the TV too. Usually clever comic talents like Rowan Atkinson in Blackadder, John Cleese in Fawlty Towers and Don Adams in Get Smart. They don't make 'em like that anymore... not even on HBO.

At one stage he had a collection of chimpanzee posters and calendars. Not sure what that was about, but it might have had something to do with the PG Tips tea commercials.

There genuinely IS quite a gap in our ages, which worked out brilliantly for me as a kid because it meant he spoiled the hell out of me. This meant I was on the receiving end of everything from movies to ski trips.

I remember him sneaking me in to see Runaway (weirdly starring Tom Selleck, Gene Simmons and Kirstie Alley) Looking back, it was probably as B-Grade a sci-fi flick as you could wish for, but it was rated R13 so it was about the coolest thing that had ever happened to me.

He also shouted me to the odd triple-feature. When Return of the Jedi came out, they showed the whole trilogy in one session. (That's right kids, back in the '80s there were only THREE Star Wars movies) I can't remember in which order they showed Flatliners, Total Recall (the original) and Robocop 2, although I admit that particular movie marathon nearly broke my brain.

That was the low end of the spoiling scale; my first bungy jump was courtesy of Big Bro, as was my first ski trip. He would have taken me on my first rafting adventure too, except the morning we were supposed to go, it snowed. In Wellington. Hard to believe unless you'd seen it yourself.

In fact, when it came to personal firsts, my brother was responsible for a lot of them. He taught me to drive in a supermarket car park. (Maybe I could have done with a few more lessons. I'm the worst driver I know) My first motorcycle ride was on the back of his Suzuki. The first computer program I ever wrote was on his SEGA 3000, a genius few lines of BASIC that could actually change the colour of the screen! I know, I'm practically Steve Wozniak. It was a bit of a pain having to back up your programs on cassette though. It took ages and only worked about 30% of the time.

We spent hours on that PC (possibly short for "Psuedo Computer") - mostly playing the awesome SEGA video games like Star Jacker and Congo Bongo.

Brother was quite possibly responsible for my first guitar lesson, although I have a feeling it may have involved "Country Roads" by John Denver, in which case I would have blanked that memory out for my own protection.

There were other less embarrassing musical indoctrinations that have had a far greater influence on my musical tastes to this day. We'd listen to the entire box set of ELO's A New World Record, Out of the Blue and Discovery, then play each LP all over again, desperately trying to understand what was going on. I thought the way Jeff Lynne could merge electric guitars and keyboards with orchestras and choirs to achieve a perfect pop song like "Don't Bring Me Down" was the ultimate musical magic trick. I also learned I loved songs with a sense of humour, like the more obscure "Wild West Hero" and "The Diary of Horace Wimp"

But it was the Billy Joel album "An Innocent Man" that literally changed my life. Every track a masterpiece, both lyrically and musically. Released in 1983, it provided a soulful alternative to the plastic synth-pop dirges or hair-metal yawn-fests that were so prevalent at the time. No wonder quirky, catchy tunes like "Uptown Girl," "Tell Her About It" and "The Longest Time" were instant hits. If you've got 4 minutes, have a listen to "This Night" - just your everyday mash-up of 50s-style Do-Wop and the 2nd movement of Beethoven's Pathétique Sonata. Still one of the cleverest and most beautiful love songs I've ever heard.

Yup, you've got a lot to answer for, brother. Almost all of it good.

Because of our age gap, we didn't really have the rivalries other siblings are prone to, although I've always been convinced if I could just catch him on a bad day, I might be able to steal a game off him on the badminton court. (I've never come close, but presumably one day he'll be too old to walk) I did manage to snag the odd victory on both the chess board and the table tennis table and those wins were rare enough, I was convinced I had earned them fair and square and he hadn't gifted them to me as some role models tend to. He built the table tennis table himself by the way. Somehow I ended up with it and now my kids enjoy it in my garage just like he and I used to 20-odd years ago.

It's only as I type the words, "role model" I realise that's exactly what he has been to me. By example, he's taught me to be a hard worker, to be unafraid to fix things and make things, to dive head-first into new technology, to be passionate about music and above all, to try and be a good guy.

We've never been big huggers or heart-to-hearters, but I now realise after my wife and my mother, my brother has probably been the most influential person in my life.

Is that why you challenged us to send you these memories for your birthday? To get us to appreciate how cool you really are? Pretty sneaky, bro. As Maxwell Smart would say, "The old Trick'em Into Saying Nice Things About Me Trick." Well played. And happy birthday.

