MAN VS CHILD (HOME... BUT NOT ALONE)

If you look carefully, you'll find items from each of the major food groups

The Domestic Manager has upped and left me. Not permanently. At least, I hope not. Geez, maybe she has... No, surely I would have noticed if she'd left me for good, although being a bloke, active listening isn't one of my strong suits. Now I think of it, me being a terrible listener would itself be a great reason for calling it quits. But no, I'm pretty sure she's just gone to a work conference in Sydney for a week.

(Either that, or she's left the country with someone CALLED Sydney)

Whatever. The upshot is, I've been left completely and utterly alone, with no-one to fend for me or to protect me in the urban wilderness. She's literally failed to provide me with the necessaries of life. Now I am cold. I am hungry. And I am very, very afraid.

I'm cold because there seems to be some sort of latent Scottish ancestry in my gene-pool that prohibits me from turning on the heater when I'm the only person in the house. I'm hungry because it turns out eating 2-minute noodles straight from the packet isn't actually as nutritious as it sounds. I'm afraid because I am currently under attack from two of the most devastating weapons of mass-destruction known to mankind; my children.

I'm exaggerating of course - I know how to cook 2-minute noodles (although I've always been mystified it still takes 2 minutes even when you do them in the microwave). In fact, since the Domestic Manager deserted me, I've gone to the trouble of cooking a few real dinners. Nachos counts as a "real" dinner if you serve it with a salad, right?

I'm not exaggerating about the kids though, or the fact I'm currently fearing for my life. Don't let their ages fool you. At 11 and 8, that's a combined experience of 19 years of concerted psychological warfare and they have an impressive arsenal at their disposal as a result.

They began the assault with perhaps the most obvious, yet potentially the most lethal tactic: germ warfare. Domestic Manager hadn't even left the house before the smaller, blonder one started running a temperature and complaining of a headache. The demoralising effect of this on the adult population can't be overstated. Domestic Manager leaves, feeling like a bad mother, abandoning her brood. (Which she kind of was) Hapless father is enveloped in a darkening cloud of impending doom. Only Monday and uncertainty and doubt are already setting in. Of course, small blonde recovers completely for Nana to deliver her to school. When Dad picks her up though, complete relapse. Headache. Stomach ache. Then ultimately, inevitably... spew.

Now here's where my children (or "the insurgents" as I've come to know them) really stepped up the hostilities. To capitalise on the impact of their virulent opening germ-based salvo, they proceeded to bombard me with the more conventional, but no less deadly, SCHOOL COMMITMENTS. Oh, and I'm not talking, "commitment" singular... Oh no, no, no. We're dealing with two concerts (both at night), an all-day band festival and something called a "student led conference".

While my attendance is not required at the band festival, I am faced with the logistics of a 7:15AM drop-off and an 8:30PM pickup. However, the 2 concerts were "must see". It gets better. One of the concerts featured a combined choir of FIVE-HUNDRED primary school kids and Suzanne Prentice. And it was on a Monday night. And the interval lasted over 40 minutes (longer than either of the halves). Best of all, it featured the aforementioned upchucking blonde.

Miraculously, or suspiciously, depending on how you look at it, once again a recovery was made in the nick of time for the performance. Sick again next day, of course. Far to ill to go to school... even on the day of the Student Led Conference. Student Led Conferences are the evolution of what used to be parent-teacher interviews. Disturbingly, as the name implies, the teacher is no longer really required. The parent still is though, you better believe it. The parent is led by the student for FORTY-FIVE MINUTES (yes, about the length of an interval at a Kids for Kids concert).

So this is where the insurgents shot themselves in the foot.

By being too sick to go to school, there is now no student to lead the conference. What a bugger, eh? Here's where the fight-back begins in earnest. I'm adding an actual doctor's appointment to the equation now, see how you like that, Blondey!

Am I a bad dad? Do I sound somewhat callous and flippant when discussing the health and well-being of my progeny? Is my attitude toward parenting a little too adversarial? Perhaps. But then, perhaps they should have thought of that before they started it.

It's not just me, right? 40 minutes is WAY too long for an interval

PLEASE DON'T READ THIS, CHARLOTTE

Don't look now, Charlotte...

