AWARDS SCHMAWARDS

You have to admit... that's quite a lot of awards...

It's that time of year... Golden Globes... Baftas... Brits... Grammys... Halbergs... Oscars... and most importantly of all; entries are due in for the New Zealand Radio Awards.

Come on, don't pretend you don't care about them. You're obsessed with the Radio Awards. You know you are. You can't wait to hear who won Best Community Access Programme, or who the Programmer of the Year is.

This is the stuff that has a direct, measurable impact on our everyday lives.

Yes, that IS me being sarcastic. I don't mean to sound like an ungracious winner, but I've always considered the New Zealand Radio Awards a monumental waste of everybody's time and resources. Every year, hosts, producers and managers spend hours trying to compress an entire year's worth of on-air performance into a 10 minute file and a few pages of skiting. This is all then judged by a panel of people who may or may not have heard the actual show being entered in its original context and the winners are eventually announced online.

Oh sure, there USED to be a glitzy awards ceremony with actual hosts and even dinner, but the Global Credit Crunch killed that sort of exorbitant carry-on - just ask the New Zealand television industry. (Admittedly, it's taken them until this year to realise nobody was watching their awards, but they got there in the end)

When I describe myself as a winner, I'm not of course. I've got my name on a few certificates, but only because you have to put something down in the box that says, "Technical Director." Paul Holmes won many times and Hosking has won every year since he's taken over the breakfast show. He should win again this year obviously but here's the thing that bugs me, he might not.

It should be a simple formula; audience + revenue = result. Sadly, in my experience there are far too many other factors in play. Year after year, Newstalk ZB pulls in a massive number of listeners and makes a veritable shitload of money by commanding a premium for its advertising space, yet almost NEVER wins Station of the Year. This makes absolutely no sense to me whatsoever.

I've been to other awards nights in other industries and it's pretty much all about profit, improvement, turnover and customer service. I've hardly ever heard other companies giving out prizes because one of their shops ran a stupid competition or told a series of dirty jokes accompanied by inappropriate sound effects. Generally the people who make the money win the trophies.

I'm not entirely sure how it works with the Oscars but presumably the members of the Academy actually WATCH the whole movie when they judge it, not just a 10 minute highlights package. Even then, they usually get it wrong. Surely the best movie is the one that attracts the most viewers. Unfortunately when you're talking Academy Award winning movies, it often works the other way round - who went and saw Hurt Locker BEFORE it won at the Oscars? Honestly?

Back to radio. Sometimes the competitions and jokes can attract listeners and ultimately advertisers, but over the course of a whole year, a station develops a relationship with its audience that simply can't be edited into a 10 minute soundbite. Unfortunately squealing competition winners and jokes CAN, which means all too often the best ENTRY sways the judges instead of the best show. Maybe they should just change the name to the New Zealand Radio Award ENTRY Awards.

I don't want to take anything away from those in our industry who are into these things - good luck to you, I totally concede it's important to recognise success amongst your peers. My beef is how you measure that success. It shouldn't be about paying an outside agency to put together a really slick award entry that looks and sounds better than everyone else's.

Here's the kicker, for the last two years I've actually been a judge! So I have a little advice for the other judges out there. Make it easy on yourselves guys, use the formula; audience + revenue = result. End of story.

At least she HAD an awards ceremony to fall over at

DISCOVERING POTTER... SLOWLY

Not exactly a small child's fairytale. I wonder if he has snoring issues with no nose?

Have you heard of these books? It's a series of novels about a young wizard named Harry Potter. Oh, you have? Everybody has? What do you mean, EVERYBODY? Oh, you mean everybody in the whole world. Right. Them.

Alright, I admit it, I may have been a little late jumping aboard the Hogwarts Express - but only by about 15 years. Don't judge me, there are a few volumes by Dickens I haven't quite got round to yet either, and I understand they were published even earlier.

The point is, I'm finally working my way through the 7 Harry Potter books and you know what?... They're pretty good.

I suppose there may be the odd person out there who hasn't read them yet, people like me who just haven't had the time or the motivation. So this review is for you. All four of you.

