Has Been..

William Shatner has a new album out; Has Been, the long-awaited follow-up to 1968's The Transformed Man has just been released. Actually if he'd waited 18 months or so, he'd probably hold the title for Most Delayed Follow-Up Album in History of Rock. [I believe Brian Wilson would currently take that honour for Smile, released last month.] But that's not what I want to talk about.

John Russell reviewed Shatner's new album in Sunday's Herald. It wasn't a bad review, all things considered, but one thing made my hair stand on end. In his review, Russell alerts us to the fact that Mr. Shatner apparently prefers to be known as The Shat.

This is beyond comprehension. The only - and this is stretching it - reason I can think of to explain why Shatner would like us to affectionately refer to him - in the past participle of to shit - as recently excreted feculence, is that he's the dom. in some sort of S+M relationship with a coprophagiast.

Some googling later, and it would appear that Shatner has been colloquially known as The Shat for some time. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em and all that, I guess, but if a bunch of people started calling me 'piss-o' or something similar I'm pretty sure that rather than resign myself to it, I would draw some sort of line in the sand and tell them to fuck off. [Darling aquaintances, this isn't an invitation to test my resolve. Cunts].

John Russell's review isn't available online; here's one at, somewhat appropriately, Crud Magazine. [Happily, Crud Magazine is worksafe!].

Belated thoughts on the late Christopher Reeve

After I saw Chris Reeve's post-accident remake of Hitchcock's Rear Window, starring himself playing the wheelchair-bound voyeuer-guy, I held some hope that the intrepid dude'd be able to forge a whole new career for himself... a second-wind, if you like, as the most utterly perfectly-awfully typecast actor of his generation, y'know...

also starring Christopher Reeve as the guy in the wheelchair...

Or if not, at least the actor appearing the most in god-awful remakes of reasonably-daft-but-classic movies. [Cf. Village of the Damned.] [Also, if you follow the link to IMDB for the Rear-Window remake, check the Trivia entry... "The scene where Jason's breathing tube comes loose and he has to chatter his teeth to get the nurse's attention really happened to Christopher Reeve shortly after his accident". Uh, for fuck's sake!]

Everything Is Wrong With Me riffs pretty-amusingly on Reeve's demise... gotta say right-on about the fucking NY Post and that Metropolis bullshit, too.

I can't believe it's not butter...

Umm, I can. Perhaps a more accurate product name might be I Can't Believe It Causes Cell Damage!.

Some notes about smoking-in-bars...

[Weird.. TV3 news is b'casting live from Fashion Week and the show is over for the night and Dimmer's Crystalator is blaring out, being used as room-clearing music...]


...Anyway... an Irishman walked into a pub... and had a beer with me. Really. With reference to the impending ban on smoking in bars in NZ, here's some snippets of things he told me about the aftermath of similar legislation coming into effect in Ireland.

• Attendance or custom or whatever went down by 70%
• Result of this drop was that the breweries and the bars drop [oh the heavenly punning] the price of beer, conceivably to entice the punters back
• One bar spent over a million quid building a rooftop outdoors area where people could drink and smoke
• Said bar cleaned up, attracting smoking punters away from other bars from miles around [this apparently no mean feat, in the legendarily-parochial Irish pub scene]
• Another bar has built a guillotine-style contraption on its outer wall where a punter can stick his head out into the street and smoke a ciggy. Queues ensued.

The only thing I really had to contribute is that I know that one reasonably well-established bar here in Wellington is building a secret "smoke-easy" beneath its regular bar.

Go Prohibition-styles... Elliot Ness... Al Capone... Untouchables. etc.

Bad dream or...

I just awoke from a nightmare. I was an All Black, and we had just lost the 2003 Rugby World Cup Semi-Final to Australia. George Gregan was there, except his face looked like Kerry Prendergast. He/she was very excited, getting right up in our faces, yelling "Three more years, boys, three more years". Smug bitch. Eventually he to be restrained and hauled away by some of his team-mates, who may or may not have looked like Rex Nicholls and Alick Shaw.

I'm not really sure what happened next but shortly later a microphone was lowered from the roof of the stadium to where Brian Tamaki was waiting in a pink spandex jumpsuit to sing a medley of WHAM hits.

Gone postal

It's not all bad news. I will be appeased - somewhat, but not utterly - if after special votes are counted, we get to wave ta-ta to that bastard Alick Shaw. The turncoat Shaw, former Labour candidate for Wellington Central [before being trounced by Richard Prebble in '96], latterly Deputy lap-dog for Kerry Prendergast, hangs on to his seat on council by the very slim margin of 260 votes; coming quickly up his rear is Green Party candidate [and anti-Bypass group Campaign for a Better City stalwart] Iona Pannet. My sources tell me there are about 1200 special votes to count.

