YOU BLACK CAPS ARE SUCH TEASES

Not an ACTUAL picture of her... but you get the idea

I used to have this girlfriend...

She was Catholic. Really Catholic. This resulted in several discussions about the direction our relationship might take over time. Being a hot-blooded young male, the directions I was proposing were mostly south-of-the-border type directions, stopping along the way to take in the view of her hilly terrain.

The directions she was proposing mostly involved proposing. Therefore, these discussions were quite often rather heated. I don't mean that metaphorically, I mean they usually happened once things started heating up.

Looking at it from a distance, and with the benefit of many years of hindsight, any idiot would have been able to see this particular romance was probably doomed from the start - well, except THIS idiot obviously. I don't know why I thought she would eventually relent. Why would she suddenly just cast aside a lifetime of religious indoctrination just to satisfy a few post teenage urges? And yet, I hung in there. Somehow she was able to weave some sexy spell of false hope I found absolutely irresistible.

Sadly, her powers of resistance were undentable and after many months of clumsy but frenzied over-the-clothes fumbling, we finally recognised the impasse between her theology and my biology and we parted company.

Actually, that's a lie. She dumped me without ever satisfactorily explaining why, crushing my ever-hopeful young heart like a packet of chips mispacked at the bottom of the shopping bag with all the soft-drink bottles in it.

There is a point to this story... This painful story... This story of young love unrealised... Opportunities missed... The point is we as a nation, we as New Zealanders all have a Catholic girlfriend and her name is the Black Caps.

Can I be blunt? Let's face facts; New Zealand cricket has always been a bit shit. Over many decades, they've usually delivered far less than they've promised - and they've never even promised all that much. Yet, for some reason we not only continue to hope, we have adopted this silly game as our national summer sport!

Where do we think this relationship is going to go? Do we think if we keep tuning in to the commentaries, MySky-ing the highlights packages or (heaven forbid) physically turning up to the games we're actually going to get something out of it?

Our heads say, "No, of course not. Don't be ridiculous." But our hearts say, "Just one more game. We'll check the scoreboard at lunchtime, see how they're going. You never know, today could be the day."

Today won't be the day. Today will never be the day. Even if today IS the day, tomorrow WON'T be the day again. Remember? When it comes to cricket, we're a bit shit. Always have been.

And yet...

Hope springs.

The Black Caps have been stringing us along for so long now, they've turned it into an art form. They've given us every reason to dump them. In fact, about 6 weeks ago I DID dump them - in this very blog. At that time, and I don't think I was the only one, I'd finally had enough of cricket's over-promising and under-delivering and washed my hands of them once and for all... until this weekend's test that is.

Suddenly they were playing proper cricket. You know, batting properly, not getting out very often, bowling in more or less the right direction, catching most of the catches. With all those positive signs, what self-respecting sports fan wouldn't be at least SLIGHTLY aroused? So we started checking the score. Watching the beginning of the sports news. Maybe even tuning in to Radio Sport on the way home.

By Monday things were looking pretty damn good. By Tuesday morning, we had it in the bag. We had heaps of runs in the bank. The weather was great. All day to take just 6 wickets? What could possibly go wrong?

As the day wore on, things looked less promising, then really promising, then hopeless, then finally, almost a done deal. This was it, 1 wicket left, 3 overs to go, oh my god, this time we're actually, finally going to go ALL THE WAY!!!

Even the Domestic Manager said, "Looks like the cricket was pretty exciting," and nobody hates cricket more than her.

But no. Somehow, and it seems oh so inevitable looking back at it, somehow the Black Caps found yet another way to not win. 

Hats off to you, NZ Cricket. Feel free to keep leading us on, we'll always come back. We just can't help ourselves.

Oh sure, they're happy to kiss and cuddle. But they won't go any further

OPENING MY EYES UNDERWATER

One of these is a goat fish. One is just me being silly.
Goat Island wasn't named after either of them

I really can be a cynical old bastard sometimes.

I like to pretend my children are a massive imposition on me, constantly plotting to ruin my life with their incessant demands on my time, patience and resources.

Actually, as I re-read that last paragraph, I realise I don't have to pretend particularly hard. They ARE a drain on my time, patience and resources. That's just a fact. But unfortunately, that's just a fact of parenting.

We've all made the jokes about being mum or dad's taxi service, implored our brood to make themselves useful and go and get a job, or at least put their iPads down and come and dry the dishes. This is all done in the knowledge we brought this on ourselves. If we wanted lives of our own, we shouldn't have had kids in the first place. Simple.