Can I start by saying I'm not really a witches and wizards kind of a guy? I'm more of a robots, spaceships, car chases and explosions kind of a guy, which is one reason I've put off my J.K. Rowling experience for so long. Another reason is I thought they were kids' books. I don't know what you consider child-friendly, but reading about somebody hacking off their own hand and then boiling it up in a demonic ceremony to raise their evil master from the dead doesn't really qualify as happy-fluffy bedtime stories in my book.

Perhaps the major deterrent to me joining the massive host of Potter fans before now has been the simple fact these books are ENORMOUS. They go on forever. I'm used to Lee Child and Jack Reacher cleaning up an entire Mid-Western town in 250 pages. When you read a J.K. Rowling, you'd be lucky if Harry's even found his way out of his bedroom by page 250 - and I'm not even kidding.

However, I was wrong about everything. No change there.

These books aren't really about witches and wizards of course. That'd be like saying Stephenie Meyer writes about vampires and werewolves. Like all great stories, they're more about relationships - and the relationships Harry has get pretty complicated. He has cruel adopted parents because his real ones were killed by someone nasty. He has a friend who is a girl but isn't his girlfriend. He has a long-lost godfather who everybody thinks is a cold-blooded murderer. Some of his teachers love him and some hate him. He's bullied. He's reluctantly famous. He's got a questionable hairstyle. You see? Everyday problems any teenager has to deal with. (Except maybe the murdering stuff)

I genuinely believe this Rowling woman could be onto something here.

For the uninitiated, (yes, all four of you) these books read more like a good old-fashioned murder-mystery than a fairytale. We're introduced to a wide and varied cast of characters, many of whom may be suspects in a long list of nefarious activities, some of which we don't even know are going on until it's too late... for Harry.

Book after book, Rowling does an amazing job of building suspense - not just in relation to the plot of each instalment of the series, but there's an overall tension that grows exponentially with every volume. Sometimes you can pick the bad guys, but more often they turn out to be good guys after all and it's really the good guys you should have been looking out for.

For me the thing that really sets these books apart is the dialogue. Always so natural, you can literally hear the voices in your head. Even when they're talking about magic spells, curses, hexes and charms with silly names or potions with mysterious ingredients, the complaints, the insults and the snide remarks all seem so genuine.

This may be because I've made that fatal mistake of seeing the movie before the book. In truth, I've only seen a few of the movies and don't tell me how the last one ends because I haven't seen that one OR read it yet. On reflection, I think it's best to see the movie first then read the source material because, as we all know, the book's always better. However, it DOES mean Harry's only ever going to look like Daniel Radcliffe in my head.

The selection of the 8 movies I HAVE seen always seemed a little drawn-out to me (especially that penultimate one... what was with all the camping all over the place? That went on FOREVER) but now I've actually read the books I wouldn't have them any other way. That's why we're currently enjoying a multimedia Harry Potter retrospective at my house. It plays out like this; Dad reads a book, then we all sit down and watch the corresponding movie again. Good times. Pity I'm such a slow reader - at this point we've only watched three, but I'm nearly finished the Goblet of Fire so you'd better get that popcorn ready.

If you haven't read them, read them. They're not just books, they're proper stories. Everybody in the whole world can't be wrong.

Snape will always be Alan Rickman in my head. Or sometimes Tim Roth. I get them confused

LOSING MY RELIGION...

It's all about the fine print

I used to be a sports fan.

In fact, there was a time I even went to live cricket matches. I'm not talking international T-20's that only take half an hour to play. I'm talking provincial cricket nobody cares about played over 4 days. I was into it. I could even name all the Northern Districts players and half the opposition too.

I was there when the mighty Mooloo masses migrated north to end Auckland's record Ranfurly Shield run in 1993, cowbell in hand, face painted red, gold and black.

At one stage I was literally making up jobs to do around the house so I could justify listening to sports commentaries on the radio while I worked.

Admittedly, I can't claim I ever understood rugby's ruck and maul laws, but who does?

I'd get up in the middle of the night to watch the All Blacks' Northern Hemisphere matches live. (Even after I got MySky - I know, weird right?)

Sport was my religion, television and radio my places of worship.

But something's changed. It's all turned sour. I've lost my faith and I don't even WANT to get it back.

It didn't happen overnight, but slowly, insidiously, inevitably my interest in matters sporting has ebbed away completely. There are two reasons why.

