Everyone loves the choo-choos

Mothballed. (Fairfax picture)

The old English Electric trains that have so faithfully served Wellington since 1938 are being retired.

The trains' owners were hoping to sell some of the old work horses instead of condemning them to the scrapheap. So they were very excited when their auction on Trade Me, the New Zealand equivalent of Ebay, received a bid for almost $30,000, from smiley134.

A litle jig may have been danced somewhere in the offices of Metlink, the trains' owners.

Until they recived the following email: ''I'm really sorry, my 4-year-old was playing and placed a bid, I don't actually want to buy the train, can my bid please be removed?''

''For a moment I thought I was falling in love with you, smiley! But then you blew it all,'' Metlink customer services manager Zelda MacKenzie replied, according to the Dominion Post.

Trade Me allowed them to remove the bid. The question remains, though, about how a 4-year-old kid could have figured out this whole auction thing.

Everyone's a child, it seems, when it comes to trains. There were lots of comments posted under the auction, funny comments patiently answered by the owners.

Rick1012 asked, ''Would you swap this for my wife?'', and was told ''Absolutely not, we're not into trafficking people, just trains. And if you don't want your wife, why would I?''

9/11, JFK, aliens, Waitress Suzie

Two waitresses not named Suzie

I had to laugh the other day. The Dominion Post reported that the University of Victoria in Wellington would soon begin teaching a philosophy course about conspiracy theories. I think that's very progressive, and teaching students the ability to become rational thinkers is a good thing.

What made me laugh, though, was the Kiwi slant on conspiracies. The paper chose to focus on all the big ones: whether the U.S. government was involved in 9/11; who shot JFK; what happened at Roswell; was the moon landing a hoax. All subjects - all American subjects, I must add - that have caused healthy debate for years and years.

What, pray tell, do you think was the top New Zealad conspiracy the paper mentioned? The bombing of the Rainbow Warrior by the evil French? No. It was Waitress Suzie, of course. A rugby conspiracy. Only in New Zealand. Suzie is the mythical figure said to have poisoned New Zealand's mighty All Blacks on the eve of the Rugby World Cup final in 1995. It's the game now made famous by the Clint Eastwood movie Invictus, which I believe not a single person in New Zealand has watched to this day. The All Blacks lost that game, in overtime, in what became a defining moment of black-white solidarity for the reborn South Africa.

Right after the game, then AB coach Laurie Mains, made the claim that a mysterious - and never discovered - waitress named Suzie poisoned the team at the hotel. Of the 35-man squad, 27 became sick - all of whom had eaten at the team's hotel. The tales of their "blowing chunks" during the game became legendary, though I have not seen footage of mass puking going on.

A most unlegendary photo in NZ: the South African captain with the rugby world cup.

"The theory was strengthened as other suspicious incidents came to light," the paper wrote. "Listening devices were discovered in All Blacks hotel rooms and multiple car alarms were set off on the morning of the final in what could have been an attempt to disrupt players' sleep."

This is a serious matter in New Zealand. Or at least it was, until they won the Rugby World Cup last year. Since then I've heard more people talking about letting it go. But before then you could have a serious, rational, and prolonged discussion in any bar or other gathering of Kiwis about the theft of the 1995 cup by the Springboks. I'm not just talking about blind fanatics either. Some of the most educated people I know here harbored deep suspicions and even deeper resentments.

Yes, they take rugby seriously in New Zealand. Now even some of the myths are going to be part of a university curriculum. Thank God the All Blacks won in 2011, is all I can say.

Orcas remain on bucket list

They're out there somewhere.

As my time in New Zaland grows shorter, I find myself at all hours staring out to sea. I am determined to spot the whales before I go, though I know the season's wrong. I will not leave New Zealand with many regrets, but seeing the Orca in Wellington Harbor has held me in strange sway. The sightings - and there have been at least a dozen of them in the two years I've been in Wellington - are reported regularly online. I usually drop what I'm doing and head into town. But, wraith-like, the beasts have always moved on, leaving people chattering excitedly in their wake. I've heard strories, but they do not belong to me.

