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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SCAN

What horrors await behind these doors?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BASKING IN THE OLYMPIC AFTERGLOW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CAN THE CHIEFS GET SOME LOVE PLEASE?

The evolution of Super Trophies from an actual cup to something stupid...

What do you have to do to be appreciated around here? No other New Zealand franchise won 12 out of their 16 regular season games. Did any other team manage to beat the Crusaders twice? Who else has a prop who can score 9 tries in a season?


The Chiefs deserve some serious props (see what I did there?) but I bet you they won't get them. In fact, we don't even get a decent trophy. This Super 15 thing looks like the part of the U.S.S. Enterprise that holds the dilithium crystals in. What's wrong with a good old-fashioned cup? Or at least a ball on a stick like the last one.


But that's okay. We're not in it for the accolades. We don't need medals. Or a trophy that actually looks like a trophy. A little attention would be nice though.


The Chiefs' win has flown so low under the radar, the C.I.A. should hire them to infiltrate North Korea and gather intelligence. It's like the whole season has been specifically designed to rob the mighty Chiefs of any credit whatsoever. So here it is; my outrageous conspiracy theory...


Firstly, we got the Blues. I don't mean we were depressed about how no-one noticed how well we were playing, I'm talking about the Auckland Blues. Nobody plays that badly, especially a team from New Zealand. You realise they lost as many games as the Chiefs won? Unheard of. Unless... and remember, this is just a theory, unless... they were LOSING ON PURPOSE! At the risk of sounding like Graham Henry, I just can't believe the Blues could have sucked that much, week after week, unless they were doing it deliberately. But not because they were being paid off, oh no. I believe their motivation was far more sinister than that. It was a petty, underhanded attempt to deflect the public's interest away from the Chiefs' continuing success. Bloody Aucklanders. Typical.


Secondly, the schedule. Since when do we stop the whole season 7/8ths of the way through so the All Blacks can almost lose to the Irish, then come back and absolutely pulverise them? Since never, that's when. An obvious attempt to halt the Chiefs' momentum just as we were clicking into finals mode.


Thirdly, the T.M.O. (or Totally Moronic Officiating) So, having already sown up a place in the finals, we simply had to beat either the Crusaders or the Hurricanes in the last 2 rounds to gain the all-important home-ground advantage for the final. What stopped us? A series of Barnes-like TMO decisions nobody could explain, agree with or even watch back repeatedly in slow-motion without becoming nauseas.


Luckily, the Stormers cocked it all up against the Sharks and we got our home final back again, BUT EVEN THEN...


Hey sports geniuses, I know, let's schedule the Super 15 Final on the very weekend we're due to win a whole tie-rack full of medals at the gold-damned Olympic Games. By that stage I'm pretty sure anyone outside the Waikato was so glued to channel 444 (where the hell did all these new channels come from anyway? Also highly suspicious, come to think of it) they'd forgotten the Super Season was still going on. "Wasn't there a rugby game on tonight, dear?" "Hush, darling. They're paddling their boats backwards again, go Kiwi!"


We won by the way. Easily. Just like the Crusaders... USED TO. IN THE OLD DAYS. WHEN THERE WEREN'T AS MANY TEAMS. Not that I'm bitter. Alright, I may be a bit bitter, but after reading my conspiracy theory concisely presented in 4 easy-to-digest bullet points you've got to admit, it's not exactly fair. 


It's not to late to make amends though, New Zealand. You can make it up to the good people of the Waikato, the hard-working, early-rising backbone of the dairy industry and thus, our entire economy. How about a national holiday? Just one day off should do it (although 15 would obviously be more appropriate) We could call it Chiefs Day. It'd be Monday-ised, obviously. I mean, there's no point in having a holiday without having a holiday - right, Government? The whole country would be festooned in red, amber and black, becoming the land of the long mooloo-coloured cloud. We'd play appropriate games like Change the Ripped Jersey and the newly popular Behind-the-Goal-Posts Crowd Jump. We'd drink milk in the morning and Waikato Draught at night (okay, we'd just PRETEND to drink Waikato Draught - not even I'm that loyal) And we'd all take a moment to remember, in our own special way, the night the mighty Chiefs won the toughest provincial rugby competition in the world.


...and a stupid trophy.

The reigning Behind-the-Goal-Posts Crowd Jumping champion in action