Firstly, a lot of it was the All Blacks' fault. There are only so many World Cups you can crash out of without starting to seriously piss off your fans. I get that sometimes you can have a bad game and sometimes you get poisoned by waitresses, but to be ranked number one in the world year after year, to go into every tournament as overwhelming favourites and STILL keep naming Justin Marshall as your halfback even though he can't actually pass is unforgivable.

Hey, I'm just as stoked as anyone they finally, FINALLY regained the title in 2011, but I'm going to come right out and say it; they very nearly didn't. Chokers.

The other reason I'm just not that into sport anymore is the cheating, obviously. This latest farce of a fight featuring Sonny Bill Williams is the least of it - although a highly questionable result, a dispute over exactly how many rounds it was supposed to go and an old-aged opponent who may or may not have been all juiced up is all very impressive.

Boxing's always been like that though.

I think it was the cricket that turned me off first. Hansie Kronje is found guilty of accepting money from a bookmaker in 2000 and you think, "Oh yeah, one-off South African jerk, nothing to worry about." Then, not long after that, we start hearing weird stories about leaked weather information and pitch conditions, Aussies and kiwis doing the leaking. Let the murkiness begin.

Meanwhile, every Olympics uncovers another long list of dopers.

The cricket turns out to be fixed all over the place.

The baseballers are on the roids.

And cycling. Oh god, the cycling.

The more Lance Armstrong protested his innocence, the more guilty he looked. (To everybody except Mike Hosking, of course)

I wasn't even surprised when the news broke about match-fixing in European football - just sadly resigned.

I didn't actually care about Tiger Woods - off-course cheating doesn't bother me at all. But Vijay Singh's always been dodgy and now he's been revealed to be even worse than we thought, somehow bringing our own Sir Bob Charles down with him. I mean, GOLF for Christ's sake... is nothing sacred?

Like a virus, the murk has ultimately finagled its way through the ENTIRE Australian sporting world... swimming, AFL, cricket - for the time being everyone has been branded guilty until proven innocent. Trouble is, even if they do come out clean, either from drugs or the big fix, we'll never believe it now.

The results are now totally meaningless, and to be fair, they didn't really mean that much in the first place given it was only a game. It was the contest I always found compelling, sportspeople performing at their absolute peak to try and better their opponents. Extraordinary human beings achieving what we could only dream of, representing us on the field, court or track. Doing the things we'll never be strong enough or fast enough to do for ourselves.

Except, if they're doing it by cheating, I don't want them representing me, and if they're not representing me, then where does my interest lie?

Not with sport, not any longer. If I want to waste my viewing time wondering what's real and what's not, I'll catch the latest episode of Alcatraz. I'd feel a bit of a fraud giving the Black Caps shit for being useless if it turns out they've been doing it deliberately. 

I'm not going to be caught out that way, so I quit. I used to be a sports fan, but when you don't know who to trust, it's time to leave them to it and find something else to do.

Please tell me this was real

SIR PAUL...

God only knows what was so funny... My shirt probably

"Like" this? No I don't "Like" this.

That's what I thought as I posted my comment on Newstalk ZB's condolence page.

While I pushed that iconic blue thumbs-up button, I was listening to an endless stream of tributes being read out on air for another icon. Various announcers reminisced. Callers told stories of the times they met him. Archival audio of the man himself was replayed. News bulletins were swamped with more quotes and I was lost.

Lost in my own memories of the man who affected so, so many. A man who affected me personally, in ways I'm only just beginning to appreciate now, as I reflect on our time together.

Where to begin? I'll cheat by starting with a little piece I wrote for the Herald On Sunday, the weekend before he died...

"Paul World. That's how I've always described it to other people. When you're around him, you're visiting Paul World; a place where reality isn't nearly as important as having a good time.

I started working with Paul in August of 2001, around the time Christine Rankin lost her big case and I almost lost her big interview seconds before we were due to go to air.

I was panicking. Paul wasn't. He would have found something to say - he always does.

Then September happened and the attacks happened and we rushed in early to broadcast the fall of the Twin Towers to the nation. Steep learning curve ... for all of us.

For the next 8 years, it was my privilege to visit Paul World for three hours or so each morning, watching the master at work, learning from the man who turned New Zealand broadcasting on its head.