It's already been rather pleasing to have witnessed the ditching of Prendergast 'lieutenants' Ngaire Best, Sue Piper, Ian Hutchings, Judy Siers, and David Zwartz from council. If Shaw exits stage-left after specials are processed, her already-waning support takes another major body-blow. [Though in a cruel twist Hutchings will likely wrench the Northern Ward back from 18-year old newcomer Hayley Wain.] And, rather pleasantly, Bryan Pepperell, Jack Ruben and Helene Ritchie remain to kick Prendergast's ass around, as well as Mr. Ray Ahipene-Mercer who not only can set up my guitar any day, but is not averse to a bit of idiot ass-kicking himself.

And in other news, there were also encouraging signs after votes were counted for the Regional council. Fran Wilde, Chris Laidlaw and Margaret Shields, all former Labour MPs in Wellington or outlying districts [Kapiti], and generally bloody top blokes, are all now Regional councillors. Wilde, who of course had a decent hand in the Homosexual Law Reform Bill in the mid-80's and was also Mayor of Wellington for one term in the 90's, has her sights set on transport issues; said issues would surely have to include the looming inner-city bypass.

Watch this space, as they say.

Well... piss up a rope

As the provisional results began to point overwhelmingly to Kerry Prendergast having been returned for a second term as Mayor of Wellington, the weather did the decent thing and packed it in. In fact, as any sensible-thinking person spent today in mourning for Wellington's well-being, it's continued to comprehensively piss down.

Unfortunately, technical difficulties have apparently prevented other important information from coming to the fore at this point, including the make-up of the City and Regional councils. But we do know that voter turn-out was appallingly low, the lowest for many a year. Big ups apathy and indifference.

O well, at least I probably don't feel as bad as the supporters of the Australian Labour Party. Wow. John Howard. Again?

There's something wrong with my robot

Mailbag time. Jen-Smacked-Face wrote:

Patels Superette!! How long has it been since I last heard those words? (Seven years exactly, since you ask.)

Far be it from me to ruin someone's nostaglic reverie, but Patel's Superette is the same in name only, I'm afraid. In them good old days, the staff/owners were your friend, and weird dissaffected young whiteys worked out the back [I bought some CDs off one of them at some point]. Plus they had Lotto. About 3 years ago, they changed hands and that was the end of the golden weather, as they say. These days it's owned and staffed by a strange breed of extremely brusque folk, who speak another language, watch TV a lot and don't always look at you, even when taking your money. O, and no more Lotto. Sorry.

Kellie Wilson, Sales Administrator, Hutchinsons (NZ) Limited, writes:

Thank you for your letter informing us of the problem you had with our Chopped Italian tomatoes with chilli and garlic 400g. We pride ourselves on marketing quality products and were very concerned when we received your comments.

The processing equipment used is very effective and the problem you have experienced is thank fully [sic] very rare. We have however informed our supplier and requested to discuss the incident with Quality Control and the Production Team.

Please find enclosed a $10 grocery voucher for you to use how you wish, we are deeply sorry or [sic] any inconvenience this may have caused you and hope that you will be able to resume your relationship!

Why shucks, thanks Kellie. I'm a bit disappointed though - I was rather hoping that you'd demand the instant resignation of the entire Quality Control and Production Team, and send me a million bucks. I'll guess I'll have to settle for the voucher, then. Maybe next time I'll have to find a black fat-tailed scorpion instead. Thanks for the mandate to use the voucher how I wish though - if I remember I'll send you a photo of me and the lady hoovering drugs with it.

Muffy writes:

Steve, your literary shenanigans never fail to amuse... Heaps of hot lovings, muffy

Muffy, are you my mother? No, just kidding. But I've got a strange, nagging feeling I know you. Did we meet at the first Lord of the Rings wrap-party? Or was that you up amongst the pine trees on school sports day, 1990. You've got my interest, now, you enigma, you. Wanna leave me a clue?

Roger Kerr to Deborah Coddington

... Would you like to *hrmpph* come up to my *hrmpph* apartment and *hrmpph*... look at my *hrmpph* bond certificates? *hrmpph* *fst fst fst fst Tweet* I can assure you my uhh *hrmpph* intentions are honourable *fst fst*... I've got a big *fst* round *hrmpph* table, don't you know...