However, what I have genuinely come to fear and dread over the years is the school trip.

As I've mentioned before, one of the things I love about being an adult is not having to go to school anymore. Of course, once you breed, you're straight back there again; assemblies, athletics days, meet the teacher picnics... oh god, what have I done?

But at least those activities take place in a relatively controlled environment. Once that bus pulls away from school property... well, all bets are off.

This week was my 9 year-old's class trip to Goat Island, a marine reserve north of Auckland where you can go snorkeling. As class trips go, short of an actual school camp, Goat Island is about as technically difficult as they come. You've got a bus ride, a remote location, changing rooms and lots and lots of water. Oh, did I mention the 5mm full-body wetsuits we had to get the kids in and out of? While still wet? (One kid had a broken arm. Yes, in a cast. Have you ever tried to get an arm in a cast through the sleeve of a wet 5mm wetsuit?)

If parental supervision was a reality TV show, this would be the final episode, the ultimate challenge.

Because the Domestic Manager had put her hand up when the other daughter went on this same trip, it seemed only fair for me to volunteer this time round. Sadly, when the Domestic Manager undertook this fantastic voyage, the weather was not kind. The swell was up, the temperature was down and snorkeling conditions were less than ideal.

Ha ha! I thought. We're in the middle of the worst drought in a million billion years! The weather gods have really come to the party and this year's Goat Island excursion will seem more like a jolly little jaunt to Rarotonga. (Sadly, minus the swim-up bar)

At least, that was my thinking several weeks out, when I sent the form back to the teacher. Little did I know the endless drought of 2013 would end after all - the weekend before the trip. Two days of rain, wind and the possibility of thunderstorms. How wonderful for the farmers.

While the forecast wasn't looking AS bad for the big day itself, there was some talk of cancellation the night before. Daughter was overtly alarmed. Dad was secretly hopeful.

But no, the call was made, the email was received, the trip would continue as planned the next day. Cue; sleepless night tossing and turning picturing a whole class of 9 year-olds and me being washed away in the perfect storm.

You know what though? It was awesome... and not just because the weather turned out to be significantly less shithouse than I had been worrying about the night before.

It was awesome because there's something about kids doing something outside their comfort zone. Seeing them try something for the first time, something they might be pretty nervous about. Watching that nervousness turn to pride as they feel the fear and do it anyway. That, I have to say, is pretty cool.

And when you're there to see it happen to your own daughter... it's almost enough to make a cynical old bastard eat his words.

Proud dad and daughter. No, seriously

ME AND RELIGION

That's right, they put the chimney up there specifically for this

I'm sitting here watching 115 old geezers in red frocks swear an oath to secrecy before they lock themselves in a church to elect a new boss.

They're taking it in turns of course. It'd probably save a bit of time if they all took the oath together, but that doesn't seem to have occurred to them. It'll be something traditional, I suppose, although, like I say, I'm watching them do it. From the other side of the world. From several different camera angles. On two different channels. How traditional.

It reminds me of watching Pope Benedict XVI leaving the Vatican on his last day, by HELICOPTER. Presumably, Gregory, the last pope to resign, went exactly the same way - although I'm not sure where they hired the chopper in 1415.

There are just so many things about organised religion I'll never understand. When you're talking a religion as organised as Catholicism, I'm utterly lost.

Oh, exciting though. Everyone's just been biffed out of the Sistine Chapel so the cardinals can get down to it. Even the cameramen and boom operators. I hope all those cardinals remembered to go before they went - it could be a long session.

Apparently there are 1.2 billion Catholics around the world, represented by about the same number of cardinals in the Vatican as we have MPs in the Beehive. I assume the Catholics must have more efficient lines of communication between the priests and their congregations than we do with our elected officials. No doubt each of those 1.2 billion have done their research, whittled down the list of papal prospects and passed on their preference for future pontiff. Right?

In reality, I wonder how many Catholics have any idea who ANY of the hot prospects for pope are this time round. Maybe they do. Maybe I'm making sweeping, ill-informed comments without any basis whatsoever. Maybe.

It's like any other pop star I guess. We don't really need to know who they are, as long as we like their music. And just like any other pop star, the first thing the new pope will do is change his name to something more catchy. Then hundreds of thousands will turn up for regular performances at Saint Peter's Square. If we're REALLY lucky, the new pope star will go on tour, playing sellout venues in exotic locations.

Not that we'd ever worship false idols, of course. I understand there are strict rules about that sort of thing.

Maybe I don't understand this stuff because I was raised as a Methodist. From what I saw, Methodism wasn't so much about men dressing up in frocks and waving smoke around as the morning tea after the service. I love morning tea, don't you? 