He never looked at things through the eyes of a journalist, or a presenter, or a celebrity. He only ever saw things as a human being. So he made human mistakes from time to time, but they were far outshone by the human emotions he shared with us every day.

If Sir Paul taught me one thing, it's to be silly whenever possible. If you thought the radio shows were entertaining, you should have seen our debrief meetings afterwards; daily laugh-fests featuring opinions, language, jokes and impersonations we could never have broadcast but I'll never forget."

 - Herald On Sunday Online, January 27, 2013

A few meagre lines that barely scratch the surface. In fact, even if I wrote all day and into the night, I wouldn't make much of a dent. In the days and weeks to come, there'll be so many tributes and memories - perhaps too many for some. Perhaps, like all really big stories, there'll be a burn-out factor and people will grow tired of hearing about it. Not me though, because as painful as these stories are for me to hear, every one is different. It seems like everyone knew a different side of Paul - and when I say everyone, it certainly seems like almost everyone had had something to do with him at some time or another.

That was one of Paul's big problems of course, he found it very hard to say no. If it was a good cause, if it was a favour for a friend, if he thought it would benefit his employers or his profile, he'd be there. I mean, he even hosted the Pie Awards for god's sake! For years. He didn't have to, but he was asked to and he did it, and in his usual style, helped transform a party for the country's best pies into a genuine red-carpet event.

Don't get me wrong, no-one values the importance of a good pie more than me, but the pie awards probably don't quite warrant the high level of media excitement it attracts every year. That's how life was once Paul was involved though; bigger, brighter and better than actual reality.

In fact, over the years I came to the conclusion Paul wasn't that interested in other people's realities, he'd just merrily make up his own. As realities go, Paul World wasn't a bad one. The little guys had a voice there. Politicians were forced to answer questions they really didn't want to. Sometimes you even uncovered the real truth and sometimes, actually, more often than just sometimes, Paul made a real difference in people's lives.

Occasionally it might be someone he knew, more often it was just a stranger - a stranger with a story to share and boy could Paul spin a story.

Not long before the end, Paul was quoted as saying people don't remember the cruel man, they only remember the kind man. That's why he will be so WIDELY remembered, so fondly by so many. Surely that's what it's all about isn't it? Affecting as many others as you can for the better? It's a pretty short stop we're given on this planet, and Sir Paul's was a lot shorter than most, but what other New Zealander made such a meaningful impact on so many other kiwis?

We fondly recount the achievements of the likes of Sir Edmund Hillary, David Lange and Sir Peter Blake - but they were never as omnipresent in our lives as Paul. Always on our TV's, raving out of our radios, all over our papers and right there, in person - meeting us, laughing and crying with us - mostly enjoying just being one of us.

He was quite insane, of course - I've never met anyone of genuine talent who isn't. That's why he needed people like Deborah around, to keep him from spinning off into space completely. Before Deborah of course there was the REAL love of his life, Grumpy.

To have worked with an entity like Paul Holmes for as long as I did was an absolute honour. To have shared most of that time with Phil Armstrong, (Paul's producer for 2 decades) was a once in a lifetime learning opportunity of inestimable value. It's been said Paul's great strength was knowing exactly what the common man was thinking. Perhaps Grumpy's great strength was knowing what the others were up to - the people who put themselves ABOVE the common man, those with agendas and schemes and secrets and lies.

Between them, Paul and Phil saw all, and between them, usually on their frequent fag breaks during the news, they were able to distil precious truth from the bubbling cauldron of hype, publicity and spin.

I was a late onto the scene, just a naive pretender really. The moment I'd get too carried away with myself Paul would immediately put me in my place with, "What would you know? You've only been here 5 minutes." Usually this would happen on air with the entire country listening. Even after 5 YEARS, he'd still say exactly the same thing. He was right of course, by then I'd STILL done nothing while he and Grumpy had seen it all.

I don't think he ever really considered himself a celebrity, he was too in awe of them to think he was one himself. Oh, he loved to play up to the role of celeb, but there was always an underlying humility that made his "lifestyles of the rich and famous" pretences a little TOO obvious. How he would have loved to have starred in a movie with Charlize Theron, or written thrillers like Jeffery Deaver's. He poured all those creative impulses into his psuedo-serial World City of course, a cult radio classic for the ages.

