I HATE THIS TIME OF YEAR

Have I got Christmas music for you?

Please don't get me wrong. (I ask that a little too often - I must say a lot of random stuff) It's not Christmas I hate. I love eating bad food. I love spending time with family and friends. I love being allowed to drink on week nights. 

I love, love, LOVE not getting up at 3 in the morning. God I love that. I love that so much.

What I don't love is the week before.

I would like to miss out the week before. If I could get the Grinch to steal the week before Christmas, I would. The week before makes me feel like Superman... after a long stay in a kryptonite cell.

I'm not looking for sympathy - I'm sure it's the same for everyone. The rushing around. The getting everything organised for whoever's standing in for you at work while you're away. The search for the present that was supposed to be so easy to find but has ended up being the last one in the country so the quest to locate it, purchase it and actually get it delivered on time has become an impossible mission even Ethan Hunt would think twice about accepting.

Who could be bothered feeling sorry for me anyway? You're exhausted too, right? Your back is killing you just as much as mine. Your kids have already started whining, "I'm bored. What can I do?" and they've only been off school 3 days. Basically what I'm doing here is moaning too. Just because I can.

I think the thing that makes this week so excruciating is the promise of relief. Never is your headache more intense than during the minutes you're waiting for the Nurofen to kick in. This week is no different - because the break is just days away makes those days the hardest you've had to endure all year.

Every Christmas song I play on the Mike Hosking Breakfast is a stinging reminder it isn't Christmas yet at all. Every Christmas special I hear advertised on air is like the ticking on the time-bomb that is my Christmas shopping crusade.

Too much to do, not enough time, it's the same every year and I hate it.

So here's what I'm going to do. I'm taking next December off, the whole month. And I'm REALLY taking it off. I'm going to find a helpful anaesthetist to put me in a voluntary coma. They can bring me round Christmas Eve and I'll be refreshed, relaxed and blissfully unaware. And bloody starving probably - perfectly placed to get the most out of the happiest time of the year.

The only thing that could possibly make that scenario any more dream-like would be if Santa brought me a new smart phone to play with... but which to choose? A Lumia 920 or a Galaxy SIII? Now there's a stressful decision to make. I think I could handle that one though.

Yum! They both look so delicious! How's a boy to choose?

THIS TIME, THE MEDIA REALLY ARE TO BLAME

I know - compelling reading, right?

I work at a radio station. I produce current affairs podcasts. I have a satirical online video show. I write these blogs. I guess I'm just going to have to accept it; I'm part of "The Media."

This is why I tend to squirm uncomfortably (is there any other way to squirm?) whenever I hear someone blame "The Media" for something. It's always something bad too. Nobody ever says, "Full credit to The Media. We couldn't have done it without them." Nope, it's always, "The Media have blown this out of all proportion," or, "The Media have taken this whole thing out of context."

Usually this is not true. If a politician blames the media, it's because they have lied. If a sports personality blames The Media, it's because they have lost. If a celebrity blames The Media, well, they're an idiot - without The Media, they wouldn't be a celebrity.

In the sad case of Jacintha Saldanha though, it's pretty hard to find someone else to hold accountable. From 2Day FM's idiot phone stunt, to the global reporting of that stunt, to the incessant hounding of the nurse involved, The Media's hands are covered in blood from start to finish.

The real problem here of course, is there was no story to begin with.

How is a woman becoming pregnant a story? Because she's a princess? Because she's beautiful? Because she's feeling a bit poorly and has sought medical advice? Give me a break. If a man had got himself pregnant, that'd be news. Severe morning sickness? Gross, but not interesting. Okay, I'll admit (I have to, I've admitted it before) I couldn't give a stuff about the Royals. In fact, I may have described them as a complete waste of everybody's time, money and attention. I may have even referred to them as a bunch of drunk and insane, unemployed inbreds. I may not have too. But I may.

I'll make you one concession; some people, and I have no idea why but I know they're out there, some people are actually interested in royal babies. The jump from there to camping outside the entrance to a hospital 24/7 is tenuous to say the least. To then jump again to thinking it's hilarious to pose as Liz and Chas, ring the hospital and ask how Kate's getting on is... well... what can you say? It doesn't even matter whether the prank call was appropriate or not, it should have been binned on the grounds in wasn't funny in any way.

Which is the other weird bit about this sorry saga; who the hell makes radio this way? Apparently the whole thing was recorded well in advance and someone somewhere actually decided to broadcast it. On our show, (the Mike Hosking Breakfast on Newstalk ZB) we generally make it up on the spot. What you hear is what we hear as we hear it. It's called... ah... that's right... NEWS. Sure we'll pre-record the odd interview due to time differences and guest availability but the concept of pre-recording a joke phone call you don't even think will work is kind of pathetic.

Trouble is, this all happened in December, and everybody knows no news happens in December, so when their lame-arse prank actually worked (technically, I mean, not as a successful bit of radio comedy) the British press jumped on it like the pack of slavering jackals they are. Really bad timing for 2Day FM - not only was it No-News Month, but due to the Leveson Inquiry, the U.K. papers in particular had been held in check for so long you could literally hear them baying for blood all the way down here in the Southern Hemisphere.

Once the awesome, terrifying and omnipotent machine that is the English Fourth Estate is set in motion, it won't be stopped. Not by a mere Sydney radio station, and certainly not by a 46 year-old nurse who had the misfortune of answering the phone that day. You can only imagine the pressure she would have felt once her identity was fed into the British press juggernaut.