Dawn breaks, whale-less

Nowadays, like the French Lieutenant's Woman, I look out over the ocean in fog or rain, nightime or day, waiting for a sign that never comes. I fear, though, that without John Fowles to provide three alternate endings, this story's going to finish predictably. Oh well, one for the bucket list and a reason - yet another - to want to come back to Wellington some day.

Net-plus booze party, a first

We’ve had some interesting parties over the years. But I can honestly say that nowhere, not in any of the many places in the numerous countries that I have lived, have I ever had a net-plus booze party.

Those of you who know that I was born in Scotland will say that’s a no-brainer. Bring a couple of cans of Tennents Lager and stay for three days used to be our mantra in the young and wild days. Now admittedly that was a long time ago and I’m sure my friends have turned into the most sophisticated hosts. But there was that old Billy Connolly skit where he talked about trolling the streets of Glasgow listening for a party to crash by knocking on the door and saying that Jimmy had invited him.

We threw ourselves a going-away party last weekend, because that’s the kind of losers we are. We had a nice mix of Kiwis and Americans there. Our timing wasn’t perfect in so far as we picked a night when the All Blacks Rugby team was playing. Lots of Kiwis have their rituals for a test-match Saturday.

Luckily the local customs for a test-match Saturday when you actually go to someone else’s house include bringing vast amounts of alcohol. You wouldn’t want to get short half-way through game, I suppose.  It was gratifyingly astonishing. Waves upon waves of alcohol – beer, wine, liquor – lapped through our doors to keep company the glass mountains Amy and I had acquired in preparation.

An awesome, impressive label.

 (As an aside, one of Ewan’s middle school classmates, trying to raise money for a sports outing contacted Amy about a fund raiser. Was he selling chocolate bars? No. Offering a car wash? No. No, this school fund raiser involved the selling of wine. Any entrepreneur will tell you: go where the margins are, young man. This was brilliance personified. Naturally Amy, a grand supporter of school activities, bought a case.  As an aside to this aside, the wine was quite good. But no self-respecting vineyard wants to be seen being pawned off at a school sale, so the labels were removed. This gave my very creative wife the opportunity to make her own.)

As another aside, though this one unparenthisized, I'd like to tell a story about a Welcome Party. No, it's not set in the mountains of North Carolina, because then people would think we were making fun of our new home. But it is set in the mountains somewhere in the South. A man moves into a house in the middle of nowhere. He's delighted when his neighbor pops over to invite him to a party. "There'll be good food, booze, rasslin', dancin' and lovin'."

Not one of our guests - at this party.

"That's so kind of you," the newcomer said. "What should I wear?"

"Don't much matter, son. Just gonna be you and me." 

Anyway, the result of our non-redneck, over-stocked party was that people probably drank less, as they were not competing, Survivor-like, with their fellow guests for a steadily diminishing stash of alcohol. Now wait, that makes me sound immature – or Scottish. Well, at least they weren’t scrounging around after midnight drinking half-empty beer cans with cigarette butts in them. A civilized cornucopia for all tastes remained right until the end of the evening. Nobody had to endanger their liver by crazy midnight alcohol switches.

No, we actually ended the evening with more alcohol than we started with. It took us longer to put away the full bottles than the empties. I can honestly say that’s never happened before, but I think it is the sign of a hugely civilized country. Or maybe just of a highly successful rugby game: the All Blacks thrashed the uppity Irish, who had come close to tying the game last week, by 60-0; not a game to force nervous drinking. Or perhaps, and I hate to bring this up, people may just have thought that because I was born in Scotland they better bring their own booze and a lot of it.

Whatever the reason, this is certainly another thing I will miss about New Zealand. And it gives us an incentive to throw a  do-not-bring-your-own-bottle going-away party.

*&%#ing quakes and muntage

You know things have changed in a place when the local newspaper carries a front-page story that twice uses the term futterly ucked and nobody blinks.

