HOW I BECAME A REAL MAN ON NEW YEAR'S EVE... MORNING

Why does that guy look so utterly miserable? And where are his goggles?

I still have no idea how it all happened. I wasn't drunk. I wasn't delirious from sun stroke. No-one was holding my family against their will to make me do it. 

The Inaugural Pataua Triathlon. The ultimate test of man VS ocean VS cycle VS run... Well, for 5 pretty out-of-condition blokes on the morning of December 31, 2012 it was pretty darn ultimate, anyway.

I'd been training hard for this event ever since I first heard about it; the night before. Apparently a mate of Craig's invented it while under the influence. Swim across the harbour, bike back to his place over the bridge, then run from there back to the bridge, then back along the beach to his place. He thought it'd be a good way to get into credit for any New Year's Eve festivities to follow that day and into the night.

If we survived of course. 

I had no idea who the other entrants were, I'd never met them. They could have been depraved, homicidal pranksters for all I knew. (I've never actually HEARD of an evil genius going to the trouble of organising a fake triathlon in order to lure someone to their grisly demise, but I'm sure it's probably happened)

I also didn't know if I'd been able to swim that far. (About 400 metres across the channel) It was only 6 months since I had dislocated my shoulder and the last time I'd tried to swim a few lengths, I'd only made it about 50 metres before my arm froze up and I started going around in circles.

Still, I was fresh from the heady success of my now famous bridge jump and feeling pretty super-human, so when Craig asked me if I was keen, I said, "Keen as."

New Year's Eve dawned hot and sunny, although reports of the water being much colder than previous days were a little off-putting. Settled weather overnight meant no rushing about trying to stop the rain getting into our tent, so I was relatively well rested and almost looking forward to the challenge ahead. To be honest, there was probably a bit of bravado there. Just quietly, I was starting to shit myself. Too late now though. Once you're in, you're in.

Turned out to be quite a long walk around to the start line. Craig and I hadn't really allowed enough time for the 10 o'clock kick-off, so we had to hustle somewhat to make it. This meant we were half shagged-out by the time we got there. When I say, "Start Line," obviously I mean Craig's mate's backyard. Yup, things were fairly informal. All 5 of us still had to register though... on the back of a paper plate. It was with some relief we were informed there were a couple of volunteers on kayaks to assist with any issues on the wetter leg of the event.

Our almost-late arrival meant no time for second thoughts or backing out. With an unspectacular but significant splash, we plunged into drink. It was quite a while before any actual swimming happened though, the seabed remained conveniently placed at wading level for at least the first 50 metres. It was about this time I realised some of the other guys were wearing goggles! Who the hell takes goggles with them when they go camping? This was going to put me at a significant disadvantage. Being short sighted, ocean swimming can be disorientating enough, but with no eye protection at all, I'd pretty much have to stroke and hope. Meanwhile, those flash-Harry goggle-wearers surged ahead.

Many minutes passed and the opposite bank that had appeared so close from the shore, literally started drifting further away. Damn, my wonky-shouldered circle swimming! I reverted to a bit of breast stroke, partly to recalculate my course, mostly because I was starting to feel pretty buggered. The current in the channel was troublesome and suddenly, somewhere slightly behind me, Craig seemed PARTICULARLY troubled.

"Are you okay?" I called out. "No," he answered flatly. "Seriously?" I asked. "TOM!" he answered, less flatly. I turned back, but it was hopeless. I was already too late.

Oh, no - don't worry, Craig didn't drown, I just meant it was hopeless me trying to reach him before Tom did on the kayak.

I turned around again to made my final splurge for the beach and finally made it. By this stage, just hauling my fat arse out of the harbour was no mean feat. Who knew swimming sucked all the oxygen out of your LEGS as well as your lungs and arms? Luckily Domestic Manager was waiting for me with the support crew (my kids) to cheer me onto my bike. If I'd been alone I think I just would have lay down and gone to sleep.