PERHAPS THE MOST SUCCESSFUL PROMOTION EVER

I think you're already familiar with today's subject matter

You already know what I'm talking about; the New World Little Shop promotion.

Have you got the Cheesy Sausages yet? If not, do you want to trade, because we've got two.

Not since the days of Nintendo 64, Furbys and Cabbage Patch Kids have we seen our children so utterly and effectively brainwashed by mere advertising - and the difference here is the primary product isn't even what the kids are after.

When I say kids, of course I mean EVERYBODY. Admit it, you want the whole set of these things just as much as anyone else, which is a major bummer for you if you don't have any children, because collecting miniature grocery items as an adult could seem a bit weird.

The main problem for the glennzb household is we don't shop at New World. We shop at Pak'N'Save, partly because it's a bit cheaper, but mostly because it's on my way home from work.

This did not sit well with Monster Number 2. Not well at all. Weekly grocery savings and a convenient location hold no sway with a 9 year-old whose friends have all collected at least half of New World's Little Shop already. She started to take my persistent Pak'N'Save preference personally, almost as though I was punishing her for something.

Now I think of it, I should have told her that's exactly what I was doing. Monster Number 2 deserves to punished regularly. For 9 years she's been carrying out a series of guerrilla-style attacks at various strategic locations throughout the house, ranging from low-grade semi-political graffiti on items of furniture right through to a brutal campaign of psychological warfare which is relentless and still ongoing.

Some kind of retribution only seems fair.

However, in this case I was not deliberately depriving her of access to her rightful mini-grocery collection. It's just the way it was.

Just like in the days of prohibition though, there's more than one way to open the lines of supply.

Turns out my sister-in-law DOES shop at New World, and had amassed quite a number of tiny tins, packets and bottles. Monster Number 2's eyes practically popped out when she discovered them piled up on her kitchen window sill. What's more, they appeared to be just sitting there, not being collected by anyone!

That was all about to change. Immediately. By the time M#2 had left her auntie's house, she'd acquired her first cache of miniatures and made arrangements for a regular mailbox drop directly following any future New World shopping expeditions.

Of course, once she realised she could source these things without actually having to go to the supermarket herself, a whole new strategy swung into gear. Suddenly parcels were arriving from far-flung grandparents. Small bags of coffee and weirdly not-to-scale pineapples were being handed to nanas to be delivered from other distant relatives. M#2 was back in the Little Shop game and she was raking it in.

Like heroine, it turns out mini groceries are an addiction that must be constantly maintained, or serious withdrawal symptoms can hit, and hit hard. This meant daily mailbox checks to see if auntie had fulfilled her hastily agreed-to drop-off obligations. Of course more often than not, auntie hadn't been around, which led to M#2 bouncing out the front door in anticipation, only to return moments later shrouded in the dark clouds only an empty letterbox can induce.

So I caved. Don't worry, I still shop at Pak'N'Save, but some of my colleagues have started supplying ME with minis, so I've been bunging them in the box instead. I know, what a softie. Let's just keep that between us, okay?

Oh, and for god's sake, don't tell her she can win the whole set on the Mike Hosking Breakfast, I don't want to have to explain how family members are not allowed to enter.

Nothing like receiving a package in the mail

MAN OF MY DREAMS

Too much time on my mind

This is not another moan about how early I have to get up in the morning.

It may have something to do with the effect of Daylight Savings on my sleep patterns though.

I met a mate on the stairs at work last week who foolishly asked me how I was going. I'm not one of those people who answers politely when someone casually inquires after my health. I'm usually brutally honest.

"I'm feeling a bit shithouse actually," I complained. "I think it's the Daylight Savings jetlag kicking in."

This is a standard joke of mine; trying to convince people there's some kind of quantifiable physical detriment happening because we've either lost or gained an hour. I was in for a surprise this time though.

"Oh, it will be," he agreed, going on to back up my self-serving superstition with actual scientific facts on R.E.M. sleep and how a change in your routine can seriously interfere with your natural cycle, especially if you're already getting up in the middle of the night to go to work.

There's really nothing better than someone who's prepared to agree with your whinging.

Whether any of that bollocks is actually true I have no idea, but it could go some way to explaining the wacky, wacky dream I had the other night.

