Thursday, July 31, 2008
Bro, Bring back the 80's
What on earth were we thinking?
Shoulder pads, leg warmers and big hair for women.
And for guys, fringes about 7 kilometres long, ultra narrow trouser cuffs and that bendy-knee-clicking-fingers style of dance thing.
Oh dear.
These things are nice to look back on though.
The 80’s makes an interesting memories and headlines list (in no particular order) these following images just come wanging into my mind without thinking, at this moment in time (11.05pm on 31/07/08, pissed, at the office).
All Black Gary Knight felled by a flour bomb dropped from a small plane,
John Lennon shot by his biggest fan (RIP), FM stereo radio stations arrive,
Cellphones the size of a shoe box, Free Nelson Mandela,
Dallas, Dynasty, Charlie’s Angels, Taxi, McPhail & Gadsby,
Rubik’s cube puzzle completed by whizz kid in just over 59 minutes (honestly, it seemed amazing at the time).
ET phoned home, Political correctness was invented,
The Cold War ends – again,
Michael Jackson looked like an African American,
The Challenger Disaster, Chernobyl, Mir, The Berlin Wall,
A youth and a tank on Tiananmen Square, Barry Crump’s HiLux ads,
Everything was pink and grey; everything, Deep fried camembert, Moet et Chandon for $21 at Clares, Fax machines seemed high tech and the TCP/IP protocol was something to do with a thing called the world-wide-web which would never come to much.
Rob Muldoon asked us to Think Big (NZ very nearly went broke cause of this),
Footrot Flats went to the movies with A Dog’s Tale
Radio with Pictures was the Sunday night must-see,
Bull market, The Black Monday crash, Bear market.
In clubs all over new Zealand - and on radio, everything changed in the 80’s.
After Johnny Rotten et al two-finger ‘saluted’ the West Coast Mellow Rock sound - and Disco - in the late 70’s, the new wave arrived with the new decade. It was a blessing; fuck, I so hated the Eagles and KC and The sunshine Band. Hated big. The Dead Boys' 'I need Lunch' is, for me, the greatest punk song ever. It killed the eagles. It killed that awful sound dead.
The New wave, at the time, it was good; refreshing. Doot Doot. With the Toot Toot. Purrrrfect.
It was bad sometimes, but looking back you don't remember the bad. So mostly, it was good.
Ultravox. Ohhhh Vienna. For me, that is the soundtrack. Ultimately, that was the one. It made me do the bendy knee, finger clicking thing and it made me swish the seven kilometer fringe; dark, angular, hanging and allways in the way. always. All ways.
Oh, Vienna.
Once was new. Once was romantic.
Once were.
Time. It goes by. Crikey, I feel a song coming on, something new, something romantic.
You see, it all cycles. It all. In cycles.
The difference between a 2000’s Emo and an 80’s New Romantic, is fuck all.
Bill Hayley – Jimi even – it’s all new, several times over.
It’s just that most of us are too consumed with bullshit to realise it.
Shoulder pads, leg warmers and big hair for women.
And for guys, fringes about 7 kilometres long, ultra narrow trouser cuffs and that bendy-knee-clicking-fingers style of dance thing.
Oh dear.
These things are nice to look back on though.
The 80’s makes an interesting memories and headlines list (in no particular order) these following images just come wanging into my mind without thinking, at this moment in time (11.05pm on 31/07/08, pissed, at the office).
All Black Gary Knight felled by a flour bomb dropped from a small plane,
John Lennon shot by his biggest fan (RIP), FM stereo radio stations arrive,
Cellphones the size of a shoe box, Free Nelson Mandela,
Dallas, Dynasty, Charlie’s Angels, Taxi, McPhail & Gadsby,
Rubik’s cube puzzle completed by whizz kid in just over 59 minutes (honestly, it seemed amazing at the time).