Assuming suicide is confirmed as the official cause of death, obviously the only person to blame directly is Jacintha herself, but as I type those words, the keys feel hollow beneath my fingertips. Because I know this time The Media was in it up to its eye teeth, from the inception of the worthless radio stunt, to the incessant coverage of the fallout, even now after someone's paid the ultimate price. When The Media itself becomes so entwined in the story, instead of just observing it and reporting it, we're on dangerous ground. Now we're all tainted, all partially responsible, we, The Media.

If only more people along the way had posed themselves one crucial question, perhaps this whole stinking, squalid, shameful mess could have been avoided. It's a question so important, so obvious, all too often it's left unasked and this time the results were fatal.

That question: "Is this even a story?"

Beware the all-powerful press juggernaut

SCHOOL PRIZE-GIVINGS AREN'T SO BAD

The final barrier between school and summer. Dun dun dah...

It was always the storm before the calm. The final challenge. The ultimate test. The one thing standing between you and freedom - the sweet, sweet freedom of the summer holidays. If you could just survive that last 2 excruciating hours of torture, Christmas would be your REAL prize.

The end-of-year prize-giving. So cruel. So unusual. Why so many speeches? Why so many categories? Why so many items from the orchestra/choir/rock band/drama department? These are just some of the questions I would find myself considering every year of my scholastic career.

And I was IN the orchestra/choir/rock band/drama department. God only knows what was running through the minds of those poor sods who just had to sit there and take it.

But that's all changed now. Now, 30 years later, I love prize-givings. Prize-givings rock. Prize-givings are better than an ice cream after a trip to the beach. Because my daughter is Performer of the Year.

Let's not get ahead of ourselves though. One of the coolest things about being an adult is not having to go to school. No exams. No P.E. No detention. No Mr. Menzies. (Sorry, Mr. Menzies, but you WERE a jerk, and we all know it) Best of all, no assemblies and no prize-givings.

As the years roll on, school becomes a mere memory. A darker time you can put behind you. Sure, now there are bills to pay and jobs to go to, but at least you don't have to wear shorts with long socks anymore.

However, if parenthood strikes, (and for those adults out there reading this, I should warn you, parenthood can strike at any time, so be ever watchful) school will eventually pull you back in, a bit like the Death Star's tractor beam snagging the Millenium Falcon.

Two quick questions: 1) Do you think I use too many Star Wars analogies? 2) Is "Millenium" supposed to have 2 L's? It looks wrong.

ANYWAY...

You can't escape it. School will eventually reclaim you. It may take 5 years, or 10, but sooner or later you'll find yourself back at that end-of-year prize-giving, only this time the chances of you personally winning anything are effectively nil. (I did claim a hamper from the local pharmacy on behalf of the Domestic Manager once, but that was just a raffle that happened to be drawn the same day)

HOWEVER...

Should your kid's name be called out to step forward, trip up the steps, then accidentally grab their certificate before shaking hands with the principal like they were supposed to, your whole world will suddenly grind to a halt, heavenly choirs will start to sing and your heart will literally burst with pride, so you'd better have a defibrillator handy, just in case.

Should that child then go on to claim 2 MORE awards, even though you didn't quite hear what they were for because you weren't expecting her to win anything else, your pride levels will be so out of control, paramedics may have to be called in.

And if that child, that golden child, that gifted, anointed, MIRACLE child should go on to take out the grand prize for her year, yes, an actual CUP... well, you'll probably just die on the spot. Splat. Dead from a parental pride overdose. What a way to go.

That's how my loathing of prize-givings turned to love. Still no excuse for a flute choir though. That kind of torture is against the Geneva Convention.

Pretty good haul for someone with a gimpy hand

THE PROBLEM WITH NZGT

I blame the judges - not icecream

I can tell you straight off; it's the judges.

There, that was a short glog this week wasn't it?

Alright, I'll elaborate. Clearly, New Zealand does indeed have some talent, particularly in the areas of dance and singer-songwritery cafe rockers. There are also a few really wacky jugglers out there, but once you've been to Cirque du Soleil, wacky doesn't quite cut it anymore. When it comes to circus acts these days, unless you can actually stick your elbow up your own bum, while playing the accordian and setting yourself on fire, we've seen it all before.

So how did we end up with so many no-talent losers and misfits in the so-called grand final of New Zealand's Got Talent?

I blame the judges... and their litany of lies. Ali Campbell, Rachel Hunter and Jason Kerrison sat there in our tellies week after week and lied to our faces. On a Sunday too. Pretty naughty. We trust Rachel, we've trusted her for years. After all, she was so right about Trumpets. You really can't beat them. Watch Rachel's Old Ad to see a real, live supermodel actually eating icecream. If she says the entire country has fallen in love with 91 year-old Olivia Turner (even though she's been singing progressively worse and worse each week) maybe she heard something we didn't.

For almost 30 years, Ali Campbell's been giving us such good advice about consuming red wine in moderation. When he then goes on to predict Logan Walker's original song could be the country's next big single, obviously that's sound advice too. Kind of suspicious he's told that to at least two other acts as well - or could we be headed for an all NZGT top 5?

If Jason Kerrison, 20 year veteren of the kiwi music industry tells us 11 year-old Fletcher's going to be a big star, surely he's going to be, right? We wouldn't want to miss out on that action. Don't let the fact he can't find his own cat fool you, this tweenie's got the goods.

Sadly, it's lies. All lies. It's almost as if the judges were just saying these things to keep us interested in their programme. Sadly, for this viewer anyway, they completely missed the boat. I've watch many hours of this kind of bollocks TV over the years and in my view, the only singing shows that work are the ones where at least one of the judges is prepared to be brutally honest. Simon Cowell is the master of course, with Ian "Dicko" Dickson and the notorious Kyle Sandilands close behind.