It all started with my boss asking me to babysit Sonny Bill Williams. Let's be clear here, this is in the dream, not in real life. In saying that, that actually is the kind of thing my boss would ask me to do. I don't mean literal babysitting, of course. SBW is a grown man, he doesn't need me to babysit him. He has a manager for that. No, when my boss asks me to babysit someone, it's usually either because they're new on air, or their whole show is.

In this weird dream, someone had decided to hire Sonny Bill to host an hour's talkback from 7 on Friday night. Don't laugh, stranger things have happened - like John Key hosting Radio Live one afternoon during an election campaign. Close call as to who I'd prefer to hear hosting a radio show - I think I'd go with SBW, not just because he knows more about boxing and tattoos, but because he can probably pronounce the word "texts" correctly.

Anyway...

I told my boss I couldn't do it, due to family commitments. I should have realised it was a dream there and then; I spend half my life trying to get OUT of family commitments. This one involved dinner though, so obviously I would have been torn.

Friday night rolled around (yes, in the dream) and somehow I ended up feeling guilty, leaving halfway through dinner and going into work anyway. Completely fantastic of course, like I'd ever leave a meal halfway through. For some reason everything was happening in Tauranga too, the family, the restaurant, the radio station, all in Tauranga instead of Auckland. Don't know why.

I arrived at work to find the station off air and Sonny Bill Williams holding a bloke in a headlock in the studio doorway. The bloke in the headlock seemed drunk, high and really angry about something. I assume he was angry BEFORE the headlock happened - either way, immediate action was called for.

I pushed the bloke out the door, Sonny Bill through it and tried to usher Mr. Williams into the studio. Angry man was now stuck in the lobby with no access card to get him any further.

I can't quite recall how successful I was getting SBW on air. He's big and buff, I'm weak and pathetic so it's possible I wasn't very successful at all. What I do know is, despite my best efforts, the angry guy got in anyway.

Weak and pathetic as I am, I couldn't risk him getting re-headlocked so I diverted him into a separate (fictitious) recording studio full of random musical instruments. I tried to calm him down by exploring a mutual interest in playing the guitar at parties. Then the guitar started vibrating, except it wasn't the guitar, it was the alarm on my phone.

I don't know how many of you have woken up at 3 in the morning with Sonny Bill Williams, but it's a really weird way to start your day.

Why would I dream all this? Is it because there's a new show on Newstalk ZB from 5-6am that's stressing me out a bit? Perhaps.

Is it because nobody really seems to know who Sonny Bill Williams will be playing for next? Probably not, given that's how he rolls at the end of every season.

No, I think I'll just go back to blaming Daylight Savings jetlag and leave it at that. It's science.

Like most people, it's his intellectual side I find so attractive

BEING MANIPULATED

Obviously, it's nothing to do with the chair. Sitting on an Aeron is like
"putting your bottie in butter" - Authentic Sir Paul Holmes Saying

I have a bad back.

I'd like to think there are many unavoidable reasons for this; an unergonomic work space, an old mattress, the time I fell off the playground and landed on my arse when I was a kid...

Unfortunately, I have a sneaking suspicion the main reason for my bad back is my bad front. I'm fat, I'm lazy and I'm a bit of a weakling, all of which puts a lot of pressure on one's spine to lift the load.

Presumably, there was a time I didn't have a bad back, but I can't precisely remember when that would have been. Maybe around the time Mr. Sefton was trying to get me to sit up straight in 7th Form Statistics. If only I'd listened, perhaps I wouldn't be in the state I'm in now. Sadly, I never listened to Mr. Sefton about anything - especially anything to do with Statistics. In fact, it pains me to say (specifically around the T-12 area) I frequently did the exact opposite of what he wanted me to. I recall Mr. Sefton asking me to stop slouching and me sliding down even further in my chair, just to spite him. Imagine having me as a student in your class. Nightmare.

Could that be the real reason for my persistent pain? Karma? If I'd been a model student, instead of a model of disruption, would I now be springing out of bed each morning like a young lamb, rather than untangling myself excruciating link by link as the jumbled mess of frayed rope, knotted fishing line and rusty chains I have become?

Whatever the cause, unless I'm lying flat on my back on the floor, the ache's pretty much always there, varying in intensity from a dull throb all the way up to, "Oh my god, it burns! It burns! Mr. Sefton, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me! I'm begging you! Make it stop!" To be honest, even if I am lying flat on the floor, that'll only buy me about 10 minute's relief before everything seizes up and I won't be able to get up off the floor.