ET phoned home, Political correctness was invented,
The Cold War ends – again,
Michael Jackson looked like an African American,
The Challenger Disaster, Chernobyl, Mir, The Berlin Wall,
A youth and a tank on Tiananmen Square, Barry Crump’s HiLux ads,
Everything was pink and grey; everything, Deep fried camembert, Moet et Chandon for $21 at Clares, Fax machines seemed high tech and the TCP/IP protocol was something to do with a thing called the world-wide-web which would never come to much.
Rob Muldoon asked us to Think Big (NZ very nearly went broke cause of this),
Footrot Flats went to the movies with A Dog’s Tale
Radio with Pictures was the Sunday night must-see,
Bull market, The Black Monday crash, Bear market.
In clubs all over new Zealand - and on radio, everything changed in the 80’s.
After Johnny Rotten et al two-finger ‘saluted’ the West Coast Mellow Rock sound - and Disco - in the late 70’s, the new wave arrived with the new decade. It was a blessing; fuck, I so hated the Eagles and KC and The sunshine Band. Hated big. The Dead Boys' 'I need Lunch' is, for me, the greatest punk song ever. It killed the eagles. It killed that awful sound dead.
The New wave, at the time, it was good; refreshing. Doot Doot. With the Toot Toot. Purrrrfect.
It was bad sometimes, but looking back you don't remember the bad. So mostly, it was good.
Ultravox. Ohhhh Vienna. For me, that is the soundtrack. Ultimately, that was the one. It made me do the bendy knee, finger clicking thing and it made me swish the seven kilometer fringe; dark, angular, hanging and allways in the way. always. All ways.
Oh, Vienna.
Once was new. Once was romantic.
Once were.
Time. It goes by. Crikey, I feel a song coming on, something new, something romantic.
You see, it all cycles. It all. In cycles.
The difference between a 2000’s Emo and an 80’s New Romantic, is fuck all.
Bill Hayley – Jimi even – it’s all new, several times over.
It’s just that most of us are too consumed with bullshit to realise it.
Labels: 80's
Monday, July 21, 2008
Fear and loathing at 30,000 feet
7.30am on a Monday:
In about 90 minutes I have to get on a plane and fly to Auckland. Again. Already I am trepid; stricken by my irrational fear of flying.
I was fine with flying. Once.
Until the incident – a wind shear thing (people call it air pockets I think) back in ‘87. We’d just had the sharemarket crash, and this looked like it’d be the next big crash for the year. I was most definitely about to die. On descent into Christchurch from Brisbane in a Jumbo, we dropped straight out of the sky. Not smoothly either, very quickly and very rough. We fell about 1,500 feet in seconds, and it was like being a washing machine on spin cycle when the weight is unbalanced; you know, when it starts wobbling like a drunken Dalek around the laundry. Exterminate, exterminate.
Fuck it was violent. And when we finally ‘crashed’ at the bottom of the shear, the impact was such that there was, in my mind, no way the plane could possibly hold together. That feeling when you know, for sure, you are about to die, is quite confronting.
The screaming and mayhem in the plane is indescribable. Anyone not belted up hit the roof. Lots of broken bones (collar bones got the worst of it for some reason, with people at the rear) and blood too, it was a bit of a dracufest.
And I will never forget the sight of the flight attendant next to me, horizontal, hanging off the duty free trolley a good meter or so off the floor.
The funny moment: The 12 year old kid next to me woke up after we bottomed out, wiped his eyes, looked up at me and said “What’s the time.”
I just wanted to throttle him and scream: “KID, FOR FUCKS SAKE, WE’RE ALL ABOUT TO DIE AND YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE FUCKING TIME IS!!! SHEESH, IT’S THE END OF TIME IS WHJAT THE FUCKIN’ TIME IS!!!” His parents looked at me with a kind of ‘shit, we have to die with this asshole’ sort of expression on their faces.
Anyway, we landed. Ambulances (or is it Ambuli?) took the wounded and the airline took anyone who wanted a debrief into a huge room where they explained wind shear, and that this particularly violent example was a chance in a million, and that the plane was never in danger and that wings on a Jumbo can bend around 12 meters and that everything was tickety boo…blah blah blah.