If you're wondering if there was a secret, private side to Paul, there wasn't. He didn't just wear his heart on his sleeve, he unashamedly displayed all the other bits there too. He'd invite me the Domestic Manager round to watch the rugby, just like anyone would. We were at his wedding - we didn't have to be famous, we just had to be his friends. I spent quite a while trying to teach him how to use his iPod. I failed, but he seemed impressed enough by my music collection to call on me whenever he needed the perfect playlist for something.

For some reason this involved a last minute dash across the city one night when he had to have just the right songs. I'm not sure Paul's the man you'd want driving you on a last minute dash - he drove like he was Paul Holmes or something.

Actually, that's how he did it everything; full speed around every corner, jump in or get the hell out of the way.

Now he's taken one bend too fast, landed upside on one too many deer fences, asked himself one final question he didn't really have the answer for... and I miss him. I feel a terrible sense of loss and the more tributes I hear, read and watch from more and more people, the more that sense of loss takes over.

So many stories. So many stories. Some I'd heard from Paul himself. Many I was hearing for the first time. The majority I'll never hear again.

I spent a long time with Paul and his stories - longer than most, but it wasn't enough. Death has cheated us all and as usual, it's not Paul we feel sorry for but ourselves because he won't be there for us any longer. 

Paul hasn't appeared after the 6am news for some time, but now I know he'll no longer be appearing anywhere, I miss him so much more.

The last day of the Paul Holmes Breakfast
(That's not Grumpy by the way, it's Producer Tolich)

THE LONG DRIVE

If you're thinking that looks a long way, you don't know the half of it

There are two kinds of people in this world... those who look forward to a road trip and those who would rather just send a card.

New Zealand isn't really all that big. Compared to places like the States and Australia, most of our main thoroughfares must seem more like long driveways. The idea of taking more than a day to drive somewhere in this country is simply anathema to us kiwis. That'd be like living more than an hour away from the beach. (Is that even possible?)

In saying all of that, there are a few local trips that require a little psychological preparation. The Auckland-Wellington run, while straightforward enough on a map, can be hampered considerably by heavy traffic around both cities. Driving in the South Island is beautiful of course, but geez it can be boring too. Going anywhere in the Coromandel is guaranteed to cause carsickness for at least 50% of your passengers, but you get that. The trip I was facing this weekend was Red Beach to Hawkes Bay. And back.

This was not a surprise. I knew it was coming. It wasn't like I'd been summoned to a secret headquarters based in Havelock North to join a covert league of superheroes to fight an evil genius in his attempt to take over the world. Admittedly, there are a couple of obvious flaws in that scenario; 1) I don't have any superpowers, 2) Hard to see the strategic advantage in basing your covert HQ in Hawkes Bay (unless the evil genius was targeting sauvignon blanc and stone fruit production) and 3) If I WAS on my way to a meeting of superheroes, driving would be a pretty uncool way to arrive. A FLYING car might be okay. Flying in WITHOUT a car? Even better.

No, the Domestic Manager and I had been invited to a wedding, so we'd had plenty of time to plan air tickets. (You know, just on an ordinary plane) However, flying down isn't quite as easy as it sounds either. To start with, it takes anywhere from an hour to 4 days to get from my place to the airport - there's a harbour bridge in the way, you see. What's more, it's not like the wedding was happening at Napier Airport. Apparently, a reputable Havelock North winery provides a slightly more romantic atmosphere than the sound of jet engines and a view of the tarmac. That means hiring a car and the whole weekend ends up costing an arm, a leg and a couple of vital organs to boot.

Therefore, a 6-hour road trip was really the only viable option, and when I say 6 hours, obviously I mean 12. After all, no matter how good a time you're having, you have to come home eventually.

Personally, I don't mind a bit of a drive - as long as I'm the driver. What is this curious explosion of physics and biology that causes my face to go numb the moment I have to navigate 2 consecutive corners as a passenger? If the Domestic Manager suffers even a fraction of the same affliction, it's no wonder she dreads a long-haul with such fervour.

As a result, the Domestic Manager has perfected two highly effective methods of passing the time. The first is to fall asleep. How she achieves this is a mystery to me, because not only do I find it next to impossible to nod off in the passenger seat of a moving car, but she's is also a keen contender for the title of "World's Worst Sleeper." Usually to achieve more than a few hours slumber, Domestic Manager requires complete darkness, absolute silence, at least 3/4 of the available bed space and all the stars and planets to be in alignment. Get her out on the open road though, and suddenly she's Rip van Winkle!