All too often throughout this series, we've seen people singing terrible songs badly in horrendous outfits, only to be told they had genuine star potential and had connected with every member of the audience. I'm no Jason Kerrison, but I've sung and played a little over the years and I can hear when someone's off the note. "Big" Dane never got near the notes on Sunday, but I don't think that's what Rachel meant when she told him/her, "How unbelievable was that? Your voice is just so powerful!" I think she actually meant it as a compliment.

I don't want to put any of the contestants down (except maybe Zane and Degge - Dudes! Why would you try to juggle on unicycles when one of you can't seem to ride a unicycle?) because it's not the contestants' fault they were put through. In fact, some contestants seemed to make every effort to NOT be put through. Tawaroa Kawana for example - he starts out as a hip SBW look-alike serenading Rachel with his acoustic guitar, then the next time we see him he's crooning cruise-ship style in a shiny suit. I mean, what is that about?

It's the judges. It's the judges. It's all the judges. Sure we voted, but we voted the way the judges told us to and if we didn't, they put the 3rd-best act through anyway. What kind of idiot system is that? I'll tell what kind - it's a wrought. 99 cents a vote? Please. Oh, of course you can download the free app - but even then you have to buy voting credits. Someone's creaming it - and it ain't the contestants. (In spite of so many of them having "New Zealand's next hit single") Okay, one of them WILL take home $100k in their brand new ride - I just hope that it's Clara or Evan. JGeeks are great too - but they'll have to take turns driving.

Fire the judges and put somebody honest in there. They don't have to be mean, just don't be mean with the facts. At least they're right about one thing; Corollas ARE really cool cars.

Please ignore the abysmal parallel parking and appreciate the coolness of the car

THE GENERATION GAP GETS WIDER

Perhaps the most eagerly anticipated album of the year. Perhaps not.

This is not a CD review. For starters, who even buys CDs anymore? I could have used the word "album" but that means different things to different people these days too.

No, this is simply my reaction to my 11 year-old daughter's reaction to some music I was playing in my car on Monday.

It's a long way to piano lessons. The teacher moved 20 minutes further away which is pain in terms of fuel consumption, but a bonus when it comes to music appreciation. On Monday, we appreciated the latest offering from Led Zeppelin; Celebration Day - a double disc recording of their one-off O2 concert in 2007.

I say, WE appreciated it. That's not strictly accurate. I tried to appreciate it while daughter completely ignored it, chatted nonstop about her day and even (and this was pretty annoying actually) TURNED IT DOWN at one point.

I used to like her. Now I'm not so sure.

Admittedly, the 63 year-old Jimmy Page playing on this recording isn't quite the performer you hear on 2003's "How the West Was Won" - a compilation of live performances from 1972 - but come on! Jimmy Page! The original guitar hero! Am I starting to sound like a desperate old man here?

I can remember when I first discovered Led Zep like it was yesterday. I was a teenager and I'd heard of them, but I thought they were just some annoying metal band like Black Sabbath or Deep Purple. This wasn't based on anything I'd heard, it was based on what the greasy, long-haired guitar try-hards at had written all over their schoolbags.

Obviously everybody knows "Stairway To Heaven" - quite a good song. I had to wonder if there were more quite good songs to go with it. Almost as I was wondering this, "Remasters" was released and here's the disturbing part kids - I bought it on LP! You know, LPs? Records? To go on a turntable? You've got no idea what I'm talking about, have you? Anyway, on LP, it was a 3-disc set.

Here's a bit of nerdy Led Zep back-story. Basically, when CD's started catching on, someone at a record company somewhere dubbed all their albums off, and released them like that. No re-mixing. No involvement with the band. A pretty rough job. 1990 rolls around and Jimmy Page decides to fix it all up, digitally remastering everything and releasing all the best songs in one package.

I took "Remasters" home, went straight up to my room and listened to the whole thing, all 6 sides, back to back. I was spellbound. "Oh my god," I thought. "This is the greatest band in the history of rock." Of course, by 1990, I wasn't the first teenager to have had this epiphany. In fact, given the band formed in the late 60's, I was joining at least the 2nd, if not the 3rd generation of Led Zep groupies.

So it was with some excitement I pushed play on my Corolla's CD player the other day and waited for my daughter's reaction. She'd got in the car halfway through "No Quarter." This was going to be good.

But no. Nothing. Not even a flicker. Maybe there's something wrong with her. Can Zeppelin appreciation skip a generation? She's a really good musician - better than I ever was. How could she not be impressed by John Paul Jones' sweeping bass lines? By the sheer poetry of the lyrics? By Robert Plant's essential hairiness?

She's just too young, that's the problem. How's an 11 year-old supposed to interpret lyrics like, "Shake for me girl. I wanna be your back-door man." As for the Lemon Song, I'm not even sure I'M mature enough to handle that content. (Google the words. They're dirty, but funny) I'm sure she'll get it eventually. If I just keep playing it to her, she'll come round. Or at least she'll develop the good manners to feign interest, for her old dad's sake. Oh and next time, hands off the volume knob, kiddo.

Hey, that guy on the right doesn't look so old. Oh, he's the son. Of course.

THE BATTLE BETWEEN TECHNOLOGY AND GOOD MANNERS

What do you mean this isn't responsible parenting? It's Diet.

Of the many challenges parenting presents, perhaps the curliest is trying to stay cool. It's a flawed argument of course, your kids will never think you're cool and the older everyone gets - you, them - the more uncooler you'll become. That won't stop you trying of course, especially if you're a dad.