However, I simply could not get on the connector back to Wellington and, that was that - for flying - for me, for a long time.
Air NZ, bless their cotton socks, shouted me some sessions with a fear of flying shrink but while all the rational info made sense, my fear was, is, irrational.
And it was, is, a hassle.
For years, I used to drive 600 k’s to Auckland for meetings. True. It added so much time to work projects it really was a pain, but people understood and gave me that freedom.
To make the solo road trips more interesting I bought a V8 coupe, but that created more problems; man, did I ever get landed with some speeding fines. Thousands of dollars over the years.
But the biggest cost of the phobia was losing international travel for a few years. The one that mattered most was the annual good ol’ boys’ surfing trip to Indonesia.
After a while, a few years, I decided, fuck this, I’m not gonna be beaten. I needed something I could turn to, to get over this. I thought, what have I turned to in the past?
Hmmmm… God?
Nah, fuck it, Drugs.
It was a veritable epiphany. I said Yes (YES!!!!) to drugs and discovered Diazepam.
Problem solved. 40mg’s (used to be 10 but resistance has developed) mixed with a couple of shots. No problem baby, bring on that turbulence, I’m cool. And, the beauty is, I arrive at Auckland client meetings (as I will this morning) nicely stoned; very mellow the D-buzz, and the clients accept it – they understand why, so its all ok.
I don’t use Diazepam recreationally, only for flying. But, it really is quite nice. I get very chatty on it and tend to make new friends with whoever is sitting next to me.
And the flight feels like 15 minutes, not 15 hours.
It also makes you lose your inhibitions a bit, which can be an issue. Mix too much alcohol with the D and you can land up way too out of it and doing stuff that falls into the not-a-good-look’ department.
Setting off the smoke alarm in the little room on a plane is not a good look, they get pretty shitty about that one.
Another time, when I was in the flash section up front, a flight attendant was trying to sort something out on an overhead locker door and she had stood up on the ‘lounge’ seat opposite mine. I was off my tits, looking the other way, gassing to some poor fuck next to me and being very gesticulative. I swung my left arm out, and unfortunately – albeit completely by accident - my arm went between her knees just at the moment she jumped down, which in turn meant my hand ended up right on her pinky bits.
Fuck! This is not good.
And despite my garbled attempt at a multiple, simultaneous explanation/apology, and her not understanding it was an accident, man, did she ever spin out (understandable) and, well, short story, fecal matter hit the fan. It was a very big fan and there was a lot of matter.
An hour later I walk, well, stumble really as you would expect from a drunk on the D, off the plane with lots of people glaring at me and men overtly sheltering their wives and children from me. I was escorted by the first officer and another cockpit dude – and as my wife walks towards me in the concourse to the luggage pick up thingy, to welcome me home, I’m immediately grabbed by a Detective and a cop in uniform and whisked away to an interview room.
I gave my wife a sort of ‘Diazepamed out, it’ll be ok, there has been a misunderstanding, is all’ look. She gave me another sort of look, I got the old raised eyebrow, which is something to be feared in my house.
It took nearly two hours to make the cops understand. They actually called my Doctor, who saved me actually. (Thanks Dennis).
I had to apologise to the attendant, and promise never to take Diazepam and alcohol on a flight again. No charges, no further actions. Whew!
But of course I do still take the D.
It’s the only way I can fly.
40mgs will go down the hatch as I walk through security in about an hour from now and it’ll kick in just before take off. Then I’ll talk the ears off the poor soul next to me. And suddenly, we’ll land. No problem.
So really, drugs are good, as long as you abuse them, don’t use them – if you get my drift?
If our paths ever pass on the same flight, you’ll know me.
I’ll be the very mellow old dude who talks a lot. Hopefully I won’t make a lunge for your vagina. Or penis.
In about 90 minutes I have to get on a plane and fly to Auckland. Again. Already I am trepid; stricken by my irrational fear of flying.
I was fine with flying. Once.