The main reason I can't sleep while driving (apart from the fact I'm usually driving) is the incessant head-loll. The tip back on acceleration, the tilt forward on brake. The ever-so delicate thump against the window while cornering. Domestic Manager seems completely immune. Is her beautiful head mounted on gimbals? (I actually have no idea what gimbals are. Cool word though)

This provides me with a bit of alone time, so I can really get stuck in to the important stuff driving requires. You know... picking your nose... humming the wrong lyrics to songs under your breath, that sort of thing.

The Domestic Manager's other favourite pastime is telling me how to drive. I've heard many husbands complaining of the same thing, but the exception here is, she's usually right. I'm a TERRIBLE driver. Just useless. I need all the advice I can get. Of course, I have to PRETEND to be annoyed and angry - it's a dumb man thing. Secretly I'm eternally thankful she pointed out that oncoming freight truck, or we'd both be mincemeat.

Recently, these entertaining marital exchanges have been curtailed somewhat due to the miracle that is Nokia Drive - the GPS installed by default on all Nokia Windows Phones. It's simple, it works and now we never argue about directions anymore - or so I thought.

Sadly on this trip, for the first time ever, Mrs Lumia let me down. I call her Mrs Lumia because I've selected the female voice with the UK accent to tell me where to go.  Mrs Lumia has successfully navigated me all over the place for the last year, even in Australia. But this weekend, for some reason, just when I needed her most, she made a powerplay for control over the husband and she was never going to win that battle.

After 7 grueling hours (I know it was supposed to be 6, but you have to stop for food, you know. And the toilet. And to replace forgotten jewellery) our destination was in sight. I mean that literally, the little finish line flag had popped up on Mrs Lumia's screen, our ETA now down to single digits. All that lay between us and no more driving was Hastings. No offence, Hastings, but you're stupid. Why do you have 2 Heretaunga Streets and why do you have to drive around the block to get from one to the other? The real question here is, why did Mrs Lumia tell me to go that way when the Domestic Manager had pointed out a clearly signposted bypass several kilometres back.

I don't know if it actually made our long trip any longer, but every roundabout we were forced to round as we zig-zagged our way through the Hastings CBD was like another nail in Mrs Lumia's coffin.

That's how I learned a valuable lesson about long distance driving in New Zealand. While Mrs Lumia may SOUND like she knows where she's going, it's always, ALWAYS the Domestic Manger who is ultimately to be obeyed.

This is me driving. Why the headphones? That's not important

HOW I BECAME A REAL MAN THE DAY AFTER NEW YEAR'S DAY

Can you catch ebola off a drink bottle this dirty?

Brace yourself. I too have a serious cycling confession. I did some. Cycling, I mean. I did some cycling. Specifically, I did mountain biking. Up a real mountain.

"What's happened to you, glennzb?" I hear you ask. "You're not the lay-about, B-movie watching cheese-melter we used to know. All this talk of bridge-jumping and triathlons, it's like you've morphed into some kind of thrill-seeking adventure dude!"

Admittedly, that's quite a specific sort of comment for me to metaphorically hear all of you make at once, but work with me here...

"Now all this talk of mountain biking. Up a real mountain," you say (even if you don't say it, you're thinking it now) "What's going on with you, glennzb? Have you some kind of death wish?"

The answer is no. I do however, have a mate called Craig. He's a bit of a bad influence on me. This works well, because I'm a bit of a bad influence on him too. While my influences usually revolve around creative ways to get yourself under the influence (I'm talking cocktails and boutique beers here, and nothing else. Don't jump to conclusions) His influences often result in me ending up covered in mud, water, bits of tree or all three.

Craig's suggestions always seem so innocent when he first makes them. "You feel like taking a drive round my mate's farm?" he asks, which then turns into me off-roading my way along the bottom of a giant mud pool. "Shall we get a bit of exercise tomorrow morning?" he asks, which culminates in my 2nd placing in the inaugural Pataua Triathlon. "Why don't you bring your bike camping in case we want to go for a ride?" he asks, which obviously turns into another hair-raising foray into the world of extreme sports.