Still, what do you expect from a 70 year-old? Pity I'm not even 40 yet.

I have sought medical advice. A mate of mine put me on to a guy called, and I'm not making this up, Doctor Bill. Dr. Bill is a chiropractor, but more importantly, he's also a kinesiologist. This means he has the freaky ability to keep you from holding your arm up by tapping you on the head.

I realise that might sound like airy-fairy, magical, new-age mumbo-jumbo, but it doesn't change the fact Dr. Bill fixed me. In fact, it was Dr. Bill who figured out the whole falling-off-the-playground-when-I-was-a-kid thing. Initially I had to see him once a week, but he soon weaned me off to once a fortnight, once a month, a 6 month top-up then I never went back.

And it only cost me 8 million billion dollars. Cheap at half the price.

Of course, even miracle cures don't necessarily last forever. Whatever clever trick Dr. Bill worked on me has started to fade and I'm buying my Lotto tickets in Ponsonby to try and amass the funds required to go back and see him.

In the meantime, you can understand why I love a good massage. The Domestic Manager and the Monsters are well aware of this, making a massage voucher the ideal go-to Fathers Day gift. This year the voucher was for somewhere new, which is always a slightly nerve-wracking experience. While I'm definitely into having my inflamed back muscles mashed around for half an hour, I wouldn't say I'm the kind of person who wants to touched intimately by a stranger. With an accent.

I always experience some anxiety in the initial stages of a massage appointment. This is partly due to revealing personal details but mostly due to revealing my person generally. There's always a long and involved form to fill out on which you have to divulge your medical history, list medications and allergies and sometimes even draw little diagrams highlighting your problem areas. I'm not much of an artist, but since my problem areas extend from the top of my bald head right down to the arches of my feet, my diagram usually involves a rough oval around my entire body.

As for medications, I'm not really a hardened consumer of pharmaceuticals. My drug of choice is usually whatever generic paracetamol is on special at the supermarket. And the only things I'm allergic to are exercise and a healthy diet which, as I've already mentioned, is probably what got me into this bind in the first place.

On this occasion however, there was no form to be filled. On the one hand, I applauded this spurning of superfluous paperwork - I really, really hate filling out forms.

On the other hand, just what kind of fly-by-night, half-arsed, Mickey-Mouse outfit were these people running? My fundamental form-filling aversion won through though, and assuaged any concerns I may have been harbouring about following correct rules and regulations.

Then came the undressing part - or did it? I like being told what to do, not just by massage therapists, by anybody. But when it comes to getting naked in front of someone you don't know, it's best if there are some clear instructions issued early on. Unfortunately, like the stupid form, these instructions were not forthcoming.

I'd explained the location of the pain. The massage therapist had told me where to lie on the table. She hadn't told me what not to wear.

Uncomfortable pause.

"Shall I take off my shirt?" I asked. What a stupid question. Who ever heard of someone getting a massage with their shirt on? But I had to say something.

Maybe she'd been playing a very funny joke on me, because at this point she left the room, saying she'd give me a few minutes to get undressed.

Still not enough detail. Just HOW undressed did she want me? I desperately tried to recall how naked I'd been at other massages in the past... Shirt off, obviously... but pants? It's only a bad back. Still... lower back. Yes, she'd need access below the belt-line probably. Undies on though, surely. Socks off? Why wasn't there a form clearly outlining the requirements? I was really missing those forms now...

What if she came back in, saw me sockless, screamed and ran from the room to call the authorities to have this dirty, sock-stripping pervert arrested? If I hadn't been experiencing tension between the shoulder blades before this moment, there was definitely plenty for her to work on now.

I must have made the right call with the socks, because there was no screaming upon her return, just a few groans - and they were from me, an involuntary response to her unwinding my twisted muscular mess.

As massages go, this was a good one, although nowhere near long enough. They never are.

Oh... and in case you were wondering, I went with socks off. What can I say, I'm just the kind of guy who likes to lie on the edge. Groaning.

I've heard of being addicted to prescription medicine,
but supermarket medicine?

TO THE BLOKE WHO LEFT THE NOTE

See the scratch? No, not that one, the other one. No, not THAT other one,
that's just mud. The OTHER other one

Car parking at the gym is an issue.

My gym is part of a swimming pool complex which means there seems to be a never ending series of swimming lessons, school swimming sports and generally a lot of dripping people wandering around wrapped in towels.