The Untold Stories

Erotic Novella I Haven't Found Time To Write, Yet #2: Me, John Banks and the Giant Sausage Roll from Patel's Superette.

Also, must get around to finishing off #1 How I Lost My Anal Virginity To Pastor Brian Tamaki... I want to work his hair oil into it, somehow.

A funny thing happened on the way here tonight...

Product / Quality Manager
Hutchinsons (NZ) Ltd.
Level 4, ASB Building
136 Broadway
Newmarket
Auckland

Dear Sir / Madam:

RE: Trident Chopped Italian tomatoes with chilli and garlic 400g

Please find enclosed the debris I discovered [it shall henceforth be known as 'It'] in a can of the abovementioned product. I had purchased the can [from Patels Superette in Aro Street, Te Aro, Wellington] in order to cook a lovely romantic Italian meal for the lady I am wooing. Somehow It managed to remain undetected throughout the entire process of cooking the meal. However, you can imagine the hilarity [mine, short-lived] that ensued when, upon serving the meal, It appeared on the top of the food on my date's plate, looking so much like some sort of large weird green spider. She, predictably, shrieked and made for the hinterland [well, the bathroom] from which it took some coaxing to entice her. Sadly and needless to say, dinner was a write-off.

I have an assurance from the lady in question that, after an appropriate period, she will consider returning for another meal. Unfortunately she has suggested that we see other people in the interim. Apparently it's for the best.

I hope this story of woe brings you some light-relief.

Best wishes,

Stephen Clover.

...

Postscript: If you needed to know, It was a not-insubstantial fleshy eight-fingered tomato stalk. My date's reaction was not unreasonable, either; according to the London Mail a green-grocer recently found a black fat-tailed scorpion in a shipment of bananas and mangoes from Pakistan. The man mistook the creature, said to be the third most deadly animal on Earth, to be a tomato stalk before realising what it was. He proceeded promptly to terrorise several passing children with it, before losing it on the No. 7 bus.

If anyone can help with comprehension as to why a pet-store is selling black fat-tailed scorpions on-line and providing breeding, propogation and care instructions for them, please do not hesitate to contact me.

...

UPDATE: reply here.

The Datsuns came to town...

While I'm on a The Datsuns tip, they played here in Wellington last Friday night at Vic Student Union. Here's the review I wrote of the show for The Package:

The Datsuns are touring their new album and in the two years since I seen 'em they've gotten even greater. The new material is more mature - more melodic, more dynamically complex. The old songs sound even somewhat souped-up. Their honed-lean stage show is utterly convincing - in the hour-or-so set they don't miss one carefully orchestrated cue or one visual rock-cliche or one chance at an audience-participation gag. They rocked and we bounced; drunkards violently flailed and wind-milled and teenagers were violently ill and the unruly were violently ejected, dragged off by their lug-'oles by packs of snarling security-thugs.

But what to write about The Datsuns when so much type s'been expended already? Here's what... The Datsuns don't just play rock'n'roll - they ARE rock'n'roll. They's white and they's skinny and they got hair in abundance. They live their rock'n'shuffle and their heroic anthems with all them insanely-inane sing-along catchy choruses. They smack us down with their hard-rock-boogie and we hit the floor and snap back for more and more. Us? We're drunk little girls and air-guitar-wielding bogans and shaggy torn-shirted under-grads gasping for air and water and Dolf plays us like the ho's we are for his sweaty bug-eyed lovin'.

The show climaxes in a chaotic epic finale involving simultaneous crowd-surfing by both guitarists and the still-singing Dolf while, weirdly, a Dolf-doppelganger appears and takes over on bass. That was worth stickin' aroun' for. The Datsuns're the best fucken rock'n'roll band since Bon Scott died. End of story.

[Apologies to The Accelerants and the other support act [erm... who where they again?]; I missed both of 'em. How rock'n'roll is THAT?]

This is one of two reviews I wrote of the show; inspired to a not-insignificant degree by the enthusings of Matt Hunt, who attended the gig with me, I decided to run with the plaudits first. I'll post the other one soon.

Ongoing memoirs of a crate-digger

Or, how the Datsuns saved my life in Hamilton

It's a cool early-November Saturday afternoon, 2001... I'm in the main street of Hamilton waiting to meet a guy called "Spud". I play bass in a Wgtn avant-pop band and we're touring with a psych-post-rock duo from Dunedin. Tonight's the last gig and our manager has organised a live interview on "Hamilton's Rock Alternative!" The Generator FM.