No dad wants to be the bad guy. We're the ones who say, "Yes."

As in, "Can I have Coke on my Weetbix this morning, dad?"

"What would your mother say?"

"I've never asked her."

"Well, I s'pose so then. But make sure you screw the lid back on properly."

See? Dads don't get any cooler than that, right?

Or how about this classic?... "Dad, look at these awesomely sharp sticks we found! Can we hit each other with them?"

"I s'pose there's no harm in that. As long as you don't draw blood. Try to avoid the eyes please."

This weekend though, I discovered I was even less cool than I thought. We'd been invited to a dinner party, and when I say "we" I mean me, the Domestic Manager and both monsters. The great fear of all kids in these situations is the threat of extreme boredom. Specifically, what if there are no other kids there? Will I have to listen to adults talking about boring shit all night? Will there be a TV there so I can watch whichever reality singing competition is playing tonight?

As it happens, there's been a recent development in the glennzb household my kids thought might combat the looming boredom threat; the mighty iPad. And when I call it mighty, obviously I mean, ALmighty. Somehow, and I really don't understand how, although it might have something to do with Orewa College's progressive policy towards one-to-one devices, we've gone from being a no iPad family to a 2-iPad family in the space of about 10 days. This now takes the number of mind-sucking, personal electronic devices in our house to around 20 or so. It's hard to nail down an exact figure.

The point is, the kids wanted to know if they could take their iPads out to dinner with them. No matter how cool a dad you're desperate to be, you've got to draw the line somewhere. I said no, and they took it well I thought, considering telling a kid they can't use their iPad is a bit like telling a crack addict he can't have his fix, or someone who works in breakfast radio the coffee machine's broken. (I've actually been faced with this last nightmare scenario a number of times and lived to tell the tale... somehow)

"You can't turn up at the door with your iPads under your arms," I explained. "It's one thing worrying you'll be bored, but if you B.Y.O. iPads, you're effectively picketing their house with placards that read, "YOU'RE BORING!"

(I'm sure there probably IS an app to actually turn your iPad into a placard. If not, remember who had the idea first, striking activists)

So we arrived brandishing 2 nibble platters, a bottle of wine and no iPads. The good news was, there were plenty of other kids there to keep mine occupied, not to mention a dog and some cats. The bad news was, they had all brought their iPads. Including the dog I think, although he could have been sharing one with the cats.

Boy did I feel like an old fuddy-duddy then. How Dickensian of me to keep my precious kiddies offline for a WHOLE EVENING. I was lucky I wasn't had up for child abuse, forcing them to suffer under such an oppressive, 3rd-world regime.

Really? Has it really come to this? Are we really going to let our progeny plug themselves into cyberspace and just leave them there indefinitely?

Don't get me wrong, I loves me a gadget. In fact, I loves me gadgets more than just about anything. But geez they can be antisocial. I certainly can't claim any kind of innocence or immunity from their brain-numbing influence either; after all, there's no point in listing something on TradeMe if you can't check how many views you've had every 3 minutes via your smart phone.

Remember when YOUR parents would tell you to stop watching so much TV and that you should go out and do something useful? Oh, how times have changed. If only I could get my kids to pay attention to the telly - the X-Factor is on, but one of them's too busy Viber-ing her mates to notice, while her sister is creating her own personal fiefdom on Minecraft. As I've already admitted, Mum and Dad aren't exactly setting a sterling example, given I'm just clearing a few work emails on my awesome Nokia Lumia and the Domestic Manager has at least 2 separate Facebook accounts to maintain.

Are we just getting smarter, is that it? Have our brains become so much larger over the eons, we now require more stimulation to fill up our attention spans? Or is it an evil inter-planetary takeover plot, masterminded by body-snatching aliens using video games and the interweb to lull us into submission? It'd certainly save on starships and plasma bombs.

We need to get rid of these devices. All of them. The phones. The iPads. The laptops. The lot. Gone. Surely we can just replace them with a WiFi router hardwired directly into our brains. That'd make it a lot easier to pretend we're listening to the dinner conversation when we're ACTUALLY updating our profile pic.

I left some of our computers out of this photo so it wouldn't look too excessive

PERHAPS THE STRANGEST GIG IN HISTORY

Take note of the time. What could possibly go wrong?

As I write this, you're dealing with a desperate man.

Desperate for answers, for explanations. Desperate for clarity. Desperate for guidance. Possibly in need of a hug. Most definitely, and most desperately of all, badly in need of sleep.

If you're a regular reader of these humble glogs, you'll be well aware I spend much, if not most of my life in a state of confusion. But today I take the definition of confusion to new heights. Everest-like heights. Fearless Felix Baumgartner jumping-from-a-balloon-on-the-edge-of-space heights. I think you'll agree, those are pretty high heights.

The sheer altitude of my confusion stems from 2 things; a severe lack of sleep and the ultimate cause of that lack.

No need to be confused about the lack of sleep. 3 hours is not enough. For anyone. Not even for an old person. Nearly 39 isn't really old - although after just 3 hours kip, it FEELS very old indeed.

So that's straight-forward then; not enough sleep causes confusion (and possibly oldness) but the real question is the OTHER thing. Why? Why so little sleep? Here I have few answers.

I know it has something to do with Ben Harper though. 

It seemed like a simple proposition at the inception; An Acoustic Evening With Ben Harper, 7:30 Monday night, Aotea Centre - at least, that's what the ticket promised anyway. An acoustic evening, an early start... What could be more civilised? What could possibly go wrong?

