Me thinks that Jeff spent too long in York. Not only is he becoming a major player in the international hospitality market, now he moves into confectionary! That reminds me a one of my favourite jokes by Arthur Smith. "I entered a Marathon the other day. Got chocolate and peanuts all over my n*b!" Not the same since the Yanks made us call it Snickers.

The view of North Harbour taken on our way back from Oop North.

Fishing for eels. No hook or pork luncheon meat in sight. Mr Golfclub!.

Either the Mad Kiwi thought I really would throw her in the river, or she misinterpreted the term "bench press".

The river at the bottom of the garden at the holiday home. Not even the main home. The holiday home. I need a well paying job!

The grassy hill leading down to the river at the bottom of the garden!

25th October 2006.

Take a deep breath. This could take a while.

It has been awhile since I last wrote something down on here once again. Now that I have settled down and decided to stop zooming and whizzing all over the place, (as in travelling around and not urinating randomly, as with the US usage), I have been laid back and done mundane mooching. Mooching to the shops, mooching around the shops, mooching into the shops etc. My camera has been mostly neglected but I did fetch it out for the long weekend. It was Labour Day, whatever that is. I suppose I should have checked exactly what Labour Day was all about but I didn’t. I was too busy mooching to, around and into shops. Not that I am the Worlds greatest shopper you understand, it’s just that those were the highlights of a quite ordinary time. As for Labour Day, I don’t think it refers to the Labour Party that I know from the UK. If it did then it would simply involve telling lies and bungs from prominent business people, along with invading Middle Eastern countries because your loud mouthed and disturbingly close eyed mate told you that they were going to do it.

Speaking of which, The Government in New Zealand is the Labour Party and has just admitted to illegally taking public funds for promotional reasons in the run up to the last election. This is a serious issue and has caused some hilarious shouting matches in the Parliament, with politicians using language that would normally make a darts player blush. In the UK this would be a fundamental hole in the legitimacy of the Government and there would be huge public and media outcry. Here, nothing. Well next to nothing or I wouldn’t know anything about it so there must have been a little bit. But nothing like the furore that would ensue in UK. (For those reading this aloud, as they struggle with long paragraphs of text (Scott, John, Marley, Fenners and Greg), can you add a comment at the bottom telling us all how you pronounced furore. You can do it phonetically. That means how it sounds). But everything is OK now as Helen Clark and her wise, wise Government has solved the problem. They created a retrospective law that makes any actions regarding previous laws pertaining to illegal use of funds for campaigning, legal. Or to put it another way, they made a law that makes any law they might have broken, defunct. How great is that? So when my Mum and Dad gave me a severe and nasty telling off for aiding and abetting a mate with the shoplifting of a tin of pork luncheon meat from Ram Jams(I cannot name names here as that wouldn’t be fair. I know that Greg will appreciate the anonymity), I could have simply made a family law that any action involving pork based products to be outside of the parental jurisdiction. Sorted! Talk about covering your own back! Helen Clarks’ next piece of legislation is to make it illegal to not have a stupid bike helmet haircut if you are the Prime Minister. No one else could match her off beat and off target haircut. Except Jimmy Jarvis if he was still in business. Which I think would be difficult as I believe him to be very much dead. (Note to self: Check facts.)

What I actually did do on the Labour Day long weekend was zoom up North to a place called Dargaville. It is only with hindsight and multimap.com that I know it to be called Dargaville and not Dagobar as I first misheard. For a full three days since my invite I was getting extremely excited about mixing with the likes of Han Solo, Chewbacca and Guido (Bloody hell Dan! Check spelling again. In fact, no! I won’t check the spelling because this is my blog and therefore I make the rules. That’s the kind of no-nonsense blogger I am! If you don’t like it then move along to “Doris’s page of kittens” or “Diary of a teenage rebel dog kicker” or whatever other blogs are on this site. But I know you won’t do that. You are hooked on the fantastically “rock and roll” lifestyle of the International Man of Apathy. There is no escape for you now. You are in my power. Right.). Alas, Han was out doing some “on the edge of the intergalactic law” smuggling, Chewy was accompanying him and Guido was busy with the allotment. Well Chewy made an audible appearance, but more about that later. If I remember. For those who are lost by these names and references, please disregard this last paragraph. In fact it is best that you don’t bother to read it at all and go straight to the part that begins “Dargaville is a …….”. But I suppose that advice is too late on the grand scale of things as you must have already read it to have got to this intended pre-emptive warning. Perhaps you should employ a proof reader to prevent unnecessary wasted time reading. Up to you really.