Until the incident – a wind shear thing (people call it air pockets I think) back in ‘87. We’d just had the sharemarket crash, and this looked like it’d be the next big crash for the year. I was most definitely about to die. On descent into Christchurch from Brisbane in a Jumbo, we dropped straight out of the sky. Not smoothly either, very quickly and very rough. We fell about 1,500 feet in seconds, and it was like being a washing machine on spin cycle when the weight is unbalanced; you know, when it starts wobbling like a drunken Dalek around the laundry. Exterminate, exterminate.
Fuck it was violent. And when we finally ‘crashed’ at the bottom of the shear, the impact was such that there was, in my mind, no way the plane could possibly hold together. That feeling when you know, for sure, you are about to die, is quite confronting.
The screaming and mayhem in the plane is indescribable. Anyone not belted up hit the roof. Lots of broken bones (collar bones got the worst of it for some reason, with people at the rear) and blood too, it was a bit of a dracufest.
And I will never forget the sight of the flight attendant next to me, horizontal, hanging off the duty free trolley a good meter or so off the floor.
The funny moment: The 12 year old kid next to me woke up after we bottomed out, wiped his eyes, looked up at me and said “What’s the time.”
I just wanted to throttle him and scream: “KID, FOR FUCKS SAKE, WE’RE ALL ABOUT TO DIE AND YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE FUCKING TIME IS!!! SHEESH, IT’S THE END OF TIME IS WHJAT THE FUCKIN’ TIME IS!!!” His parents looked at me with a kind of ‘shit, we have to die with this asshole’ sort of expression on their faces.
Anyway, we landed. Ambulances (or is it Ambuli?) took the wounded and the airline took anyone who wanted a debrief into a huge room where they explained wind shear, and that this particularly violent example was a chance in a million, and that the plane was never in danger and that wings on a Jumbo can bend around 12 meters and that everything was tickety boo…blah blah blah.
However, I simply could not get on the connector back to Wellington and, that was that - for flying - for me, for a long time.
Air NZ, bless their cotton socks, shouted me some sessions with a fear of flying shrink but while all the rational info made sense, my fear was, is, irrational.
And it was, is, a hassle.
For years, I used to drive 600 k’s to Auckland for meetings. True. It added so much time to work projects it really was a pain, but people understood and gave me that freedom.
To make the solo road trips more interesting I bought a V8 coupe, but that created more problems; man, did I ever get landed with some speeding fines. Thousands of dollars over the years.
But the biggest cost of the phobia was losing international travel for a few years. The one that mattered most was the annual good ol’ boys’ surfing trip to Indonesia.
After a while, a few years, I decided, fuck this, I’m not gonna be beaten. I needed something I could turn to, to get over this. I thought, what have I turned to in the past?
Hmmmm… God?
Nah, fuck it, Drugs.
It was a veritable epiphany. I said Yes (YES!!!!) to drugs and discovered Diazepam.
Problem solved. 40mg’s (used to be 10 but resistance has developed) mixed with a couple of shots. No problem baby, bring on that turbulence, I’m cool. And, the beauty is, I arrive at Auckland client meetings (as I will this morning) nicely stoned; very mellow the D-buzz, and the clients accept it – they understand why, so its all ok.
I don’t use Diazepam recreationally, only for flying. But, it really is quite nice. I get very chatty on it and tend to make new friends with whoever is sitting next to me.
And the flight feels like 15 minutes, not 15 hours.
It also makes you lose your inhibitions a bit, which can be an issue. Mix too much alcohol with the D and you can land up way too out of it and doing stuff that falls into the not-a-good-look’ department.
Setting off the smoke alarm in the little room on a plane is not a good look, they get pretty shitty about that one.
Another time, when I was in the flash section up front, a flight attendant was trying to sort something out on an overhead locker door and she had stood up on the ‘lounge’ seat opposite mine. I was off my tits, looking the other way, gassing to some poor fuck next to me and being very gesticulative. I swung my left arm out, and unfortunately – albeit completely by accident - my arm went between her knees just at the moment she jumped down, which in turn meant my hand ended up right on her pinky bits.