Firstly, just because the ticket clearly says 7:30PM, there's no real way of knowing when Ben will take the stage. Oh, the doors opened shortly after 7:30, but obviously that would've been a crazy time for Mr. Harper to start playing. He's much more of an 8 o'clock guy, right? Nope. 8:30? Guess again. At 8:45 I'm starting to think this is one of the longest concerts I've never been to. Apparently, 75 minutes is pretty much the optimum time to make your audience sit around with nothing else to do before you finally take the stage.

Oh, did I say NOTHING else to do? Well that's wildly inaccurate because clearly you have 2 excellent alternatives while waiting for the lights to go down. 1: With the help of your smart-phone, you can ignore who you came with, hard out. Or 2: You can get steadily pissed.

The great thing about option 1: is, you can keep it up all night. Start off slow... maybe a few texts... one or two sneaky emails, the mandatory Facebook update. The important thing here is to avoid verbal communication with your date in any form whatsoever - in fact, if you can avoid eye-contact, even better. Obviously you can still Direct Message them, as long as you don't look like you arrived together, or that you even know each other. After the show actually begins, (IF it begins) you can really ramp things up. Keep texting, obviously. That's the best way to annoy that idiot to the other side of you who seems to be trying to actually ENJOY THE SHOW. What a loser. I bet he only "friends" people he knows. In person. Weirdo.

Oh, and don't forget to video EVERYTHING. How else are you supposed to remember what happened? Don't worry about those other nerds behind you who might find it a bit distracting having to view what's on stage through the screen of your phone, they're probably clicking off a quick "selfy" to prove they were actually there anyway. It doesn't matter that you'll never actually end up showing anyone your videos, at least you can post them on Youtube so someone on the other side of the world can criticise your camera skills in a foreign language. The important thing is to be using your phone in some way for at least 95% of the evening - make sure it's all charged before you leave the house.

Option 2: Drinking. Sadly, at most events I've been to at most theatres, you can only get stuck into the booze pre-show and at half-time. Luckily Ben Harper gives you a good hour and a half's drinking time to really take the edge off. This may mean a few extra trips to the loo during the first half, but who cares, right? And when I say trips, I do mean physically tripping over everybody in your row, there and back.

But here's the totally awesome thing...

At An Acoustic Evening With Ben Harper, the bars stayed open THE WHOLE TIME BABY! This meant you could get genuinely munted, all night long. Although obviously you'd require many, MANY more "trips" ALL NIGHT LONG. But who cares, right?

I myself must have been out of my head because I could swear there were at least 12 different guitars on stage, not mention the beat-up piano and what appeared to be an actual vibraphone. Here's the really weird thing about being as drunk as I must have been (I was probably as drunk as the other audience members who kept shouting things like, "Love you, Ben!" and hooting, "CHER-HOO!" Samoan slap-dancing style) being that drunk caused me to believe Harper actually PLAYED most of those guitars, a lot of the time with them just sitting on his lap.

The piano definitely got beat up again, and as for the vibraphone, (or was it a marimba? No, I'm really hoping it was a vibraphone) in my delirium, Harper appeared to be playing the blues on it. While singing. No, that couldn't really have happened, could it?

Reality really just wafted away as the show continued, kind of the same way dozens of patrons WANDERED away - only to get more beers though. They mostly came back, usually clasping about 2 more plastic cups than a sober person would attempt, sloshing much of the contents over the rest of the people in the row. But who cares, right? 

What a night. A night to remember. (As long as you videoed it, of course) Sadly, it all came to an end too soon, a mere 2 hours and 45 minutes after it hadn't started.

Except, it didn't. Sure 10:15 rolled round and Ben waved everyone goodnight and left the stage - but this was just that massively out-of-it guy in the front row's cue to rark everyone into a frenzied demand for an encore, which he managed to sustain for an amazingly long time given how out of focus he was appearing to himself.

Yay! Eventually Ben was back, beating that poor, unsuspecting piano once more. Half an hour later he was still back and things began to feel more like a second half than an encore. But that couldn't be right - if the break had been a genuine interval, the lights would have come up so we could find our way to the... bar... ah, now the "We Never Close" policy REALLY started making sense. My suspicions of a surprise second half were confirmed around 11, when Ben gave those with babysitters permission to head home as we were only, "Just into the 3rd quarter."

What a legend. What a night. What the hell? I went home.

I've never left a concert before the end. As far as I know, he's still playing. As far as I know, the "CHER-HOO!"ers are still drinking. Not bad for a Monday night. You can see how a bloke could get confused though. So tired.

You can never have too many of these at the theatre. Right? RIGHT?

THE MARATHON MYSTERY... WHY???

Mark Richardson's actual foot. It's a foot, but not as we know it.

In this life, there are many things I don't understand. Women. Children. Animals. Reality TV. Australian Rules Football. The meaning of the Australian national anthem. Australians generally.

I don't understand why they make reporters stand in storms when everyone else has been evacuated. I don't understand why suddenly men's pants suddenly have short legs with cuffs. I don't understand why an internet provider would use a turtle to demonstrate the benefits of superfast broadband.

But the thing I don't understand more than anything else this week is why people run marathons.

The reason this is top of mind for me is the Auckland Marathon happened on Sunday, and inexplicably, many of my colleagues took part. In fact, it appears many of EVERYBODY's colleagues took part. 16,500 competitors turned up and I still have no idea why.

