I've heard that song before!

"Blerrrrgghh. Oh my god. I am never ... drinking ... again."

Familiar words, and often spoken by countless millions over the ages.

Folks in the death-grip of a heinous hangover – after being "grossly over-served" – usually utter these words at least once in their lives.

These words are usually spoken in a woeful, desperate, brow-beaten manner, between violent heaving sessions ... making calls on the Big White Telephone ... "Hello, operator, can I speak to BEULAH? She's in EUROPE. I want to know if she would like to buy some BUICKS."

I have witnessed this many times. However, I feel somewhat smug, and a bit cheeky by announcing here that I have never uttered these words. I seem to have inherited my dad's cast-iron constitution, and must have heeded his words of advice lo those many years ago: "What the hell would I be doing puking up all that perfectly good booze I just paid hard-earned money for?"

These words ... "Never again" ...  spoken by hungover and desperate souls ... are a bold-faced lie.

Anyone who drinks to total destruction, and wakes up "laughing at their shoes", is a repeat offender.

While they may spew out these words – betwixt sessions of blowing their groceries – they know it's a lie.

I guess it's one of those faux rationalisations we all do ... like stuffing yourself to bursting at a big holiday dinner, and then moaning something about never eating that much ever again. Lies, lies, lies!

The latest adventure in "venting protein at high speed and volume" comes down the pipe in an email from a friend and fellow imbiber.

Here's the rumpus.

My Canadian mate tells me his girlfriend went out to a staff Xmas party (two, actually) last night ... the first shindig started at noon. The second was sometime later, when everyone was ejected from the first venue. She was a regular drinker, and so it was anticipated she'd come home feeling "merry" at the very least ... and fairly wasted at most.

He had to work late, and so in an extremely rare moment of responsibility rearing its ugly head ... instead of lurching out to catch up with a bunch of people who'd been drinking for 7 hours already, he opted to go home after work, to await her sodden arrival.

The fun started with the sounds of the front door crashing open, and some audible stumbling, bouncing off walls, giggling and cursing. She was in a state of dishevelment – of the sort that can only result from drinking oneself down the food chain, to somewhere just slightly above "moderately hungry squirrel".

Shoes were kicked off, clothing was roughly and clumsily shed (a couple of popped buttons on a blouse and a ripped zip on a skirt), the purse (which was being dragged) was dropped (and the contents of same strewn in a trail through the lounge), and she landed spastically on his lap.

My buddy knew what he was in store for ... she was completely fucked up.

Form there, some REALLY drunken and uncoordinated sex ensued. Once in bed, my buddy was convinced she had finally passed out some time later ... and he nodded off ... only to be awoken by the first of many, many honking sessions into the bedside trash can.

And several shambling, shuffling, zombie-like lurching movements to the bathroom, to 'launch lunch' (and drinks ... and as he says, from the sounds of it, her stomach lining and chunks of lung).

Rinse, repeat, wipe hands on pants ... this continued on into the night, the wee hours of the morning, and then well after the clock radio went off to alert sober people it was time for work.

He got up to prepare for the day's toil, and handed her the house phone to call in sick (she had thought ahead and had already taken that day off, however! Clever girl).

He laughed, and said that timing his shower was a bit of a mission, as he had to seek a launch window in between the (now dry-heaving) desperate runs of his girlfriend to the bathroom.

He got the shower in, had a coffee, and prepped for departure for work.

The sounds of more woeful whining and stomach lurching emanated from the bedroom, as he went in to say goodbye ... and he nearly got spewed on.

Out he went to catch the bus, and for reasons he can't explain, he peeked into the mailbox (the mailman woudn't have delivered that early) ... and within was his girlfriend's cell phone. He said he nearly fell over laughing.

Someone passing by the house that morning on their way to work must have noticed it on the path, and tucked it in there to protect it from any potential precipitation. Good samaritans abound!

My pal said it was the prefect comedic ending to the whole affair. He took it back into the house and left it on the kitchen counter for her, and told her where he'd found it.

This, of course, inspired some more woeful moaning ... and he couldn't help but to prime the pump one more time, by asking her if she wanted any of the leftover spicy chili from the previous night?

"BLEEERRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!"

What's the frequency, Kev?

Radio.

How the fuck does it work?

Marconi and Tesla figured it out back in the 19th century (albeit simultaneously, from opposite sides of the Atlantic). My money's on Tesla being the actual first, he seems way cooler and almost magical with some of the other stuff he had brewing in the lab ...

Anyway.