Every time I look up, there's some other bit of silliness going on, from stupid hats to singing in Latin to closing the doors to the Sistine Chapel really slowly for dramatic effect. Surely there must be better ways to spend your Sunday than taking part in this celebration of ridiculousness. Like sleeping in, for example.

That's actually how I got out of going to church in the end, I'd just pretend to be asleep. Ironic really, given most of the time I spent at church, I was pretending I was awake.

Too much ceremony, too much pomp, too much hysteria. Where does God fit in to all this? Remember him? Presumably the 1.2 billion thought Catholicism was a good way to get closer to him - or did they just choose the religion with the best dressed head cleric?

Hey... there's black smoke coming out of their fake chimney now. That means no new pope yet. Goody, I get to watch this all again tomorrow.

No sir, I don't get it. I don't get any of it. If that means I'm going to hell, I hope I don't have to speak Latin when I get there.

Amazingly similar to the newsroom's Melbourne Cup sweep -
just with crazier outfits

CENSUS CONFESSIONS

You CAN recycle these things, right?
Please tell me the environment didn't have to suffer as well

Geez we hate being counted, don't we?

As the census loomed last night, talkback lines were flooded with angry kiwis, all thoroughly pissed off the government should have the gall to ask them personal questions about their lives in the privacy of their own homes.

We really don't like that kind of intrusion. It's nobody's business where we live, (even though they already know that, given they just delivered the forms to us) it's nobody's business how many kids we have, (even though they already asked us that so they knew how many forms to give us) and it's certainly nobody's business what colour we are. (Even though you may well be able to tell that by looking at us)

How dare the government be so nosy! Why do they need to know what religion we are? This is supposed to be a secular society isn't it? If we want to sacrifice virgins at the full moon behind closed doors that's our concern isn't it? (Okay, the virgins are probably be a little concerned too, but you get my point)

In reality, I think there may be some more basic reasons for our resentment towards the census, completely unconnected to any perceived big-brother-watching style, anti-government, paranoid conspiracy theories.

Here's why I personally found census night a royal pain in the arse...

Firstly, I hate doing homework. Perhaps the coolest thing about being an adult (apart from the weird hair that starts growing from more and more strange places the older you get) is not having to go to school anymore. No more exams. No more Mr Menzies in calculus. Best of all, no more homework. Filling out forms at home by a certain date sure feels suspiciously like homework to me. Do you get extra marks for adding tidy borders and a pretty title page?

My next issue was I didn't actually know some of the answers - nobody wants to be made to feel stupid. What am I supposed to put for "ethnicity" for example? Genealogy has never been my strong point and as a result I literally have no idea where I come from. Oh, there have been rumours of a disgraced former pharmacist from Austria, circa: 1850 - but that hardly makes me European, does it? Now I think of it, it could have been Hungary. For all I know I could literally be a black man trapped in a white man's body. Sort of the opposite of Michael Jackson.

Finally, it just takes too damn long. I foolishly assumed if I went for the online option, Google Chrome would autofill all those details you have to provide on any other form. You know, things like address, birth date, phone number, TradeMe password, bank account number - all that kind of thing. I figured that'd make the whole process so streamlined I'd be finished almost before I started, so I volunteered to do everybody's. Imagine my consternation when I discovered I had to fill out each form separately, even though we all live at the same address. And also even though you have to fill out a form for the house itself. What ethnicity IS my house, anyway? Is it religious? Or is that only if you live in a church?

The really weird thing was, although I told the census lady I'd be doing it online, she still insisted on thrusting a massive stack of paper into my arms. This was right in the middle of dinner of course... but after she'd realised she didn't actually have the forms she didn't need to give me because she'd left them in her car. Just as an aside, if you're delivering census forms to people, I would have thought it would be a good idea to carry the forms WITH you, although there could be census subtleties at play here I don't fully understand. I don't think there are, but there could be.

I'm not sure what the census lady would have put down for "ethnicity" but her resulting accent was unusually strong, making her instructions a bit tricky to understand. Like I said, I'd made it pretty clear I was going online this time round but it turned out I still needed a special set of numbers she'd pre-written on the forms. Couldn't they just have emailed them to me?

I heard one census worker accidentally handed someone an already COMPLETED form by mistake. I wish they'd handed it to me. Would have saved a bit of time.

Now my paper recycling box is overflowing with pages I never needed and I've been officially counted again. I feel so used and dirty. And not in a good way. I hate homework.

This could well be where my people come from. Or not