Fuck! This is not good.
And despite my garbled attempt at a multiple, simultaneous explanation/apology, and her not understanding it was an accident, man, did she ever spin out (understandable) and, well, short story, fecal matter hit the fan. It was a very big fan and there was a lot of matter.
An hour later I walk, well, stumble really as you would expect from a drunk on the D, off the plane with lots of people glaring at me and men overtly sheltering their wives and children from me. I was escorted by the first officer and another cockpit dude – and as my wife walks towards me in the concourse to the luggage pick up thingy, to welcome me home, I’m immediately grabbed by a Detective and a cop in uniform and whisked away to an interview room.
I gave my wife a sort of ‘Diazepamed out, it’ll be ok, there has been a misunderstanding, is all’ look. She gave me another sort of look, I got the old raised eyebrow, which is something to be feared in my house.
It took nearly two hours to make the cops understand. They actually called my Doctor, who saved me actually. (Thanks Dennis).
I had to apologise to the attendant, and promise never to take Diazepam and alcohol on a flight again. No charges, no further actions. Whew!
But of course I do still take the D.
It’s the only way I can fly.
40mgs will go down the hatch as I walk through security in about an hour from now and it’ll kick in just before take off. Then I’ll talk the ears off the poor soul next to me. And suddenly, we’ll land. No problem.
So really, drugs are good, as long as you abuse them, don’t use them – if you get my drift?
If our paths ever pass on the same flight, you’ll know me.
I’ll be the very mellow old dude who talks a lot. Hopefully I won’t make a lunge for your vagina. Or penis.
Labels: fear of flying
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Ahhhh... Sheep!
Dealing with Japanese business people is very different than dealing with, say, MBA grads. The former like to weave a wiggly path to the core of the issue in hand; the kaupapa. It takes hours. And it is very polite. In a way, you kinda feed them bits of your ideas and then they, eventually, ‘have’ those ideas thus earning mana.
The MBA’s however, give you 10 minutes to cut to the chase- the core- and then say yes or no. Very efficient. Not a lot of politeness. This is the way of things.
Now, I’ll come back to this. I was cabbing into work today waiting for the Tramadol to kick in listening to some oik on the radio banging on about how Wellington should promote itself on its ‘glorious natural coastline’ not the cafés and culture platform.
Say what!! Our glorious coastline.?
Err.. can someone show me this please. The only near-glorious bit is a man-made breakwater extension that created an airport but also a reasonable, peeling, peaky left hander that goes off in a decent swell with an offshore northerly. But, it only works about 30 days a year and gets so crowded you’re pretty much guaranteed to land up in a beach fight with a bunch of grommets who resent the fact that you dare to surf still when you're more than 4 weeks old.
Nah, not the coast - the key is Wellngton is the fact that it is small. Very small.
Small is good – except for Mr Chubby downstairs on a cold day and the fact that everyone in town knows who you fucked last night and what you banged up your nose on Saturday. Yep, apart from that, small is a positive thing.
For Wellington, small means an easy escape.
In fact, from downtown you can travel from the the Courtenay clubs, cafes and culture community into the heart of the country inside 20 minutes. A quick drive and you’re clanging over cattle stops and stopping for massive flocks of sheep on gravel roads.
Now, sheep ain’t that important to us, except for our export industry and those who choose ‘em as their girlfriends of choice. But the Japanese love sheep. We had a delegation out for a week – from a car company – and I had to entertain two Japanese Businessmen for a day – take ‘em for a tour of the sights and then home for a true blue Kiwi feed; some good tucker off the Weber.
They didn’t say much as I took them to all the usual touristy sights and and stuff. They pretty much grunted like sloths on valium until they spotted a rugby ball in the back of my SUV and asked if I was once an All Black.
(What a segue, huh?)
“Yep, could’ve been but I wanted to avoid the media attention so I opted out mate, did madvertising instead”.
And then I drove them to Makara. Home of Sheep, 20 minutes away from the Mount Victoria Lookout.. Suddenly the Japanese Businessmen became very vocal, very animated, very excited.