This question – "How the fuck does it work?" – is one we might ask in awe and amazement of the inventors of the Large Hadron Collider. Or dudes who do thermonuclear physics. Or string theory proponents (although my cats seem to have a firm grasp on that).

But we should not need to ask this of radio.

Why?

Because radio is not super-big-complicated, brainy mo-fo's-in-lab-coats-cool-techy-type science.

It's been around for a long, long time. People who broadcast radio ... and the makers of radios ... seem to have this down pat.

Except here in Wellington.

Unless I missed the memo about Wellington's unique geography, where the earth's crust does some weird counter-geo-stationary orbit thing, where it spins one way and the actual rest of the earth spins another ...

... WHY is it that I cannot get an FM radio station to stay locked in on my clock radio?

(And for that matter, how does the strength and clarity of a Vodafone cell phone signal change and flicker and go up and down WHEN I'M STANDING PERFECTLY STILL?)


Anyway, let's stick to the radio thing here.

Here's the rumpus.

I need to wake up in the morning to get to work.

I like to do this with a bit of music and information about shit that might be going down, outside.

So, I tune in a radio station on my clock radio. I pick a moderately tolerable station (ie, the music doesn't fill me with the burning hate of 1,000 suns, which would cause me to propel out of bed and beat my radio to dust ... nor is it the most fantastic music ever, which would cause me to stay in bed and continue to slumber and be happy about the tunes ... thereby missing work).

The goal here is to have some OK music, presented by some not-completely-barking-mad morning crew, with intermittent information about what I might face should I stumble to my front door and open it ...

Rain? Solar flares? Zombies? Dinosaurs? Jazz Chickens? Inquiring (sleepy) minds need to know!

So I lock in a station. It meets my criteria. It sounds clear. I then set my alarm, taking great care to NOT change the settings or bump the dial. I'm good to go!

Or ... am I?

Fast-forward to 6 am the next morning, the alarm goes off, and I'm greeted with War Of The Worlds-level static and screeching. The station isn't even CLOSE to being tuned in.

I fumble with the dial. No joy there ... the thing cannot be tuned in for love, money, or a Jazz Chickens greatest hits CD.

So in disgust I flick the radio off and look out the window, expecting perhaps a lightening and thunder storm has caused this terrible situation.

But no ... mine eyes are greeted with sunshine. Clear skies. Moderate winds.

While these conditions regularly seem to completely flummox and wreak havoc on the commuter train system in and out of Wellington, causing trains to break and tracks to buckle and conductors to go insane and start knifing people ... why should such perfect climate cause the radio stations to fail to come in clearly? Why has this changed from the previous evening when it was tuned in perfectly?

How the FUCK does it work?

I get similar results from experiments where I awake to a rainy or cloudy day, or a howling rainstorm. Except sometimes, during a howling rainstorm, or wind, or even sun ... the reception is PERFECT.

What ... the ... fuck?

Are the broadcast towers here mobile, and constantly floating around to different locations? Is it Space Aliens jamming our signal, cutting us off from the all-important traffic report? Does the cacophonous racket of an entire Jazz Chicken orchestra play hob with the signal?

I've been looking for a new station recently, as MoreFM has suddenly and dramatically changed its format entirely, having fired most of its usual not-quite-barking-mad morning crew ... and now they're running the entire country's network from Auckland.

And who the FUCK gives a rat's ass what some idiot Aucklander might be facing each morning? Have they thought this cunning plan through?

We know what is happening in Auckland. Every day. It never changes.

People wake up at 3 am, and start driving – which they need to do, and I'll tell you why, in a second. They are by themselves in their car, because heaven forbid you're such a loser you need to share a ride with someone, even if you're going to the same job. Aucklanders need to get up this early to start driving, because it is 637 km to work.

This is because Auckland is such a travesty of a city for how it's designed, no matter where you live, you are close to NOTHING. No stores, no bars, no parks, no job is ever near where you are. You must drive great distances in dense traffic to get to anywhere you want to go.

So MoreFM is useless now. I need a station that is Wellington-centric.

I've run the gamut attempting to find radio stations this week. Radio Hauraki is hopeless on all fronts ... the morning crew are a bunch of thick, shouting, redneck bogans, and the music is primarily classic rock (which has a time and a place, like when you're sweet-talking some half-drunk bogan chick from the Hutt ... but not at 6 am) ... and most importantly, it just doesn't lock in AT ALL on the clock radio. I tune it in and it's fine ... then as soon as I set the clock back down (taking my hands off of it) it launches straight to taxi-in-a-Manhattan-tunnel static.