The Christchurch Press listed the new words or expressions that have been recorded by the New Zealand Dictionary after the earthquakes there changed everything. Munted was the first to gain traction. Used to describe someone that was wrecked, in a drunken sort of way, the term was adopted and gained currency for the broken city of Christchurch.

That word was used as the root, with various degrees of modification attached, such as mega-muntage. It is is now a mainstream word in Canterbury.

The new words - including dungery, grand mal - refer to emotional and psychological damage. People just know what the meaning is, by feeling it, by having been there. These are just earthquake sort of words.

Being "recorded" by the dictionary means they've sort of made an appearance in the minor leagues. Whether they go to the bigs - and are printed in the new dictionaries - depends on their staying power after this year.

I think it would be futterly ucked if they didn't make it - especially the new definitions of munted

Crimes against cones on the rise

Sitting ducks?

Three alert conaholic enablers from Christchurch sent me a link to this troubling story today. I'm deeply grateful for their work on my behalf. I don't know whose job it was, but someone estimated that there are $3 million worth of cones lining the streets of Christchurch - and in its trees, student dorms, dark alleys and rivers.

Tree-jacked in Christchurch.

I was struck by this savagery against the ubiquitous cones almost immediately upon arrival in New Zealand. It has since been pointed out to me that my fascination borders on obsession. Still, I'm trying to spread awareness among Kiwis about the horrors inflicted upon these dignified and useful upholders of the sense of order so beloved by New Zealand.

I pointed out to a taxi driver in Christchurch earlier this week the sheer volume of cones in his fair city. "I'd never noticed," he said with the nonchalance of someone trying not to engage an unbalanced person.

"Well there are," I reassured him.

We drove around for a few more minutes in uncomfortable silence.

"Bloody hell, you're right mate," he said.

"And do you know about the blood sport of your people?" I asked him, now that I had his interest.

"Conic destruction," I volunteered after getting nothing but another blank stare.

Just in case you don't see the fence ...

This made him laugh. Chuckling now, he recounted his own tales of funnily abused cones that he'd spotted around town.

Well, it ain't funny now, according to the Christchurch Press story. $70,000 worth of not funny. That's how much companies are having to pay for replacement cones. As I reported last year, a cone amnesty is being offered in Taranaki. Turn in your illegally obtained cones and you won't be prosecuted.

I am glad that my diligent reporting on this silent national crisis is finally coming to the attention of authorities. Perhaps my two-year stint in this country will amount to a hill of beans, after all. Or at least reinforce the sanctity of innocent cones. Yeah, that would be a legacy.

Repaying a debt - and being rewarded

The hell of the Battle of Peleliu

I don't really know where to start with this story. But trust me, it's a good one.

As part of the celebrations around the 70th anniversary of U.S. forces arriving in New Zealand we arranged for a U.S. Marine Corps band to tour the country. They played gigs in some of the towns that had bases for the Americans during World War II.

I received a phone call from a Kiwi veteran named Alan Roberts from Christchurch. He asked me if it would be possible for him to meet some Marines. I went to visit him in Christchurch. He is a kind, soft-spoken and gentle man with a coy, endearing smile. His wife, Beatrice, too, is a gracious spirit. He told me he had a story he wanted to share. He knew that none of the people involved was still alive, but he felt he had a debt of gratitude he needed to repay somehow. At 92, he felt this might be his last chance.

He told me that after he joined the New Zealand Army he'd been seconded to work with the Americans in the Pacific. He'd been an outsider well treated by his American "hosts." He went ashore with them on what is now Palau during a monstrous battle. Eighty percent of the Americans didn't make it. Alan was lucky enough to survive the landing and had 10 hellish days of fighting. On the eleventh day a Japanese bullet hit him in the chest.

"Hit the deck, Kiwi, we'll come and get you," an American yelled out, seeing he was injured.

Two medical corpsmen braved mortar and gun fire to save him, Alan said, his eyes welling up. They got him out of there and onto an American hospital ship.

Alan recovered from his wounds. He was so impressed, so awed by the medical corpsmen that he decided to become a doctor himself. He was a rural family physician for 50 years south of Christchurch.