Spud lets us into the studio. It's plain he doesn't want anything to do with this. He's never heard of either band and can't be fucked talking to a bunch of pussies from the city. Partway through I start to wonder if we're even going to get out alive.

The interview is appalling but we battle through and Spud finally winds up, asking us if we like any bands from Hamilton. The guys are looking at each other blankly... you can sense panic as they desperately rack their minds for a name, any name, anything with which to appease Spud and his hordes of slobbering Cro-Magnon listeners... meanwhile I'm wanting to claim "Hitler's Kock" [Bryce Galloway's old art-punk outfit] but play it safe... "I quite like The Datsuns". Spud regards me sceptically. "Cool... what's your favourite song, dude?" [read: "Bullshit, dude"] Me: "Uh, Fink for the Man, on the b-side of the Transistor seven-inch. It's the fucken best rock'n'roll I've heard since Bon Scott died".

It was like just then the sun rose in Spud's eyes. He's a changed man. As he wraps up the interview, he hypes our gig twice, and plays something from our CD which he manages to segue nicely into a track from the latest Korn album.

Of course it was all for nothing; no slobbering Cro-Mags came to the gig and no shouted requests for Slipknot songs were received. [Actually, that makes it sound like it was all worth-while!] It was a really good gig though. You can see pictures by reknowned H-town rock-groupie Petra Jane here.

I am not an animal! I am a human being! I...am...a man!

I've made it my business lately to see The Elephant Men, a new-ish Wgtn rock trio, as often as possible. Predictably my inner-sloth caused me to miss them at their biggest gig, supporting Trinity Roots at the Town Hall last month, but let's not dwell on that...

Of course the Elephant Man was John Merrick, a 19th-century Englishman afflicted with a disfiguring congenital disease - Proteous Syndrome - who with the help of a certain kindly Dr. Frederick Treves, was able to regain the dignity he lost after years spent as a catastrophically deformed side-show freak. David Lynch, that notorious arbiter of the aberrant, made a movie called The Elephant Man in 1980, starring the very great John Hurt as the E-man. The similarly great David Bowie starred as the Elephant Man in the 1980 stage production of the story. A silent movie called Her Elephant Man was also made in 1920 by Scott R. Dunlap but this is actually a love story about a man who looks after elephants. A documentary called Curse of the Elephant Man was made in 2003 in which 'a distinguished cast of experts from three continents try to solve the mystery of his disease and answer two intriguing questions: what was the awful affliction, and could it happen again?'

The band features Chris Palmer on guitar, Craig Taylor on bass and Rick Cranson on drums. None of them are particularly disfigured but it's encouraging to see these poor creatures able to take a much more active part in today's progressive society. All have been seen in other outfits too, demonstrating again the truly eclectic nature of so many of these local talents.

This is a short piece on the band that I wrote for Secret City - a monthly broadsheet put out jointly by Enjoy Public Art Gallery and Happy...

The Elephant Men are no ordinary band. They out there in the hinterland... lurking roun' the fringes of rock and jazz; and they def'nittly gone a bit feral. They're hairy but they're top musicians; they can play the shit outta their axes and they got no shortage of chops. But don't be afraid - this ain't no lame fusion thing. These boys play with all the fire of post-rock's extreme-noise-terror, the angular sonic ebullience of the greatest New-York-1978 No Wave outfits, and the funk of a broke-ass steamroller... and to this melange add the vocals of Chris Palmer, who sings like a fallen angel half the way through a bottle of tequila. But crucially, they's doin' it with the improvising grace of three guys talkin' their very peculiar language. If you gonna start me namecheckin' then I gotta say equal parts Captain Beefheart's Trout Mask Replica and Jeff Buckley or sommat or even Tim Buckley and then some freakish No Wave ensemble like DNA or the first Golden Palominos LP. For my pick this is easily the best live band around at the moment and you don't want to pass up a chance to see them hollerin' live... I did and I'm still cursing my lazy ass about it.

Postscript: The Fingers, another band with Chris Palmer on guitar and ostensibly featuring journeyman percussionist Chris O'Conner on drums, performed on Thursday night at Happy as part of the line-up of Meatwaters'04. Kieren Monaghan filled in on the night for the stranded-in-Christchurch O'Connor. I'm not sure if the band-name is a reference to any films about infamous side-show-freak attractions or not - possibly the Beast with Five Fingers ["It walks like a spider... it stalks like a cobra!"]? They were frenetic, entirely improvised and more abrasive than The Elephant Men and really, really, good as well...