My gym also provides a full timetable of Les Mills exercise classes and if all that stuff happens at the same time, the car park, which is actually fairly large, ends up being not fairly large enough.

This inevitably leads to that style of avant-garde parking peculiar to busy mums in 4WDs. You know what I mean; if the marked spaces are all occupied, any other car-sized space becomes a park. Footpaths, traffic islands, entrance foyers... that's the whole point of owning an RV to begin with, right? Surely if it can drive anywhere, it can PARK anywhere.

I'm not a busy mum and I drive a Corolla, so I tend to shun the whole "improvisational" parking philosophy. If I can't locate an empty slot immediately on arrival, I prefer to just hover a few minutes between the 1st and 2nd rows (where the through traffic is a bit lighter) until someone wearing a towel comes out and makes their soggy exit.

This is certainly inconvenient and some days I can't be bothered waiting at which point I make an executive, America's Cup Race Director-style decision and just call the whole thing off for the day. Unlike the America's Cup competitors though, I never really wanted to go to the gym in the first place, so it's nice to have a tangible excuse to justify my extreme laziness.

The ironic thing here is, I only live just around the corner. In the time I waste searching for an elusive parking space, I could just as easily drive home and walk back. (If I can circumnavigate the collection of 4WDs parked on the footpath, obviously)

But occasionally all the planets align, an unoccupied park presents itself and I am left with no other option than to physically leave my vehicle, enter the gym itself and do some exercise. I hate it when that happens.

Last week, I spent 45 minutes hating it even more than usual, staggered out to my car, (I've heard about post-exercise endorphin rushes, but they don't seem to apply to me) flopped into my driver's seat and noticed a notice.

This is one of my most hated things in the whole world; flyers left under your windscreen wipers. You never see them till you're behind the wheel, then you fool yourself into thinking you can reach them by sticking your arm out the window, which you never can, which you really should have remembered before you tried and failed yet again, which just results in even more frustration, especially when the flyer turns out to be advertising an innovative new hair-removal technique. Not something I plan on having a great deal of use for. Ever.

Not this time though. This time it wasn't that kind of note. This note was hand-written and said, "We scracht your car a bit." There was a phone number as well. 

Mixed feelings at this point, obviously. Pretty pissed off about the big white swipe smeared down the side of my car. Bit of a legend for leaving some contact details though.

I rang him and he told me to get a quote and he'd flick me the dosh to cover it. Bit more of a legend. I went to get the quote and the panel beater came out with a rag and wiped the damage off. Quite embarrassing. The panel beater suggested he write up a quote anyway so I could have a nice dinner out on the guy who dinged my car.

That's not how I roll.

Would've served him right for spelling "scratched" wrong though.

Amazingly, I'm not that interested in this kind of advertising.
And no, that isn't me in the picture

OKAY, SO I WAS WRONG

Not a bad view to start my week. You'd have thought they could
have got the giant jersey round the right way though

This is turning into quite a big week.

Given it began with a night at the rugby in a catered corporate suite on the halfway line, you'd think I'd be hard-pushed to improve things from there. Thanks ASB, by the way. That's what I call succeeding on.

What could possibly be better than a convincing win for the All Blacks over South Africa? How about the Orewa College Music Department's 2013 Gala Concert? That's right baby; if you missed it, your loss. Monster Number One was in almost every band, choir and ensemble. What a show-off. Combine that with opening night of Monster Number Two's school production and you must be starting to wonder how much excitement one person can pack into just 5 days and live to tell the tale.

Well, then there's that whole America's Cup thing of course.

I'm not good at admitting I'm wrong. I would like to claim this is due to a lack of necessity but sadly, this would be a false claim. I am wrong all the time. Very wrong. So wrong. Just ask the Domestic Manager, she'll tell you. In fact, sometimes she'll tell you how wrong I am even if you haven't asked her.

I would also like to claim I'm not good at admitting I'm wrong due to my history as 3rd Speaker in my High School debating team. Again, probably not strictly correct. In fact, the reverse is far more likely; they probably put me at 3rd Speaker due to my reluctance to concede my side of the argument. That, and I was in high school a MILLION BILLION YEARS AGO. Something else the Domestic Manager seems to like to remind people of.

I guess I'm just a natural-born arguer. The devil's advocate, if you will. A royal pain in the arse if you won't.

However, this time I've been so wrong, I'm really going to have to fess up.

I haven't been the biggest supporter of the America's Cup. Understatement.