The cycle was short - too short for me to catch the pair of blokes in front of me, especially given the 2 major challenges of this leg; negotiating a crowded foot bridge and the fact I didn't really know where I was going. We'd walked to the start along the beach. Now I was cycling down the road, with no idea what the bach looked like from the front.

It wasn't until I saw the other two running out of the driveway - BEHIND ME - I realised I'd overshot the mark. But by now I had my legs back and suddenly I realised there was a remote chance I could actually win this stupid thing.

Or not. One guy wasn't much of a runner. I mowed him down mercilessly at the first corner. The other guy was younger, faster and I never saw him again till we were back at the bach.

And that's how I finished in the top 40% of the field in my first ever triathlon. Not good enough to win the 2013 calendar awarded to 1st place, but not last, so I didn't win that prize either. (Also a calendar) Still, a beer has never tasted as good as the one I was handed at the end. Even if it WAS only Speights. Glad Craig didn't drown.

Official times and placings. Very official

HOW I BECAME A REAL MAN ON THE EVE OF NEW YEAR'S EVE

What do you mean it doesn't look like a very big bridge? Close up, it's massive

I'm no camper. I don't do flappy walls. Can't abide a dodgy loo. If I'm not driving, I'll get car-sick after about 4 and a half consecutive corners. But this year I said, "To hell with it!" and we did 6 nights in a tent. I'm not telling where. I've been sworn to secrecy. Apparently if the location gets out, everyone will go there and there'll be casinos and skyscrapers and gelato shops before you know it. 

Wouldn't have minded a gelato or two, to be honest. Mr Whippy did turn up one day, but he was on the other side of the bridge and it was hot and whoever went and got the ice creams would have ended up with snowfreeze dribbling off their elbows by the time they were halfway back. That bridge is integral to this particular story though. In fact, the bridge IS the story.

What is it that makes us want to jump off things? Cliffs, aeroplanes, bridges. We just love it, don't we? You build a perfectly functional footbridge to get from one part of Secret Location to another, and you can't walk over it for all the idiots queued up to hurl themselves off it.

You don't have to spend much time in Secret Location before it becomes clear bridge jumping is quite the thing to do. Men, women, children, pets - everyone's at it. The trick seems to be getting the tide right, then you can just float down the estuary to your waiting beach towel. (And a crowd of admiring bridge jump fans, presumably)

The trouble with Quite-the-Things-To-Do is sooner or later someone suggests you go off and do them. Regardless, I'm not the kind of guy who does things just because everyone else is. Frankly, I'm the opposite of that guy. Ordinarily I'm the guy who sees holiday-makers plummeting from a bridge and suggests a climb UP it.

But bridge jumping isn't just any old trend. It's one of those right-of-passage activities - like getting your license or losing your virginity. You wouldn't want word to get out you didn't jump when everybody else did. What kind of incredible wuss would you be then?

You've got the ever-present parent factor as well, of course. It's not just your reputation you're trying to protect, you've got to set an example for the kids too. Admittedly, jumping from a bridge may not seem like the kind example you would normally set, but somehow this ended up being one of those feel-the-fear-and-do-it-anyway situations that's supposed to teach us a valuable lesson about life. And possibly about gravity. And water safety, maybe.

The point is, it was the day before New Year's Eve and I'd just survived a flooded tent the night before, so I was probably already feeling pretty Man VS Wild.

It's a weird sensation, walking the path to your potential watery grave. Especially because you can't wear your jandals. Or your hat. Or your sunglasses. I felt strangely naked. Perhaps I should have kept my rash vest on. Looking at the photos, I definitely should have kept my rash vest on.

Then suddenly I'd done it. Well, more specifically, suddenly Craig had done it. He just got there and jumped straight off. What a jerk. So obviously I had to too. Why we had to go back and do it a second time still doesn't really make much sense to me, but presumably it makes me twice as tough. Manliness well and truly intact I can now hold my head high. Turns out it's not really that hard to jump off a bridge. Swimming across a harbour though? That's a whole other story...

Really regretting my wardrobe choice. And my beer gut

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.