Dargaville is a (welcome back non Star Wars fans) small town with not a great deal going on, but it wasn’t actually where I stayed. Ok, so that could be construed as misleading you if you were excited about the thought that I went to Dargaville to stay, but I hereby pass a law that states that I am at all liberty and freedom to change my story as and when I please (thank you Helen Clark). I stayed in a place just outside Dargaville (and come to think of it, I did actually enter the town of Dargaville so technically I am correct. Law repealed until further notice), called something other than Dargaville. I know I should remember the name of it and that it might seem as though I am disrespecting my hosts in not remembering the location, but I am saving them from marauding fans who want to pay homage to the place where I once stayed. Perhaps Dargaville should erect a sign that states that I did pass through but didn’t actually spend more than a few minutes. You know, in the way that Glasgow Prestwick Airport gloats about how Elvis landed there, although he never got off the plane. Well Dargaville has one up on Prestwick Airport as I DID step out of the car to smoke a crafty cigarette while in front of a builders merchants. I won’t name the builders merchants as he has a livelihood to keep up and too many Dan Fans would detract from his passing trade as they would just go to the local B&Q to avoid the queues. (I believe that the nearest thing to a B&Q in New Zealand is called Mitre10 but I am not about to split hairs over DIY shops).

So, I stayed in the holiday home of Cathy and Neil, who work for a radio company in Auckland and graciously allowed me to stay for the night in their home away from home, along with the Golfing Haka Kiwi Mad Woman and a couple called Craig and Jo. All were totally mental and great fun. The house itself is fantastic, despite being under renovation. For those from England, renovation is commonly referred to as “being done up”. A “doer upper” so to speak. Can you believe that Microsoft Word has no problem with “doer upper” on the spell check, but highlights Labour as mispelt? Damn those pesky Yanks (see previous posts). Perhaps it is because I wrote doer upper in speech marks. Nope, still OK. Oh Lordy…. Now it is highlighting mispelt! Have I mispelt, mispelt? Is there no such word? Damn you Collins Little Gem, you never prepared me for this turmoil! Anyway, the house has loads of land with it (2 acres I believe) and includes a river! Not a stream but a bone fide river! That you can (apparently) swim in! I chose not to and instead concentrated on ensuring that the mettle of British stone skimming was not left questioned. Although I did achieve the most bounces, these sneaky Kiwis insisted that the winner was the one who managed to get their stone to lodge itself in the opposite bank. I am not sure about this rule and must endeavour to check for Marquis of Queensbury type rules governing such sports. But, maintaining the British stiff upper lip, I graciously congratulated the “victor” and said no more about it. But I do believe he was the recipient of the prawn that I “accidentally” dropped on the floor at the subsequent barbeque. That’ll learn him. If there is any goalpost moving to be done, it shall be done by Helen Clark or myself!

The river held further delights in the form of eels. Not a typo, I mean the long and slim fish that annually goes on holiday to the Sargasso Sea to mate. Sort of an Ibiza for fish. Or a Chesterfield on a Friday night in Zanzibar. Not that would know about that. But I know people that know. Bit of a long way to go for sex if you ask me. The Sargasso Sea, not Chesterfield. Unless you live in New Zealand. Which I suppose I do. So there is no way I am going to Zanzibar in Chesterfield for sex. Rest assured Mum. I will get back to you on the Sargasso Sea. I will check out what the talent is like. I know about Chesterfield already. Oddly shaped creatures in mini skirts that look like they selected gaffer tape instead of skirts. The same kind that I have mentioned before in a section about dancing to RnB music. You know the sort. They gyrate in an (apparently) sexy way that is the J Lo wiggle etc and think it is the “in and new” thing. Don’t talk rubbish. People have been doing moves like that for years in the UK. Many examples can be seen on any recreation field where dogs are allowed (or even not allowed) to foul, following a misplaced Brogue or sling back. At least I hope it was the dogs. After all, recreation fields are the haunts of underage drinkers and who knows what they get up to if caught short. I wouldn’t know about that either, as I didn’t taste alkyhol until I was 28. See? If I had been drinking alcohol in my formative years I would have read the label and known how to spell it. Fact!

Any way, the eels were enormous! At least one and half metres long! Cathy used her guile (a relative of Guido if my memory serves me correctly) to catch a smaller eel before the giants of the deep emerged. Well her guile and fishing rod. But after having trouble releasing the hook from the said creature a committee decision was made and hooks were dispensed with. The preferred method being a running bowline knot to lasso the bait (small chunk of steak) to the line. The eels still took the bait and could be pulled in close enough to the shore for close inspection and wonderment, which was the intention of all of the accumulated anglers. I have a picture of one eel but I don’t think it is clear on the photo and there is nothing to gauge size on it. But they were huge. I also believe one to be named George, but this is unconfirmed as questioning the eel proved tricky. He was a slippery character you see.

Daylight fading fast, and the drinking and frivolity continued indoors over a few drinking games involving curtain hooks and cards, and also around the barbeque (and muddy prawn filled puddles. Winner is the one that gets the skimming stone to stick into the opposite bank, my arse). Jo became overcome with emotion (Pissed) and retired to bed. Her ever loving and considerate partner, Craig, informed us that while sleeping she often made a noise like Chewbacca from Star Wars (you thought I had forgotten, didn’t you?). This news prompted me to unleash my award winning Chewbacca impression on the gathered throng. Can you believe that Chewbacca is in the Microsoft Word dictionary? They are taking the Michael now. It is true that I am famed the World over for my totally accurate and MP3 like rendition of the hairy carpet (not the hairy cornflake so worry not DLT).