Sitting in his home in the earthquake-ravaged city, Alan told me that most of his buddies were gone now. He spoke to a historian two years back about his time during the war. Beatrice said this was the first time she'd heard his stories. I could sense that the telling of his history was doing him good. They were inside him and needed out.

Alan and Beatrice Roberts meet the Marines

So naturally we invited him to the Embassy event to celebrate the 70th anniversary. The young Marines were magnificent, listening intently to his tales about the Pacific, thanking him for his service. His gratitude to their forbears resonated loudly and clearly. Other Marines talked to Beatrice. They were having a good time. "Tonight," Beatrice said, "was an oasis for us. I've never seen him like this."

I spent a good deal of time with the Roberts. But I lost them for a while and found them out in the foyer waiting for their taxi. They were sitting on the bench patiently. With big smiles on their faces.

"Thank you so much for tonight," Beatrice said. "You'll never guess what just happened."

Alan and US Marine vet Harry Oliver

Apparently a man had approached them after the official ceremony thanking Alan and U.S. Marine veteran Harry Oliver for their service. The man said Alan's name sounded familiar and asked him if he knew a fellow by the name of of James Penman. "Of course," Alan had replied. "I served with him in the Pacific."

"Well, that's my dad," David Penman said.

Turns out one of Alan's old wartime buddies was still alive up in Auckland. Alan's face was afire with emotion. "Oh, this has been such a good day, Adrian," he said. "Thank you."

I was fighting back tears myself. This gentle veteran would have a fellow traveler to talk to, a buddy to remind him that all the memories in his head were real. That these awful things that kept him up at night for all those years had actually happened.

All I could say was, "No, Alan, thank you. For everthing. It's been a privelege to get to meet you and Beatrice."

And I meant every word of it. I called Alan today to ask him how he was doing. The two families had already been in touch. Things were going to happen for these two 92-year-old Kiwi vets. It was a wonderful thing to have been a part of.

Things that make you go hmmmm (9)

Wondering if alcohol was involved in dreaming up this business plan

This sight made me giggle. I'm not quite sure how it's supposed to work. Are we talking a Mitt Romney-like deal? Or just sticking the dog in the back of a pick-up? Or is the DIY in reference to the dog? For more things that have turned my head in New Zealand, read here.

A grim sense of purpose

Cantabrians are a wry lot. It's been 21 months since the 7.0 earthquake and 16 months since its hitman aftershock that flattened much of the city. And yet Christhchurch is still very much in the deconstruction mode.

For the tens of thousands of people who are still living in damaged homes, the frustrations are palpable: waiting for insurance companies to pay up, being given the OK to rebuild, finding contractors to do the patch-ups. It's all moving at a snail's pace. (Every time there is an aftershock above 5.0 the insurance clock resets.) And while these frustrations have mutated into anger or even depression, there is a sort of gallows humor that has developed as an antidote.

I was visiting an elderly couple today. I noticed a sledgehammer in their entranceway. The woman, seeing my quizzical look, said, "Please excuse the mallet. It's not for decorative purposes, you understand. It's so we can smash our way out if there's another big one."

She then proceeded to give me a tour of the cracks and warped beams in their home, ending by saying, "Of course we've got it a lot better than most." They have no choice, with their financial situation, but to wait until things can be put back together.

Still deconstructing.

The cranes that loom over Christchurch are still tearing buildings down. The noises of work you here are all the sounds of knocking down, finishing the jobs the quakes started. Sure, some new neighborhoods are being built. But thousands of people are living in their garages or tents or are in "temporary" situations that they don't see becoming permanent for years.

I asked another guy if his house had been damaged. "Oh yeah, lots of cracks, mate," he said." But with a bit of duct tape the snow doesn't get in. It's all good."

Stiff upper lip.

The city has settled so well into the "new normal," with people going off to work, school kids back in their classrooms, that you can forget - for a few minutes. Then you come around a corner and see the ugly scars of yet another building lying in tatters. Fenced off. Waiting, waiting.