RadioActive is a cool station that takes chances and plays interesting local stuff, but for some reason they like to play the craziest, eerie, and most irritating avant-garde crap at 6 am. Plus there doesn't seem to be any actual news that might help me prepare for Zombies at my door ... or an pickup-jam session of Jazz Chickens in the lounge.

The Breeze is too lame, and the national radio station is just some droning drone of a boring guy droning on about something that no one cares about. Like cricket. Or a politician who has been caught with his pants down. Again.

I'm now going to try setting a timer on my computer, so that it sparks up at 6 am, and plays an internet radio station ... but now, the key here seems to be finding one that plays via iTunes. Most radio station websites here seem to have been programmed by the owner's clever nephew Billy, who has his own unique internet radio station player he made himself, that must run in its own window, so as to dazzle you with how blindingly clever that little bastard Billy is.

I did briefly consider having it launch into playing my favourite net radio station, radioparadise.com ... however, it's out of Los Angeles. So that means no local Wellington news ... and I really like the music. So that means I would NEVER get out of bed.

Then I thought about  having it play a song from my massive playlist ... but I like all my music, and once again,  I'm going to go back to snoozing happily as I listen to it.

The solution here is simple. Get back to the fundamental problem ....

Attention radio tower engineers and broadcasting wizards: FIX THIS SHIT!

However, after 11 years here, I'm beginning to think this is an impossible goal.

Like air conditioning in most Wellington office buildings, this seems to be some mystical Holy Grail that no one can find, solve, or work out.

And yet, both radio and air conditioning is NOT rocket science. I've witnessed both work in many other cities on the planet.

Sure, it does require SOME skill. Like breathing, walking upright, and having opposable thumbs so as to be capable of using tools.

I hear they teach these things at community colleges ... you don't even need a University degree.

So how's about finding someone who knows what the fuck they are doing?


OK. I'm up now! Where's my coffee?

Oh look ... Jazz Chickens in the lounge again ... turn it down, you scurvy fowl!

You will now address me as LORD Steve Cossaboom ...

... or it's off with your head.

Yep, it's official.

Y'all knew it was the case anyway.

But now, according to the FlyBuys people (and who could be more trusted to know), my official title is Lord Steve Cossaboom.

Here's the rumpus.

I applied for a FlyBuys card last week. For you not-Kiwis, this is a card like Frequent Flyer. You swipe it while buying stuff, you amass points. Points can be applied to flights on Air NZ, or you can get some pretty cool toys out of their toy catalogue.

So I went online to apply for mine.

Never before have I witnessed so many options for the honorific thing in a dropdown menu box.

Of course there was the usual "Mr." and "Dr."

But there were others.

"Master" (Considered that one at length).

"Shrimp Boat Cap'n" (Not really ... but that would be fun).

"Dame" (How quaint!)

"Lady" (Couldn't get the Tom Jones song out of my head for HOURS ...)

"Judge" (Heh. Also tempting ...)

"Reverend", "Sister" and "Brother" (I'd do this ONLY if I could play and sing the Blues  ...)

"Lord" was in the mix, as mentioned ... and after a few practice runs saying it, I went for it.

Now, to acquire a wench to demurely call me by this new title whenever she kneels to address me, and while fetching me grog, and when slowly disrobing ...

Oh, wait!

Today's forecast: Insane responses to weather

Weather.

It's the most crutchy of things to lean on for something to say when in an elevator with another person. Good, bad, whatever sort of climate conditions ... that 30-second lift ride demands someone say SOMETHING. Why not comment on what's happening outside? Quick n' dirty ... and everyone can rapidly agree. For the most part.

Then there is the visual impact of weather.

I love watching how people react – and dress – for the weather here in Wellington.

On any given day, if you looked out a window on a main street, it would be virtually (literally!) impossible to determine what the weather was like. This is because the people here are out of their minds about how to dress for the weather.

Looking at a group of any 25 or 50 or so people on a city street, you would think perhaps they'd all escaped from an asylum. Of the entire group, there may in fact only be ONE who is dressed correctly for the conditions of the day. The rest ... hoo, boy. Get the net!

This is a two-tier bit of insanity.

(1) The locals – Folks here have a whole different idea as to what is "cold". As a Canadian with molasses and maple syrup for blood, I can take most weather here down to the odd 10º C day in "winter" (as they call it), and get by with just a light jacket, or no jacket. I'm most often in shorts, too. Once the weather crosses the +14º C threshold, it's light shirts and shorts for me.  However ...