I do, as it happens, own my own bike. To call it a mountain bike would be a slight over-statement. The only mountains it's ever scaled had roads, footpaths and controlled intersections all over them. I didn't pay $4000 for it. I didn't pay $400 for it. I got it from the Warehouse for $140. Actually, it might have only been $120 - I know it was a pretty hot deal although I did have to assemble it myself, which may go some way to explaining why I've never really got gears 1, 7 and 13 working properly.

The point is, when I mentioned I thought I'd bung my trusty steed on the back of the car to go camping, you can understand why the Domestic Manager said, "Are you nuts? You'll snap it in half!" I assume she was talking about the bike.

Craig had assured me it was a very easy ride, ideal for a rookie like me and the risk of bike snappage would be minimal. You see? What a smooth talker. The guy could probably sell cats to Gareth Morgan.

Fast forward to January 2, 2013. The last full day of glennzb's life-changing camping experience. Time was running out - if this "easy ride" was going to happen, it'd have to be today.

I didn't realise we wouldn't be able to cycle TO the mountain we were going to ride over. Instead we had to enlist the services of Domestic Manager to chauffeur us there. I magnanimously took the back seat, a move I regretted 20 minutes later as we ascended a disturbingly winding gravel road. As the first face-numbing symptoms of car-sickness began to take hold, I started to wonder just how rookie-appropriate this ride was going to be. My apprehension heightened even further once we finally reached our starting point, the end of the road, the beginning of the track. Except I couldn't see the track. Where was the track?

Ah, a small gap in the brush that dropped away... steeply. Domestic Manager looked even more worried than I felt. She drove off with one last look back, the kind of look a soldier's wife might give her husband before he ships out. When I turned around Craig seemed calm enough. In fact, he was taking this opportunity to widdle in the bushes. That's how we mountain bikers roll.

Then we rolled.

I didn't try to keep up with Craig. He had a proper bike. His tyres were 3 times fatter than mine. For all I know, he even had access to gears 1, 7 and 13. I was just trying not to fall off the world. There was mud. There were branches. There were roots, ruts and rocks. It was a steep learning curve. Most of it was just steep.

My forearms were screaming. My armpits were streaming. We were 2 minutes in.

Weirdly, the trick to mountain biking seems to be avoiding the track wherever possible. If you get stuck in the track, you could find yourself sunk up to your crank in no time. Nothing worse than sinking up to your crank, take it from me.

I'm sure it was scenic, I'm sure it was beautiful, but the only time I had a chance to look up was when we stopped for a drink. Here again Craig completely outclassed me - he had one of those backpack bladder things with a straw. I had a plastic drink bottle in a holder on my bike. A bottle that was now completely caked in foul-smelling mud and assorted detritus. At least I HOPED it was mud. I was bloody thirsty though, so I drank and tried not to breathe through my nose.

We eventually made it to the end of the track, where Craig revealed the full extent of this particular adventure was still ahead of us. First we were making our way back the way we'd come, then we'd take on the gravel road we'd driven up. In a car. A 4 wheel drive car.

Uphill mountain biking is easier because it's not as fast. It's harder because, well, it's uphill. I'd say, on balance, the harder part is harder than the easier part is easier. I almost fell off in slow motion about 16 times... but didn't. Craig rode into a tree at one point. That was satisfying. He had his revenge when we got back to the top though.

I figured we were in for an easy-going coast back down the road to our prearranged pickup point. Craig had other ideas. He hurtled off round the first corner and that's the last I saw of him. There's only so fast I'm prepared to cycle down a gravel road because, well gee, IT'S COVERED IN GRAVEL! Even at my nana-ish pace, there were still a couple of bends I thought I may have underestimated. In those situations, there's really nothing you can do but sit back and hope for the best. I tried to rationalise the situation with what little I know of the basic laws of physics - you know, gravity, torque, how shit-scared you're feeling. Apparently those laws just don't apply to Craig. That guy's insane.

I lived to tell the tale, in case you were wondering. Not sure if I'm going to take it up as regular pastime though. Maybe if I had a bike with gears 1, 7 and 13.

This is my badly bruised arm after my harrowing ride. Oh, sure it got better, but if you use your imagination...

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