Having drunk more than my fair share of beers, I retired to my bunk bed for a night of interrupted sleep caused by cold metal bars and flies, respectively. Well it was just one fly and only for a short period in the morning but you get the drift. And, just for the record, the fly wasn’t wielding a metal bar. That was just an uncomfortable appendage of the aforementioned bunk beds. I found in the morning that the mattress was unseated from its optimum comfort supplying position. Always check your mattress. Strange when you actually look at the word mattress…just looks wrong. Like if you say the word umbrella over and over, it ceases to be a viable word. After a breakfast of, what was described as bubble and squeak but wasn’t and was tasty none the less, I, single handedly, repaired a flat tyre on a 4x4. Even though the vehicle was situated on soft ground I managed to pick up the rear offside of the all terrain vehicle and, using one hand, I undid all of the nuts and changed it for the spare. Undid. There’s another word that just looks wrong. For the record, the ground was soft and the jacks didn’t allow me to raise the vehicle enough to change the wheel but my (OK and Neil’s) construction of wooden battens and breeze blocks was ingenious enough to get the job done. I might apply for a job with hire a hubby here in New Zealand. It is a company that gets fellahs to whip round to peoples houses to do the jobs that the lazy husbands should have done. I am not sure how far the responsibilities go, but I am a man for all seasons. Except electricity stuff. Electrickery always phases me. 3 phases me, if I am honest. An electrician joke for you there. If you don’t understand, then phone dial a hubby and he will explain it to you. I can’t. Makes no sense to me. I once got electrocuted while working at Capital Refractories but only by AC/DC so I snatched myself away from the unsafe plug. It is hard to remain looking cool when you are being electrocuted. But I managed it. The rest of the guys there knew nothing about it. I was that cool. However when I had a wee in a stream on the way home, there were 156 sticklebacks left floating and cursing the fish gods.

On the way home from Up North, we stopped at a thermal water park. I was expecting a simple volcanic hole in the World but it was a complete water park. Water slides and varying temperature pools were in abundance, along with 73 difference flavours of child urine. It was great and the Smoothies made from various powders afterwards were fantastically surprising. I tend to use a fair degree of superlatives, don’t I? I think that is tremendous.

Ok now, I am on page four and I didn’t think that I had that much to write. I will skip loads and get on with today’s news. I went to Mangere today to film an extra role in Shortland Street, the Kiwi soap opera. I was a doctor at a medical conference and had no lines. All I had to do was walk with a girl called Louise and occasionally look as if I was talking. This was fun but I was whispering nonsense to all the other extras while they were filming and seeing if I could make them corpse (laugh). I succeeded on most occasions. My favourite line doesn’t translate that well but had one bloke doubled up. While he was “showing” me a file, I informed him that I was 31 years old, but I had “never learned to read”. He had no idea what to do and just lost control. I don’t think that I will be invited back onto Shortland Street after that and other “high jinx”. Although the director loved my work and offered me a regular lucrative role, but I turned it down as I don’t want to be known as a soap opera actor and typecast thereafter. Look at Ross Kemp. He plays mean and moody and that’s it now. I am so versatile that I think I could carry off dead and mortally wounded without batting an eyelid. So keep an eye out for Shortland Street and you might just see me on there. In fact, depending on which take they use, you might see me give a cheeky pat on the bottom of my colleague. I warned her that if the shot went to 4 takes, I would be patting her, so she was forewarned. Nice work if you can get it. The main actors, apart from me, were dead arrogant. They wouldn’t even look at the extras and I found it a bit too irritating. I forced one to say hello. Another, I managed to convince, had something stuck on her ear y staring at it until she had to check personally. That is a technique I perfected on Mrs. Chaplain (the home economics teacher at Clowne School) during an exam. John knows about that if you don’t believe me. I also managed to make her, Mrs. Chaplain, yawn in the same exam by pretending to yawn myself and knowing that she was watching me. Unfortunately I will try and slip an element of shame in at the bottom. I was lost in Mangere (pronounced Mang-ger-ree) as the stupid bus driver dropped me off in Mangere Bridge. I happened upon, sorry Fenners, a fire station. I asked them for directions and the thoroughly nice people dropped me off at the shoot on the fire engine. The driver has even offered to take me to Lake Taupo as he often goes that way with his fiddle job. Top people but I apologise for yet more fire service dealings. Right….. I am tired and going to bed. I dare say that I will write more tomorrow. I am on a role. I am reading Rik Mayall's book, “Bigger than Hitler, Better than Christ”. I find myself being distracted and talking nonsense in the same way that he is writing it. Sorry about that. Please forward any complaints to;-

The Rik Mayall.
London.


Speak soon and keep well.


And remember, don’t have nightmares.


Dan


Bowel check = Gazpacho. Is that how you spell it? That cold soup anyway.

Quick update......what did my intelligent and eloquent father say about my appearance on Shortland Street?

"So there are shithouses, on a short road to Shortland Street?

Nice eh? D H Lawerence watch out for this intellectual titan is looking for something to do with his time!