The hollowed-out churches, the vanished Central Business District, the memories that are left only to the imagination haunt you in this city of ghosts. It would be so easy to just be permanently sad here, but it is the spirit of the people that keep each other buoyed. They are what makes Christchurch and will be its backbone, whatever form the new city takes in the months and years and decades to come.

Christchurch is inching back

Churistchurch rolled out the white carpet for us this evening. A low-lying fog blanketed the city and the snow-capped peaks on the horizon were prettiness itself as we came in to land over a sunsetted sea.

I remembered again the first time I flew into Christchurch, the time before I was here on Feb. 22 when the town crumbled around me. She was an orderly, well-kempt place then that reminded me of a gentle country place. The Canterbury Plains, stretching out to the mountains, were broken by tall, straight-backed windbreaks that seemed to be trying to tame the winds themselves. The Central Business District back then did nothing to deter from that general impression of a good-mannered and well-presented place, a place that made you tighten your tie and straighten your posture - just to make a good impression.

A lot has happened since then, of course. But today - from above - I got the sense of an elderly grand dame getting up after a fall, dusting herself off and straightening her hair. The bellboy at my hotel was quick to point out that the construction cranes were carrying out a long-planned expansion - and were not doing earthquake reconstrution. The new airport - also long-ago planned - is all shiny and impressive. The All Blacks, playing Ireland, had just brought international rugby back to the city for the first time in two years. (As an example of the sense of order demanded by Cantabrians, the lead story of The Press today bemoaned the drunken "shenanigans" of AB fans at the game: 5 people had been arrested and 11 thrown out. Shit, worse stuff happens at our family picnics, far less at an internatioanal ball game.)

Yes, it was a much more upbeat arrival than I've had during my several trips down here after the earthquake. It's been a long, hard slog in between, of course.

I realize that's just the way it seems on the outside. Once you get to talking to the locals, progress is something that's snorted at, not embraced. Every house, it seems, has been damaged and precious few have been fixed. People are living in garages or tents and it's cold now and things aren't getting close to normal anywhere near soon enough. Bureaucracy has ground everything to a halt and there are plenty of pissed off people who are mad at everything with nothing better to do than bitch about it. And I get that.

But, more slowly than surely, things are happening. And the city is getting its vibe back. Christchurch is still that unique and wonderful place I first fell in love with so long ago. When it's done, it's going to be something entirely different, entirely new and equally unique. And that's because of the folks that live here: the stoic, gallow's-humored, vivacious residents who have put up with so much disaster and come through with their humor intact.

Christchurch ain't going anywhere. And it may just be coming back.

Nice day for a white sailing

This is not bad photography. This is a bad day. In New Zealand  someone can wake up, look out of the window, see the horizontal rain, hear the howling wind, and think, "Wow, what a lovely day for a sail." Even with sails trimmed, this boat looked like it was shooting across Evans Bay at 20 knots. I'd been offered a crew position on  a boat this weekend, and am delighted I didn't take it.

Sideline patrol coming to an end

One of the things I will most certainly miss about New Zealand is the rugby and football Saturdays. Fueling up on the high-octane coffee - this Java caravan is owned by a Scottish guy from the Orkneys - and standing on the sidelines listening to the Kiwi chatter is a great way to slide into the weekend. Lots of teens seem to use the rugby matches as an excuse to get together and just hang. The old memory banks harken back to Kelvinside and Strathallan in Scotland on days just as nippy, windy and damp - and equally unfortunate fashion senses..

It's all calm people-watching until the games kick off. Then things become a little tense. Rugby is a rite of passage in New Zealand, and it is played hard. There's always a sense of relief when the final whistle blows. But that sound of the referee's whistle trilling up the valleys of Wellington will echo in me for many years to come.

Ewan's games are every bit as intense. But we will get to patrol the sidelines to watch him playing soccer again in North Carolina. And the conditions are usually much better than here. I don't think Amy would be caught dead in such an outfit back home.