I'm serious. If you're Charlotte Dawson, I really don't think you should go any further. As far as I am aware, I'm not a troll - although one ear does stick out slightly suspiciously. However, as this glog will reveal, Charlotte, I'm not particularly sympathetic to your cause, so please stop here. I don't want to be responsible for any further emotional torment.

You see, I too have been bullied, although not recently. Let's see, how long would it be since Patrick Lowry last smacked me in the head? I'm thinking fourth form... so about... ah, yes, only about 24 YEARS AGO! Actually, now I picture him, he genuinely may have been part-troll - turned-up pig-nose, crazy mop of unnaturally black hair (fur?)... definitely not New Zealand's next top model. I have no compunction in naming him publicly because
1) it was 24 YEARS AGO
b) not really sure that many people are reading this
and thirdly) he used to smack me in the head

I actually don't blame Patrick for his bullying because I probably had it coming. Patrick was big, stupid and ugly (not sure about smelly, but for the sake of argument, let's say he was) and I reminded him of that loudly, publicly and regularly. In fact, when I put it like that maybe I was bullying HIM... hmmm. Still, you don't punch someone just for stating the obvious do you?

My point here is, and yes there really is one, in my book, being thumped qualifies as bullying. Being told to stick your head in a toaster does not. (Charlotte, seriously, why are you still reading?) What's more, being told to stick your head in a toaster by someone you don't even know over the internet is something so insignificant, it very nearly hasn't even happened at all.

I have another example of bullying experienced first-hand, roughly around the same time as the Patrick Lowry stuff was happening to my ACTUAL head. This example is named Manaroa. Manaroa is not the location of the bullying, but the perpetrator. Unlike Mr. Lowry, I cannot out him completely, as I have no knowledge of Manaroa's surname. It is more than possible he has no use for a last name in the same way Beyonce, Kimbra and the Hulk need no further embellishment. Manaroa's only distinguishing troll-features were massive lips. (I'm not certain if trolls really possess massive lips, but I made fun of Patrick's appearance so it seems only fair)

The details surrounding Manaroa's particular mien of bullying are sketchy to me now, all these years on. I think it was some form of extortion... he was demanding either my lunch, my money or possibly my virginity in exchange for not throwing me down the bank into the lake. (I'm almost definitely lying about the virginity option, just go with it though)

Why I refused, I cannot say. Was I making some heroic, anti-bullying statement? Had I already spent my money? You can rest assured by now my lunch was well digested, and try as I might, nobody really seemed interested in my virginity. I'll say this for Manaroa though, the guy knew how to follow through on his threats. I can't rule out the possibility I may have made a few troll-lip taunts while pleading my case, which probably didn't help my cause at all. Just goes to show, no-one likes a smart-arse... especially not Patrick Lowry and Manaroa.

While the bank was steep and muddy, the lake was not especially deep and I lived to insult other bullies another day. Once again though, spending the rest of my walk home emptying mud out of my shoes and leaves out of my school bag was real proof of real bullying. A Twitter feed which has since been half-deleted doesn't take nearly as long to dry out in front of the heater.

Charlotte, if you're still with us by this point, you're even more of a masochist than I already had you pegged for. Stop it. Stop reading. I'm certainly not the first person over the last few days to offer you the same bit of obvious advice. If a troll suggested I should kill myself via Twitter, I probably wouldn't even notice. Mind you, I do follow some pretty weird shit. (Pebbles Hooper for example. What's that about?) If your celebrity is so reliant on staying in touch with your Tweeps, it could be worth hiring someone to filter it for you. If not, delete your account. It's not like it's Facebook or anything.

Why would you spend hour after hour reading horrible things about yourself? How can you take "Stick your head in the toaster" seriously? Who even owns a toaster that can fit a bagel, let alone a whole head?

Of course, the ultimate lesson here is for me, not you, Charlotte. (I've given up hoping you won't read the whole thing) Ignoring the bullies actually works. Even the real ones. I didn't have to tell Patrick he was ugly - everyone could already see that. As for Manaroa OneName, why didn't I just cross the road the moment I saw him? Because I've got a smart mouth and I can't resist opening it, that's why. Sometimes, just because the joke is there to be made, doesn't mean you should make it. I learned that lesson the hard way Charlotte, surely you're smart enough to realise the trolls out there just never did.

The stuff of cyber nightmares!