Oh, sure I get a few of them probably fancied they were in with a shot of winning the thing. That in itself would be an interesting statistic; exactly how many WERE in it to win it? 50? 100? I mean, it IS a race right? If I'm not mistaken, isn't the point of a race to get to the end of it faster than anyone else? It's not the school cross-country - the Auckland Marathon isn't compulsory - so why the hell would you enter, knowing you'll be pipped at the post before you even start? And when I say, "pipped at the post," in most cases I mean absolutely humiliated by many minutes if not for most, beaten by hours. HOURS!

If the vast majority aren't trying to win, what other reason could there be? One I've heard before is something like that old mountain climbing adage, "because it's there." I almost understand the logic of this. You've never run a marathon before. Other people have. You'd like to cross it off your list. Let's get it over and done with. Why it got onto your list in the first place is still in question, but if it did, I get that.

However...

Many, if not most of these idiots weren't first-timers. They'd punished themselves this way before. They'd crossed "marathon" off the list, only to add it back on at the bottom again. What's that about? Subjecting yourself to hour after hour of aerobic torture barely made sense the first time, but achieving something you've already achieved? Isn't that like playing a video game you've already clocked just to beat your previous high score - ie: a thoroughly pointless accomplishment nobody else cares about?

Make no mistake, even a HALF-marathon is no picnic. We're talking blisters. Joint pain. Bleeding nipples. Yep, bleeding nipples! Come on people? What reasonable, sane person embarks on any kind of endeavor that requires you to TAPE YOUR NIPPLES to avoid a loss of blood?

Presumably there are records to be broken. The most marathons run. The most Auckland Marathons run. The most marathons run in a calendar year. The most blood lost from a pair of nipples. Although again, of the 16,500, how many of those have a bona fide record in their sights?

I asked one of these weirdos straight out, "WHY?" 

"Gets you in shape," she said. Then she added, "Stops you from drinking so much."

She's partly right of course. The training (assuming you've been training and haven't just turned up for a 42km jog on a whim) will probably get you fit. But so will the gym. Or Zumba. Or business-house touch. The problem here is, the race itself will just about kill you and you won't actually be able to walk properly for days afterwards.

As for the not-drinking, I don't remember anything about nipple-bleeding being part of the 12 Steps. Maybe it should be. Just the threat of it would probably keep ME on the wagon.

It's obviously some freak pack-hysteria thing. Masochism on grand scale. MASS-masochism if you will. In every population there's bound to be a seedy underbelly of those who get off on causing themselves pain. In Auckland, that underbelly is apparently 16,500 strong. The marathon is like their own gay-pride parade, the one time they can come out and mutilate themselves in the open. I can't believe the council grants consent to this kind of sick public deviance. I wonder how these perverts get their kicks the rest of the year?

Just look at these sickos. They should be ashamed of themselves

MY FRIEND MIKE AND HIS MATE LANCE

Don't know who took this picture, but it sure made me giggle

We've all done it. We've all said stupid things. Things we shouldn't have said. Things that even as they were exiting our mouths, part of us was instantly regretting saying them.

Things about politics. Things about sport. Things about your wife's mother. You know, things you should have thought through and discarded and forgotten you ever thought through them in the first place. But sometimes, and god only knows why, we say these things anyway.

At that point, there are two ways you can go. You can immediately recant your verbal idiocy, blaming the lateness of the hour, too much drink or a minor brain explosion. Or, and this is a bloody stupid option, but it's an option, you can defend what you've just said to the death.

The trouble with this second option, the defending what you've said to the death option, once you go down that track, there's really no turning back. Well, at least not until after your dead anyway, and by then it's usually pretty difficult to get any kind of point across. You can't really half-heartedly defend what you've said to the death - it's kind of an all or nothing scenario.

Now this won't cause too many issues in most situations - for example; claiming it wasn't you who farted when it was, or denying you ate the last afghan when nobody else was home. (No witnesses. You can't prove it was me.) However, claiming Lance Armstrong didn't cheat when everyone else says he did is a slightly different matter.

There are many reasons the Lance Armstrong story has exploded the way it has. For so long he has been the undisputed king of cycling. He's the world's most famous survivor of ball cancer. And for many of us, perhaps even the majority of us, Lance is probably the only cyclist we've ever heard of. So when people started making noises about him being on the dope, it was bound to stir things up a bit.

It was at this point Mike Hosking took "Option Two." Sure, he could have said something like, "Crikey, this is a bit of a worry. We'll have to see what happens here." But no, Mike went the defend him to the death route straight off the bat. "Lance is innocent. People have been making these wild allegations for years. I've read his book, and I'm sure he would have mentioned consistent and regular drug-taking somewhere along the way if he'd ever done it which he hasn't so shut the hell up about it." That kind of thing is hard to back down from once it's out there. And he kept putting it out there, to anyone who'd listen. (Which of course is about half a million people every weekday morning)

To begin with, he definitely had a point. Innocent until proven guilty; More than just a cliché, the very basis of most Western justice systems, not to mention the core plot to most episodes of Boston Legal.

Trouble is, the hits just kept on coming. Over a reasonably short space of time, virtually anybody who'd been beaten by, ridden with or had once met Armstrong at a party was labelling him a doper, in many cases dobbing themselves in in the process.

Of course, Hosking easily parried these minor setbacks away like Yoda versus a young Jedi in training. "Obviously these cheats want to take this shining legend down with them. Bloody tall poppy syndrome. They should be ashamed of themselves."

Next step, the hearings and the 1000 page report. That's 1000 pages of "Lance is guilty" mind you - not too many chapters on what a stand-up guy he is. What's more, the defendant stopped defending himself. He pulled himself out of the fight claiming it was all getting just a bit too hard. Harder than beating ball cancer? Give me a break.