Or maybe she will. It could take off. I don't mean to begin wallowing in Kiwi nostalgia, but there are only two weekends to go for Amy and the boys and then our sideline duties will be over here in New Zealand.

Winter in Summer

This is just not a sight this Northern Hemisphere boy is used to seeing in June, pretty though it is. June is meant to be swimming pools, baseball and trips to the lake. This puts me in mind of Halloween, College Football and the smell of wood smoke in the air. We will go from this straight into the heat of a North Carolina summer. Upside down seasons can get to you, if you let them.

The dark days revisited fondly

I had the real privilege of presenting U.S. World War II veteran Grady Lightfoot with a commemorative coin in Masterton. This year marks 70 years since U.S. forces arrived in New Zealand. They came to protect the country against possible invasion. They came to train before deploying into the hellish arena that was the Pacific Theater. The lucky ones who survived those battles, came back here to recuperate. Deep bonds were formed. I've heard so many wonderful stories this week, from both Kiwis and U.S. veterans, about those long-ago times.

Most of the Kiwi fighting men were in Europe or North Africa, and New Zealanders felt vulnerable to invasion. So American troops were invited by the then Prime Mister to come to Aotearoa. For many of those U.S. troops New Zealand was the last place they were treated to smiles and kindness before heading into the battles that claimed so many of them. For many Kiwis the American presence - the friendly invasion - created happy memories.

It was a horrific time, and it is important to remember. Meeting these veterans, both U.S. military and Kiwi civilian, has been a tour de force of oral history. It's been eye-opening to watch older New Zealanders who recall those dark days interacting with the young musicians of the U.S. Marine Corps Pacific Forces Band who are touring the country to mark the anniversary.

Simply put, there have been many goosebump moments. An old lady in Carterton told of the young U.S. Marine she met. They fell hard for each other. Then he was deployed to Guadalcanal. He wrote to her every day for 60 days. And then the letters stopped. He had died. Or today when the band,  spontaneously playing and marching along the bayfront after a performance, came across the plaque marking the very spot where, in 1942, the U.S. Marines landed.

They decided to play a song for those of them who had come before. There was no crowd there to see the moment, but it meant something. As has this entire week. I'm a richer for having been a small part of it.

The road from hell is Rimutaka

The scary road on a bad day.

Wooden crash rails.

Kiwis, as I've said many times, are a crazy bunch.They often make me feel stodgy and unadventurous. They also like to make fun of me for my stodgy unadventurousness. Sometimes I fake it a little bit, so that the stories get crazier. And they always do.

I play along, of course, and smile. I've read all the stories where the adventures go horribly wrong. So the smile is a little smug.

But there is one of the "adventures" where my fear is absolutely physical and genuine. It's called the Rimutaka Road, and it heads north out of Wellington over the Rimutaka Range and down into Wairarapa. It's windy - in both senses of the word - and there are sharp drops protected by very minimal railings. I don't like it at all, and when people tell me that they commute to Wellington from the Wairarapa side I look at them as if they are completely insane. I simply cannot imagine doing that drive every day in every type of condition. I would actually have a heart attack. Yeah, it's that kind of scary.

I hate the drive with a passion. Each venture takes years off my life. And it's not imagined: people drive off the side of mountains all the time in this country.

A large drop on a schizophrenic day: snow one minute, blue sky the next.

Today I had the added pleasure of making this ordeal on a day when it was snowing. Last year, during a sudden snowstorm that hit, more than a hundred vehicles were stuck overnight on the Rimutaka Road. That, my friends, is the very definition of a nightmare. And images of it were flashing through my mind as I white-knuckled it over the range. In fact, as I was pulled over at one of the passing spots, a colleague who was also heading to Masterton passed with a big wave. I know what he was thinking: whatever the Kiwi word for wussy is.

Had I not, in fact, been taking a few deep breaths at the side of the road and rubbing my St. Christopher, I would have been deeply offended by his demeaning attitude. But still, how could he possibly have known that I was not relieving myself at the side of the road?