Seven Last Words from the Cross

Scottish composer James McMillan's work Seven Last Words from the Cross is a stunning piece of contemporary music. It's a droning, shuddering atonal drift which is performed with strings and voices, but somehow seems to invoke the timbres of electronics and humming machinery as well.. perhaps what you'd get if you crossed Surface of the Earth with Mahler's 8th, or something.

My attempts to buy a recording of this work have always been stymied; I still have the cassette I recorded a copy of it off the radio about 10 years ago, and I listen to it often.

A rare occasion to see and hear the work performed is upon us; the Tudor Consort is collaborating with Gate Seven Orchestra and presenting a performance of Seven Last Words from the Cross on Saturday August 21 at Sacred Heart Catholic Cathedral. You can book at Ticketek.

Extra 44 Quid Exhibition

The Extra 44 Quid collective [myself and three friends] are staging our inaugral exhibition this week. It kicks off on Tuesday night and runs for 10 days or so.



Here is some more information on the show:
Extra 44 Quid #1 is a group-exhibition featuring the work of four artists; three from Wellington and the fourth straight outta Germany. The show features an interesting range of work - drawing, painting, and 3D work - sculpture and assemblage - from the four very different artists in the E44Q collective:
Terence Turner (Tainui) is a celebrated bone-carver who is currently helping to make King Kong for Peter Jackson. He is also reknowned for his paintings of blowflies and intestines. He will be exhibiting paintings and souped-up re-wired and generally deranged toaster ovens.
Kathy Bartlett (Wairarapa) has an ever-growing number of followers, enthralled with her stunning and incisive portraits. She recently exhibited a series of portraits of her friends as saints, portrayed in the Orthodox Christian-style replete with gold leaf and halos. In an inspired move these were shown in an auxiliary building at Wellington Cathedral. Kathy will be showing her new paintings.
Sandra Schmidt (Saxony) hails from Dresden in the Communist heartland of the GDR, but she evaded the Stasi, moved to Wellington to teach art. She is known for her assemblages of found objects, and repetition drawing and painting, the execution of which verges on obsessive-compulsive. Sandra will be showing a number of large objects constructed from many, many small objects.
Stephen Clover (Tawa) leads a double life; by day he is a quiet, shy lad working as a tea-boy for a Government department . At night his shadow looms large over the sleepy vale of Aro as he works long into the night, with only his pet chainsaw for company. Stephen will be showing wooden sculptures and ink drawings.
The show runs from the 3rd to the 11th of August, at Thistle Hall (upper Cuba Street) and is open from 12pm to 6pm daily. The opening celebration is on the 3rd of August at 6pm. Please come... it'll be fun. We've got a keg of beer and some DJs... what more couldya want, huh?

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.........

The week from hell (work) and the rapidly approaching deadlines of three exhibitions have meant no bloggin'-a-me for a wee while.  Sorry.

Can I be the first to recommend a good night's sleep?  You really do feel better after a solid 10+1/2 hours or so.  I was thinking about the various natural methods available for assisting one to get off to Nod of an evening:

> Read a few pages of a book.  Not just any book though, it'll need to be something good, so as to hold your attention.  I particularly recommend the hallucinatory prose of William Burroughs and Paul Bowles, or the complexities of Lawrence Durrell, rampantly riddled as he is with oft-arcane poly-syllabillic adjectives.

> Try talking to your ex-girlfriend for about 1/2-an-hour before you go to bed. As well as putting you to sleep, a possible therapeutic spin-off is you might get over her way fast.

> Music.  Music is good.  Music works, man [or at least, it does for me].  You're going to need something without too much explicit beat.  That means no Gatecrasher techno, Steve.  Try the works of the heroes of the 60's avant-garde minimalist school - Terry Riley, Richard Maxfield, Tony Conrad, Henry Flynt, Harold Budd, La Monte Young et. al. Otherwise more contemporary practitioners - Surface of the Earth, John Clyde-Evans, K-Group, Birchville Cat Motel, RST, Eso Steel, Signer...

> Popular wisdom holds that onanism, the science of self-pleasure, is a sure-fire method of unducing sleepiness.  I couldn't possibly comment, as they say.

Counting sheep is silly. I've never managed to achieve anything other than to end up with a pen full of sheep in my head, and worry about what I was supposed to do with them.