I may have been a bit disparaging about rich wankers and their toy boats. Understatement.

There may not be another New Zealander who's been so negative, both privately and publicly, about Team New Zealand's chances, the rules, the postponements, the cheating and anything else even slightly connected to the Auld Mug - including making quite a few snide remarks about the nickname, "The Auld Mug."

Yup, even all that is an understatement.

Which is why I'm now retracting the whole lot.

Now the entire country is grinding to a halt at 8:15 every morning, mesmerised by two teams of high performance athlete's pitting multi-million dollar racing machines from a science-ficiton novel against each other, nature and the laws of physics generally, I've got to admit, the entire country may have a point.

I can't remember ever hearing so many people asking each other the same question, almost in unison... "Did you see the race?"

The America's Cup has cast it's spell over the nation's collective imagination once more, and I can no longer deny it.

So I'm sorry. I was wrong. As usual.

This is that moment, just like when,towards the end of George Orwell's 1984, Winston realises if he thinks one thing and the rest of the world thinks the opposite, he's probably the idiot, not them.

Oh, I still think it's stupid, it's just that nobody else does.

What could be more entertaining than watching a bunch of show-offs
trying their hardest to send a nation's hopes, dreams and tax dollars
to the bottom of the ocean?

THE BEST THING ABOUT HOSKING BEING OUT OF THE COUNTRY

Behold the awesomeness of my ride... and some squished bugs

Have you seen the Newsroom?

Not OUR newsroom. I mean the TV show. It's my new favourite programme, but I'm careful about who I recommend it to. It's very in-house. If you're not directly involved with the media, or an obsessive news junkie, I'm really not sure if you'd get anything out of it.

Sure, the writing is switchblade-sharp and the cast performances are the best I've seen since Boston Legal, but if you're not into current affairs, I think the major plot lines would leave you cold.

To be really, really honest, I probably like it so much because it's about my job. If you HAVE seen it, I can confirm it is a very accurate recreation of a working newsroom.

For the uninitiated, you may find it hard to believe things could be quite so dramatic, high pressure and downright chaotic on such a regular basis. All I can tell you is there is a genuine adrenaline rush associated with the quest to be the first to report the next big story.

People often ask me how I can work in such a pressure-cooker situation, especially at 4 in the morning. Like anything, you just get used to functioning at that level. You keep reminding yourself it's only radio and it's not like you're running a country or operating on somebody's brain for a living.

In saying that, things get exponentially more challenging when my host is broadcasting the show from another hemisphere.

Just the mere fact I can't make eye-contact with him is a pain, and not because I particularly enjoy gazing into the Hosk's piercing baby blues. (Or whatever the hell colour they are) As Big Mike's chief button pusher, it's my responsibility to convey balanced skepticism when he bleats on about how wonderful everything is. I usually do this via a series of eyebrow raises, shoulder shrugs and forehead slaps I can no longer communicate when he's rabbiting on on the other side of the globe.

Oh, and it helps to know if Mike is actually in the studio or not. You know, when it's time to talk on the radio.

There are certain technical difficulties an international OB throws up as well. I don't know if you've ever tried to get hold of an author in London via her agent in Christchurch so we can pre-record an interview with my host in San Francisco, but it's not quite as easy as it sounds. (This is while trying to broadcast live commentary of an America's Cup race at the same time, of course)

I never feel like I can go to the toilet or make a coffee in case somebody needs me for something. Luckily, less coffee means less loo stops, so that sort of balances itself out.

And there's always the vague paranoia the line connecting us is about to fall over leaving me with no host whatsoever. Don't laugh. It's happened before.

No, it's not fun. Especially when I have to spend the entire show being told what an awesome time everyone's having where I'm not. By everyone, I mean everyone. Mike, Mrs. Staino (the producer) and even my boss. They're all there and I'm here. I never get to go, because someone has to stay and push the buttons. My other colleagues all sympathise. In fact, they keep coming into the studio to tell me how sorry they are for me. Not helping guys. Not helping at all.

But...

At least I get to use Hosko's car park. I now no longer care what the weather conditions are because I can drive directly from my house to the Radio Network garage. I can't express how awesome and wankerishly important that makes me feel. (Tempered only slightly by the knowledge that's the way Mike gets to feel every day. He's not driving a majestic Corolla like me though)

So, in spite of everything, it's not all bad. I stole Hosking's tickets to the rugby too. Boom.

It may not look like much, but it is much