And of course everything did work out. I was over-reacting, as my Kiwi friends have always told me. But do you see that bush country? If a car goes in there, it could be weeks before it's found. That, too, has happened many times since I've been in New Zealand. I'm just saying.

Typical Kiwi weekend: Sweet as

The now snow-covered South Island from my favorite cafe

We had a typical winter Kiwi weekend. Amy's has to make them count: she has only three of them left.

Morgan, No. 17, at a lineout

Untypically, Morgan's Rugby team actually tied their game, 19-19. That's a very rare result.

Karate Kid Ewie's team won 6-1.

Saturday was a bit of a sporting orgy. I ended up watching two soccer games and two rugby games. It was not warm.


Professional spectator

The cold has long since made Amy and me throw fashion sense out of the window on weekends. Whatever works, we wear.

A Kiwi weekend

To me this is a quintessential photo of Kiwi life - and I will miss it. Little kids playing rugby. Tui beer. All-black fashion. And, of course, randomly discarded cones.

Sunday at the Bach, with newspaper = perfection.

I will miss the Bach. It is simple with a majestic view ...

... with greasy food ...

... and great coffee



Fire hits Wellington Institution

Photos by Fairfax Media

Well, I suppose this will make it a little easier to leave Wellington: my favorite pub was hit by fire yesterday.

The remarkable Backbencher Pub, which sits across the street from Parliament, will be closed for at least four to five weeks. Judging by the damage done by the early morning fire, though, I think that could be optimistic.

The thing that made the pub unique - apart from its really good food - was the huge satirical puppets of politicians that hung from its walls. They reminded me of props that would have been used on the old British show "Spitting Image." It was the place a lot of politicos went, even if only to check out their dummies, as it were.

We've had a few good evenings at the Backbencher - and one pretty good morning - and hope that it can be restored to its former glory. Each of the puppets is said to cost $10,000 to replace. If Bryce Curtis, the puppet maker, has anything to do with it, they will be reborn.

"I have a great amount of pleasure from creating them because of their nature, and they are taking the piss out of politicians, and ths is always going to make you feel good," he told the Dominion Post.

As I'd expect, political intrigue is already swirling around the incident. The initial Dominion Post report listed the names of the politicians whose images had been charred beyond saving.

Both the Prime Minister and the Deputy Prime Minister, John Key and Bill English, survived the flames. Now what does that tell you? Deal with the Devil?

The Glasgow kiss - in Australia

The disconsolate look of the Scottish fan

As a long-suffering Scotland supporter, I'm used to the humiliations of defeat. It's not just the losses, though. Our soccer team has set a low bar and consistently failed to meet it, such as when they tied the mighty Faroe Islands, a nation of 14,000 which lists whaling as its main industry and whose players were mainly part-time teachers.

Scotland is equally capable of turning infrequent victory glory into disaster, however. In 1985 all Scotland needed to do was tie Wales in order to get into a play-off game that would eventually see them qualify for the World Cup the following year. When the final whistle blew on the 1-1 game, the pub erupted into ecstatic celebration and songs promising eternal glory in the cup. After a few minutes somebody shouted out, "Jock's down."

Jock Stein, the beloved coach of the national team, had suffered a heart attack and died at the stadium.

As an aside, I arrived in Germany that summer to work at a factory. My host, and later good friend, Michael, picked me up at the airport and took me to his home. Within five minutes of meeting this family, the Germany-Scotland game kicked off. After 18 minutes Scotland took the lead and I danced a rude dance and dreamed impossible dreams, irritating my German hosts. It took all of five minutes for Germany to equalize. Germany won.

The Bravehearts of 1977.

When Scotland beat England at Wembley in soccer in 1977 the Scots, who were in the vast majority at the London stadium, invaded the field. They took it home to Scotland with them: the goal posts, the grass, everything. Not precisely a classy way to win, but I remember we were all extremely proud of them.

At last year's Rugby World Cup, my 15-year-old son Morgan received a quick and brutal initiation into the Scottish Club of Pain. The boys in blue were ahead for most of the game, until they conceded a try with a couple of minutes to go - and lost by one point. The Scots were devasted; Morgan, who was born in America, asked if it was OK if he didn't support Scotland anymore. And why, indeed, would any father wish such a thing on his son?