If you can't get a full night's sleep without help [I know I can't always] there are a number of options, of the chemical variety, to assist: 

> See your GP and blag your way to a prescription for sleeping pills.  There are a couple of good-ish ones around which aren't habit-forming and don't interrupt your R.E.M. cycle either, which means everyone wins [translation: they don't just knock you out leaving you groggy when you arise in the morn].  I'm thinking particularly of Imovene [a.k.a. Zopiclone], which I heard first about when reading Douglas Coupland's Shampoo Planet. 
 
> Tranquilizer and anti-anxiety medications - specifically, the benzodiazepine family - will help you achieve a good night's rest.  Which of these you can get your hands on legitimately may depend on how crazy you are. These are generally dangerously addictive.

> An alternative to the benzo's could be to raid your grandmother's medicine cabinet for halcyon and valium.  Take as directed, and then some.
 
> Particular products derived from Cannibus sativa can help remarkably well with sleeping - perhaps a couple of spots of some nice pungent oil - although experiences vary - as do side-effects, which can be long-lasting, and probably addictive too.

Getting really drunk isn't recommended. I appreciate that 1/2 a bottle of vodka will knock you out something wonderful, but you won't feel better for it in the morning.

Finally, one other suggestion for getting enough sleep: quit your bastard of a job. That way you can sleep to 1pm every day, ensuring plenty of rest each and every night.

In the presence of greatness: An evening with Dr. The Sneak

Last evening I was lucky enough to be present as world-renowned research scientist Dr. The Sneak conducted some ground-breaking experiments. The purpose of the research was apparently to find the effective surface tension of a dead mouse. I had the formula explained to me by Dr. The Sneak thusly:

nBite x nToss all over t

where nBite is number of times I bite the mouse, nToss is number of times I throw the mouse in the air, and t is the length of time I spend pretending the mouse is still alive.

I wasn't furnished with the raw data, but apparently when all calculated out the result of the formula turned out to be just slightly more than 1.

When I suggested to the good doctor that this number was somewhat short of being anywhere near something resembling a useful figure, Dr. The Sneak spoke several quick words in a language I could not understand, concealed the research subject somewhere in the laboratory and rather haughtily left the room via a small trapdoor which I had not previously noticed.

Five minutes later, however, it seemed I was forgiven because Dr. The Sneak returned and I was treated to a short demonstration on testing the effective surface tension of one of my dirty socks.

Long time between drinks

Today being the the 12th of July, it's been almost two months since I did anything interesting. Well that's not quite true - a couple of weeks ago I went to a pretty good party on a wet Saturday afternoon. Apart from that, though, and a weekend in the Bay of Plenty, nada. Thoughts of boredom lead me very quickly to thoughts of drinking and at the moment I'm drinking a lot of what is known in the films of Europe as schnaps.

Don't jump to conclusions; we're not talking about some sort of nasty sickly peach flavoured muck here, but rather pure grain alcohol. It's the stuff that looks like vodka. You know, some guy'll walk into a bar and order "schnaps" and it says "schnaps" in the sub-title and the barman drops a small glass onto the counter and reaches for some nondescript bottle filled with a clear liquid and sloshes a measure into the glass and the guy slams it back slams down the glass and says "danke" or "grazie" or "obrigado" or whatever and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand...

Nelson's South Pacific Distillery make a line of spirits called Roaring Forties and amongst them is their Doppelkorn Schnaps [38% a.b.v.]. It's a very pure-tasting drink and best drunk cold and straight. Unfortunately I haven't yet found a distributor so I'm nursing the last of the bottle I picked up when I was last in Nelson. No you can't have any. It's mine, preciouss...

Even more pure [possibly] is Frog-shine. Y'see about the only other interesting thing to have happened to me lately is to meet a guy, a friend-of-a-friend from Wanganui, who distills his own alcolhol. It comes in two variants - 30% a.b.v. and 55% a.b.v. - and it's very similar in quality to the Doppelkorn.

Both drinks are good drinkin' and will get you well fucked-up [see image, above] but the beautiful, wonderful thing about them is being made in a pure, traditional manner - Roaring Forties "100% cane or grain, no preservatives, chemicals or artificial flavours added" and Frog-shine "pure as fuck, man" - there's no nasty chemical aftertaste, and better still, there's no morning after. No hangover. You can drink away the evening on the stuff - I have - and get up in the morning with just a slighty funny taste in your mouth [and how unusual is that?]. You can even pick up again at 9 a.m. or whenever you get up - again, I have - and carry on with no adverse effects.

They're also real cheap.

Nostalgia

Monday July 5 2:15 pm: I am overcome with a very strong urge to shop for second-hand records in New Plymouth.