At this point did Mike begin to waver? Well, he'd say no, but I detected... a softening. Suddenly he was calling for one of two things. Evidence of a positive blood test, or a confession from the man himself.

I imagine the Hosk was sweating just a little when Armstrong announced he was stepping down from his charity, although Lance stopped short of admitting any wrongdoing. As a result, neither did Mike. Sponsors abandoned Armstrong. Cycling officials stripped him of his titles and banned him for life. The media said this was the final, damning blow. Well, all except ONE media of course.

Is Mike now wishing he'd never trumped up Armstrong's impeccable character in the first place? Of course not. I've worked with the man for years and only his Mrs. can make him back up the truck.

However...

Today Hosking's line was, "They found David Bain not guilty. They found Ewan McGregor not guilty." But I can't help thinking associating his man with a couple of blokes who were actually tried for MURDER isn't quite showing Mr. Armstrong in that pure light of innocence Mike was shining on him to begin with.

I can see where Lance could have got confused. Can't you?

OUR FELIX FASCINATION

The potentially record-breaking foot-crusher in question

People do stupid things all the time. They cycle down mountains. They row across oceans. They go to the movies without a sweatshirt. (Madness. Everyone knows they always have the aircon too low at the movies)

Why, even I have taken my share of life-threatening risks. I've bungee-jumped. I've used the Wellington Street on-ramp. I've braved the aisles of Orewa New World with nothing to protect me from the hordes of Zimmer-frames and mobility scooters except my own shopping basket.

In fact, just the other day, I dropped a full-sized brick on my foot. Admittedly, this last one wasn't fully intentional... definitely stupid though.

But as acts of stupidity go, jumping from 102,800 feet is up there. Way up there.

When "Fearless" Felix Baumgartner made history on Monday morning our time, a lot of people were watching. Over 7 million streamed the YouTube feed alone. The event sponsor, Red Bull, had their own swanky website and for some reason TV One took the entire ascent live. Until 6 o'clock rolled around obviously, then they had to make that crucial call between watching a bloke in a spacesuit in a balloon rising slowly... and Breakfast. They went with Breakfast. I know, weird right?

I watched pretty much the whole thing, from the launch, to the ascent, to the jump, to the landing.

The launch was interesting. Does letting go of something from a crane even qualify as a launch? I couldn't help wondering if they'd used a taller crane, it could have sped everything up a bit, because what came next was excruciating.

Nobody told me it would take so long to travel 24 miles up by balloon. I mean anyone who's ever lost their grip on one at a school gala knows once that puppy's gone, it's gone - and no amount of hysterical screaming from your daughter will bring it back. Buying her a new balloon will probably stop the screaming though. Failing that, maybe some candyfloss will shut her up. I may be getting off topic. Back to Felix.

Over 2 hours to get it up. The balloon capsule, I mean. Our lift at work rises faster than that. Admittedly it only goes up 3 and a half floors and breaks down once every 2 months, but still.

In spite of the long wait, I was pretty spellbound the whole time, even though literally nothing happened for ages. Felix sat there. The control room guys sat there. The balloon went up. Slowly. But still we watched. We watched in our millions.

Was it the extraordinarily high level of stupidity that held us so transfixed? Or were there other, darker forces at work here?

If we're being perfectly honest with ourselves, we were kind of hoping it would go wrong, weren't we? We were all well aware of the risks - Felix could tear his pressure suit exiting the capsule, causing his blood to boil as he fell to Earth faster than the speed of sound. As horrific as that sounds, how awesome would it have been to watch on live TV?

Unfortunately for us (but really fortunately for Felix) it turns out falling out of the sky isn't actually all that complicated. It's really just a matter of waiting for the balloon to rise, getting the door open, then jumping out without snagging the suit on the way past the doorway. Next time I'd wear a slightly more tear-resistant suit, but that's just me.

We did have a couple of nervous moments to whet our evil-sides' appetites. At one point there was talk of a malfunctioning face-heater - only one thing worse than boiling blood, and that's a frozen face. They seemed to fix this though, either that or Felix was worrying about something that didn't really matter. As it happens, Felix is not that fearless. He reportedly suffers from claustrophobia. This explains why he then went on to complain about the door not opening fast enough when he reached his target altitude. Once again, mission control assured him this was perfectly normal as they were still equalising the air pressure. Surely Felix had been through all this with them previously? But claustrophobia's grip is vicelike when you're trapped in a balloon capsule on the edge of space.

The ultimate moment of nervousness happened during freefall itself; Felix leaped and then came the DEATH Spin. (Cue dramatic sting - "dum, dum, dah") It was at this point the little devil on our collective shoulders started rubbing his hoofs together. Would the records still count even if he hit the ground without opening his chute? Come on, admit it, if you were watching you were wondering the same thing.

Happily, or sadly (depending on whether you were listening to the devil or the angel) Felix converted the DEATH Spin into just a Spin and lived to tell the tale. Many records were broken. Felix was not. Did it matter we'd never even heard of these records? Of course not. A record is a record and we love watching people do stupid things.

I wonder what the record is for heaviest brick dropped on a foot? More to the point, could I get Red Bull to sponsor it?

Okay, so it's not that high... But I still wouldn't want to jump from it

HOW A SIMPLE ON-RAMP MADE A LITTLE BOY VERY HAPPY

Nothing but green lights all the way...

Ah the freedom. The liberty. The simple time-saving. Life is so much better now the Wellington Street On-Ramp has re-opened.