All this is by way of introducing the latest chapter in Scotland's long history of making something other than a rare victory the main story line. Earlier this week Scotland beat the mighty Australian rugby team, ranked number 2 in the world, on their home soil. This made me a pretty popular guy in New Zealand, where they cheer for two teams: the All Blacks and anyone who's playing Australia. Having been born in Scotland, I apparently had something to do with the result.

All pretty good stuff, right?

The price of victory

 Well, yes. Except that the Scots in their exuberant celebrations - something they are not exactly practiced at - managed to make buffoons of themselves. A big celebration erupted. Two of the Scots rushed in to join the scrum ... and managed to headbutt each other. Both fell to the ground like felled trees, one required stitches, the other had his noggin taped up and had a suspected concussion. Smooth, boys. Real smooth.

OK, so the video of the incident is actually pretty funny. The Aussie commentator sounds as if he's going to piddle his pants a little bit. And of course the Aussie papers used the image and had a good giggle. So they got to focus on how funny Scotland was rather than the "humiliation" of the defeat - as the headlines referred to it.

And that's how the Scots roll:, never getting to strut - even if it's just for an evening.

Kiwinglish 10: Going off scrip

I have written often about my adventures with what I call Kiwinglish, that unique and often confusing language spoken here in New Zealand. Well, it turns out it's not only us imports who sometimes have difficulty communicating. Even Kiwis occasionally can't understand one another. This came to us from Stuff, the country's largest online news provider:

A mysterious "threat" left on a man's answer phone sparked a police investigation that led officers to an unlikely source.

Yesterday police received a call from a Masterton man - who police dubbed 'John' - after he received the following message on his voicemail:

"John's got his gun, and we'll be waiting for him."

Hearing this the man became confused, as his name was John, but also concerned about a possible armed confrontation.

"Obviously given the nature of the language he's felt quite threatened by it," said Senior Sergeant Warwick Burr, of Wairarapa police.

Police took the supposed threat at face value and started an investigation.

However, after it was replayed the message turned out to say: "John's script is done and will be waiting for him" - a message from the Masterton Medical Centre.

An officer taking details from the man noted the caller had used a "cold, calm" voice when delivering his message.

"Of course they did, they were calling about his medication," Burr said.

A day at the races in Apia



Conditions, I was told, were almost perfect for a Fautasi race.

This morning in Apia had the air of Super Bowl Sunday about it.

By 5:30 a.m. about three miles of Bayfront was lined with people. Happy chatter and an air of nervous expectancy was everywhere. The TVs were on with crowds of people gathered around them. Excited jabbering could be heard from the radios in every car that passed. Pick-up trucks with dozens of paddle-waving  youth chanting for victory roared by, honking their horns. Vendors in the stalls set up for the 50th Anniversary of Samoa's Independence were already doing brisk business, the aromas of their food wafting out over the calm Pacific.

It was grand final day for the Fautasi boat races. Ten boats, representing the best rowing villages of Samoa, had made it this far. Today was the time for one of them to bring it home. The $50,000 purse sounds like a fortune in Samoa, but then there are 50 people in each crew. This is not about the money. This is for pride.

By the time I took my place on the waterside, I could already hear the rhythmic thumping of the drums coming from around the point. The contest had begun. The men on either side of me had transistors pinned to their ears and were shouting out what was going on in the race. Each bit of news was greeted by groans or cheers. You needed the radios; the boats were a long way out and, to this Fautasi newbie, they all looked the same.


The home stretch reached.

And then, just like that, it was done. It turns out that the only boat to be crewed by a woman, one Zita Martel of the Vaimasenu'u, had won. By the time I returned to the hotel she was already being interviewed on TV. While she did not say she was going to Disneyland, there was a lot of passionate chanting going on in the background.

Turns out the other great thing about winning something this important on your home turf is the parade: you get to have it immediately. It has already started and is winding its way noisily through town.