They pointed a lot, shouting…”Ahhhhh … Sheeep!”
At last, they were happy.
“Ahhhh..,Sheep!” (More poimting)
Over and over. And, over.
"Ahhhh..., Sheep!"
Actually, moving back a para or two, the All Black thing was quite funny really; I’m suddenly teminded of the time I was playing beach soccer with a bunch of locals at a place called Telok Chempadak and one of them spotted my tattoos and asked the same question – “Was I an All, Black?”.
And I said, “yeah, right.”
Which they took to mean ‘Yeah. Right’.
Suddenly I am festooned with Malay boys wanting autographs and yelling and screaming – and, err.. touching me a lot… and nothing I said could convince them that I was joking and was not an All Black. Over the next few days I scored heaps of free drinks and some fantastic sex from two very hot, bi-curious German chicks at the hotel as the legend grew. And grew. man, I was an All Black!
But, I digress, back to to the point.
Sheep matter to our most valuable tourist market. So we should work that baby.
Can you see the campaign - billboards from Tokyo to Osaka: “Wellington. 20 minutes from sheep’.
Man, how cool is that? That’ll go down in the annals for sure. Or, for people who live in Iowa, the anals.
Anyway, the Japanese are different and we need to recognise this. '20 Minutes From Sheep' could be the greatest ad slogan of all time!
Anyway, after my day with the delegates, they wrote to me about every two weeks. Quaint eh? letters, not email. Their letters always ended with the same line – and, this is weird: “.. and Mr David, you must come over to Tokyo soon. I hope your good wife is very well. When you come to Tokyo we will meet you with some nice girls…”
Say what, immediately after asking after the wife, they wanna get me laid by some locals!!!!
And then the PS would always ask after the sheep. The fucking sheep. What is it about sheep and japanese business people ffs!!!?? I still don't fully get it.
It’s not a sexual thing, but man, there sure is an attraction.
Aussies of course have a thing about Kiwis and Sheep, but that’s a little different.
I remember about a year ago my accent (eccent) being sprung in a Sydney restaurant by a bunch of drunken Ozzies at the next table.
One of them sneered at me and said – ‘Gahhh.. ya bloddy sheep shagger..”
So I got up, walked over and put my hand, gently, on his shoulder. The table went very quiet.
“Yes, my friend, I am a sheep shagger – and proud of it. Now, here’s something you may not know about us – but when every New Zealand boy turns 15, the Government gives him a sheep. And mayyyyttte, we shag ‘em, all that teenage testosterone, man we shag ‘em day and night, for months.
(pause for effect).
Then we export them.
(pause for effect)
To Australia.
So, I hope you are enjoying that grilled chop right now. Nice innit?
Say, dude, ain't that some mayonnaise dripping out of your mouth, here, use my napkin.
Cheers.”
I copped a black eye and a loose tooth. But, you shouldda seen the other guy.
The MBA’s however, give you 10 minutes to cut to the chase- the core- and then say yes or no. Very efficient. Not a lot of politeness. This is the way of things.
Now, I’ll come back to this. I was cabbing into work today waiting for the Tramadol to kick in listening to some oik on the radio banging on about how Wellington should promote itself on its ‘glorious natural coastline’ not the cafés and culture platform.
Say what!! Our glorious coastline.?
Err.. can someone show me this please. The only near-glorious bit is a man-made breakwater extension that created an airport but also a reasonable, peeling, peaky left hander that goes off in a decent swell with an offshore northerly. But, it only works about 30 days a year and gets so crowded you’re pretty much guaranteed to land up in a beach fight with a bunch of grommets who resent the fact that you dare to surf still when you're more than 4 weeks old.
Nah, not the coast - the key is Wellngton is the fact that it is small. Very small.
Small is good – except for Mr Chubby downstairs on a cold day and the fact that everyone in town knows who you fucked last night and what you banged up your nose on Saturday. Yep, apart from that, small is a positive thing.