It was the ultimate first-world problem; my usual on-ramp had been closed for the construction of a new tunnel. I could understand that. I'm a reasonable man. Everyone loves a tunnel. I was prepared to forgo my usual easy access to the Northern Motorway for a few months if it meant I got to whiz through a tunnel once a day at the end of it.

Not that it was easy mind you. Overnight I'd gone from a one-light zip around the corner for my motorway access, to a five-light bumbling weave through Auckland City's North Western CBD. In terms of time, we're talking one minute's drive compared to ten.

Nine more minutes makes you late for things. Like my 10:15 Body Balance class. You can't arrive late to Balance - you miss the Tai Chi  warm-up and disrupt everyone's positive energy flow during Standing Strength. Try striking a half-decent Swan Pose after that lot. You're dreaming. There goes my flexibility. Not to mention my core.

Nine more minutes ads up. That's three quarters of an hour every week... For weeks... Months... It'd all be worth it though. Hour after hour of my life literally wasting away at Victoria Park traffic lights, but with the ultimate reward in sight; a faster drive home. (Through a tunnel)

Then the tunnel opened. Then my on-ramp didn't. And after a while, it still didn't. What was going on here? I started to get a whiff of something. The pong of conspiracy was in the air.

My worst fears were confirmed in a short Campbell Live article one evening. A man from Auckland Transport was interviewed and admitted not only had they not decided WHEN to re-open Wellington Street, they hadn't even decided IF they would re-open it. At this I did an actual double take - well, the digital TV version of a double take - I rewound my MySky to make sure I'd heard him correctly. I had. Surely this couldn't be right. Could it be I'd never get my nine minutes back?

Not on my watch.

For the first time ever, I decided to make a difference. I actually made a submission on the Auckland Transport website. That's right, unbelievably, they thought there might be some people out there who didn't want the on-ramp re-opened. It's not like it wasn't already there. They'd spent millions reconstructing it to feed into the tunnel, now they were just a bit worried people might start using it. Some idiot seemed to have a theory about the risk of congestion at peak times, although it was a theory that didn't seem to be founded on any actual facts.

This was a farce, plain and simple. So I took action. Drastic action. I started a hashtag discussion on Twitter.

I don't know if I can take all the credit, (obviously I can't, but I can try) but our voices were finally heard. The oppressed masses of Auckland's North Shore, egged on by @glennzb demanded action and amazingly, against the odds, for once, we got it. We submitters were notified the Wellington Street On-Ramp would indeed re-open after all. Why we then had to wait months after that, god only knows.

The point is, I feel like I did something. Like I had an opinion, and for once it mattered. Common sense never wins out over suffocating bureaucracy, except this time it did, and I'm reminded of that every time I drive home from work. I got my nine minutes back... Can't wait to waste it watching DVDs and melting cheese on stuff.

Behold the beauty of a fresh new on-ramp

BEING ON MY BEST BEHAVIOUR

I'm sure she's a very nice lady... under the suit, cape and mask

This morning I had the CEO breathing down my neck. Literally. She stood directly behind my chair while I operated New Zealand's highest rating radio show, asking me insightful questions about every single thing I was doing.

She's new and for some reason she seems to think spending a few hours with each department will give her a good, first-hand overview of the entire company. She's right of course, it will, but it was still a bit creepy having your own personal overlord scrutinising your every move for 2 and 1/2 hours. I felt a bit like one of those dudes in the grey uniforms who work on the Death Star, constantly terrified of cocking something up in case Darth Vader walks round the corner, sees what you've done and crushes your larynx using only the Force.

Is comparing the new CEO to Darth Vader a somewhat career-limiting manoeuvre? The mere fact I'm even posing that question shows my major failing in any situation like this; I simply can't keep my big trap shut. It's a reflex thing. When I'm nervous, or I feel like I have to impress someone, I instantly morph into a teenager out on a first date. I've always been like that... at job interviews, socialising in strange groups... out on first dates... the smart-arse remarks just start coming and I can't stop them. A bit like diarrhoea.

They're usually not even good jokes, it's literally just me running off at the mouth. Here's a classic example...

CEO: "So what's supposed to be happening now?"

ME: "I was supposed to fire off an ad break, but I didn't because I was too busy answering your questions."

See? Not only not funny, but also a very accurate depiction of how mediocre I am at my job. Nice work, glennzb. By now she's probably wondering why they hired you in the first place.

It'd be different if this executive neck-breathing thing was an everyday occurrence. I mean, I  see my boss every day and HE doesn't make me nervous. (Doesn't stop me making stupid jokes around him, or indeed ABOUT him - again, potentially career-limiting, but I think this is more of a challenging-authority-thing than a nerves-thing. When I stop and think about it, I seem to have a lot of "things" going on)

Sadly, the more determined I am to make a good impression, the less likely that becomes. At one point I actually called her a "blonde lady" and asked her if she wanted to host the show. I say, "at one point", but it was pretty much the very first thing I said to her. It was all downhill from there.

I find some consolation in the fact I have made it past the first date before. Once or twice I've even successfully navigated job interviews and ended up with an actual job. Presumably the girls and interviewers in question saw past my initial dickishness, to some of my less annoying qualities concealed beneath. A miracle really because they're quite well concealed and an extremely long way beneath. Talk about defying the odds.

So now my only hope is our new CEO can do the same... and I don't mean go out on a date with me. God, imagine how ridiculous my behaviour would be then! No, for now I'll just settle for her letting me keep my job. Oh, and not crushing my larynx would be nice too.

The neck in question, as breathed down by our new CEO

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?