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

COMING TO TERMS WITH LEFT-HANDEDNESS

Do these come in a left-handed version? Or am I doing something wrong?

So there I was, lying face down on a muddy footpath, unable to move.


"At least it's not even 4am yet," I thought to myself. "No people, no traffic. That should save  me a bit of embarrassment. Now, if I can just pick myself up and dust myself off before anyone sees me, I'll grab my scooter, carry on to work and we can forget this silly incident ever happened."


Except I couldn't. I couldn't pick myself up. I couldn't seem to move at all.


"No people," I thought. "No traffic."


Then I realised what the problem was; there seemed to be a laptop on my head. My bag had come flying forward when I had, landing on me heavily as I skidded down the hill like Superman, except, as I was about to discover, not quite as invincible.


"No worries, I'll just shove that laptop off and I'll be on my way. Hope my computer's alright."


Shove shove I didn't at all. In no way. No shove. Bugger.


No people. No traffic.


"Why can't I move, dammit?" I think I actually said that one out loud. I was getting a bit frustrated now. There seemed to be something wrong with my right shoulder. I tried to move it with a little more intent. "AAAAaaarrrgh!" I said, definitely out loud this time. Then there was a bit of heavy breathing, possibly some snivelling and probably a whimper or two. I was going to need some help here, trouble was...


No people. No traffic.


Perhaps I could ring someone on my awesome Nokia Lumia 800 Windows phone. Well I could... except my phone was in the right front pocket of my coat which meant at that particular moment I was lying on it.


It was about then I realised I'd just have to accept it; I was now left-handed. I'd rather not think about what happened immediately after that, needless to say there was huffing, puffing, screaming, yelling, crying and a lot of stopping to put my head between my legs so I wouldn't pass out. I'd like to describe my 1 and a half block ascent to work as a heroic struggle of mind and determination over pain and adversity, but I probably just looked like some drunken hunchback dragging a scooter and a laptop bag up a short rise.


So many questions... Why didn't I just leave the scooter behind? Why was I on a scooter at 4am anyway? Am I an idiot? Some questions I can answer, some remain a mystery. The point is, I got to work, couldn't move, they called an ambulance, I went to hospital, my shoulder was dislocated and now it's RElocated.


I've been left with my right arm in a sling and an 80% chance of popping the bloody thing out again. Needless to say, I'm now being fairly careful how I go about my day. Who knew how difficult left-handed tooth-brushing would be? Obviously the left-handed bum-wipe has netted mixed results and as for my left-handed shaving efforts, I'm just relieved to have avoided decapitation so far.


While I was still able to construct my regular Sunday morning treat of poached eggs on toast this week, it was a humbling experience to have to ask the Domestic Manager to cut it up for me so I could actually eat it. See those headshots on either side of this post? Believe it or not, I cut my own hair to achieve that eye-catching style. My recent left-handed efforts are somewhat more avant garde. I've never heard amputees talk of their unique sock application challenges. It's obviously a cross they've been willing bear in stoic silence thus far, but now I'm breaking that silence, man. Putting on socks with one hand is virtually impossible! Why don't they make them with some sort of hoop at the top for easy access? It's like they're not hollow at all. Damn you socks! Why must you keep returning to your original 2-dimensional state? I almost had a big toe in there then but no, there goes righty-sock, catapulted across the bedroom like a deflating balloon.


Then the ultimate knock down of my last few remaining pegs; the tomato relish jar. 


I'm not really what you'd call a man's man. I'm no fighter. I'm not outdoorsy and to be honest, I'm just as happy with a cocktail in my hand as I am sucking on a beer. But one thing I can do, is open jars. (Insert Tim Allen style man-grunt here) Imagine my horror when the Domestic Manager tried to uncap the relish the other night (obviously without success) and DIDN'T EVEN GIVE ME THE CHANCE TO OPEN IT! She just put it back in the fridge where it tormented me all weekend, every time I opened the door. Today, I decided I wanted relish, so the Domestic Manager had another go. Still no joy. Now was my chance. She protested. I insisted. She relented. I took the jar. I failed completely. She had another go. Off came the lid.


"I must've loosened it for you," I joked in an obligatory way, but I did not relish the relish.
It tasted bitter somehow, as I adjusted my sling and looked ahead to my new life as a lefty.

In the wrong hand, this could be a murder weapon