For Wellington, small means an easy escape.
In fact, from downtown you can travel from the the Courtenay clubs, cafes and culture community into the heart of the country inside 20 minutes. A quick drive and you’re clanging over cattle stops and stopping for massive flocks of sheep on gravel roads.
Now, sheep ain’t that important to us, except for our export industry and those who choose ‘em as their girlfriends of choice. But the Japanese love sheep. We had a delegation out for a week – from a car company – and I had to entertain two Japanese Businessmen for a day – take ‘em for a tour of the sights and then home for a true blue Kiwi feed; some good tucker off the Weber.
They didn’t say much as I took them to all the usual touristy sights and and stuff. They pretty much grunted like sloths on valium until they spotted a rugby ball in the back of my SUV and asked if I was once an All Black.
(What a segue, huh?)
“Yep, could’ve been but I wanted to avoid the media attention so I opted out mate, did madvertising instead”.
And then I drove them to Makara. Home of Sheep, 20 minutes away from the Mount Victoria Lookout.. Suddenly the Japanese Businessmen became very vocal, very animated, very excited.
They pointed a lot, shouting…”Ahhhhh … Sheeep!”
At last, they were happy.
“Ahhhh..,Sheep!” (More poimting)
Over and over. And, over.
"Ahhhh..., Sheep!"
Actually, moving back a para or two, the All Black thing was quite funny really; I’m suddenly teminded of the time I was playing beach soccer with a bunch of locals at a place called Telok Chempadak and one of them spotted my tattoos and asked the same question – “Was I an All, Black?”.
And I said, “yeah, right.”
Which they took to mean ‘Yeah. Right’.
Suddenly I am festooned with Malay boys wanting autographs and yelling and screaming – and, err.. touching me a lot… and nothing I said could convince them that I was joking and was not an All Black. Over the next few days I scored heaps of free drinks and some fantastic sex from two very hot, bi-curious German chicks at the hotel as the legend grew. And grew. man, I was an All Black!
But, I digress, back to to the point.
Sheep matter to our most valuable tourist market. So we should work that baby.
Can you see the campaign - billboards from Tokyo to Osaka: “Wellington. 20 minutes from sheep’.
Man, how cool is that? That’ll go down in the annals for sure. Or, for people who live in Iowa, the anals.
Anyway, the Japanese are different and we need to recognise this. '20 Minutes From Sheep' could be the greatest ad slogan of all time!
Anyway, after my day with the delegates, they wrote to me about every two weeks. Quaint eh? letters, not email. Their letters always ended with the same line – and, this is weird: “.. and Mr David, you must come over to Tokyo soon. I hope your good wife is very well. When you come to Tokyo we will meet you with some nice girls…”
Say what, immediately after asking after the wife, they wanna get me laid by some locals!!!!
And then the PS would always ask after the sheep. The fucking sheep. What is it about sheep and japanese business people ffs!!!?? I still don't fully get it.
It’s not a sexual thing, but man, there sure is an attraction.
Aussies of course have a thing about Kiwis and Sheep, but that’s a little different.
I remember about a year ago my accent (eccent) being sprung in a Sydney restaurant by a bunch of drunken Ozzies at the next table.
One of them sneered at me and said – ‘Gahhh.. ya bloddy sheep shagger..”
So I got up, walked over and put my hand, gently, on his shoulder. The table went very quiet.
“Yes, my friend, I am a sheep shagger – and proud of it. Now, here’s something you may not know about us – but when every New Zealand boy turns 15, the Government gives him a sheep. And mayyyyttte, we shag ‘em, all that teenage testosterone, man we shag ‘em day and night, for months.
(pause for effect).
Then we export them.
(pause for effect)
To Australia.
So, I hope you are enjoying that grilled chop right now. Nice innit?
Say, dude, ain't that some mayonnaise dripping out of your mouth, here, use my napkin.
Cheers.”
I copped a black eye and a loose tooth. But, you shouldda seen the other guy.
Labels: All Black, Japan, MBA, New Zealand, Sheep