Kiwis think anything under 20º C but above 14-15º is "cool". And will dress accordingly ... so upon glancing out a window on a day that is 18º C, I will see a few people in shorts and singlets (likely "Gringos", and most likely, Canadian or someone from a similarly nordic climate) ... and, right next to them, people in heavy jackets ... and yes, even gloves, and hats. And sweaters. And scarves.

Am I to assume the shorts/singlet people are crazy, Canadian, or both? Or are the folks with the layered Inuit look bananas?  Or is it really horribly cold out? Well ... it certainly never is 'cold' here. For me.

After 11 years here, I discovered I am quite safe in assuming that anyone bundled up in layers, hats and gloves is a great big giant mewling baby ... with either NO metabolism to speak of (mostly dead!) , or, has the metabolism of a Sahara Desert rattlesnake, which requires it to be a bare minimum of 30º C and sunny for it to be out in public ... anything lower than 30º, it's too cold and it slinks away and hides.

Presumably, in a fully-fired kiln.

(2) Gringos – AKA visitors from other countries ... they are no help either, unless I know that the one I'm seeing is in fact Canadian.

Because Canadians, as mentioned, can take cooler weather in stride (from 10–20º C, without dressing like the Michelin Man). Canadian males, in general, dress properly for most weather.

However ... if said passers-by are Australian, they are even worse at being whingy about cooler weather than Kiwis. They are in fact human rattlesnakes, and require it to be a minimum of 30ºC before they might even consider wearing shorts. To get an Aussie to admit they're hot, it has to be at least 40º C, and they have to be under a really big magnifying glass, on fire.

The same can be said for anyone from Southeast Asia (including India), China or Japan. Or the southern USA, Mexico, Central American, South America, and of course all the Euro countries that get hot.

While these countries are hot most of the time, Asians seem to have thinner blood/lower body fat, and find temperatures below 30º C "cool". Once below 20º C, it's "polar". If it dips below 10º C – they don't even come outside.

They are hunkered down around that fired kiln, with the rattlesnakes.

Crossing over a seasonal threshold

The sudden and dramatic change from a nice day (18º) and a fantastic day (22+º) catches many Kiwis unaware. Or, aware that it's indeed nice out ... but they seem confused as to how to react, or dress.

Like the rainwear story below, the shift to weather that's fantastic seems to bewilder and befuddle a lot of folks here. On a brilliant warm sunny day, we still see many Kiwis in long dark layers of woolen fabric ... coats, jackets, burkhas ... clearly sweating, yet not understanding you can take some of that shit off! 

Or read a weather report before you leave home, and dress accordingly.

Also mind-boggling is the equation comparison:

A sunny day @ 25ºC = lots of people attired in the proper summer wear, yet;


A cloudy day at THE SAME TEMPERATURE = people in longer, heavier clothes, jackets, and burkhas. And they have that shifty, panicked look in their eyes, like they're thinking about fired kilns.

Other weather

A rainy day is the next best amusing thing to witness here.

I have a raincoat.

It is a light Gortex© one ... not polar-strength warm at all. It gets worn occasionally in winter.

But if it's raining in summer here, I might as well not wear it, as I will sweat like a malaria-infested jungle rot victim with the thing on – the end result being, I will be just as soaked as if I got rained on.

Only, it'll be my own sweat.

If I'm to be soaked, I'll gladly take "rain" over "hog sweat" any day ... and so will my friends and co-workers.

So I bust out the raincoat only on "winter" days, when I'm relatively safe from basting in my own juices for a few minutes ... until of course I get on a bus being driven by a Pacific Islander, an Asian, or a female of any race. They will have the bus heaters on full, which turns the bus into a rolling blast-furnace of a sauna, steaming and reeking with the putrid sweat of humanity.

What Kiwis wear when it's raining is ... hilarious. Here in Wellington, locals are thankfully too wily to be carrying umbrellas (the occasional wind gusts of legend here quickly turns brollies into modern works of avante-gard art). However, I have noted many Kiwis wearing parkas (with fur trim!) in the rain. In all seasons, including summer.

Noted for NOT being waterproof, parkas (with fur trim) do have the amazing ability to absorb up to 10 times their weight in water. And so many Wellingtonians can be seen dripping and oozing water in streams from over-saturated parkas ... and, from the fur trim. Weaker individuals seem ready to collapse under the water-sodden weight.

Guys who wear suits to work will often have a cotton or wool-style heavy overcoat to wear when it's "cold" ... and this is their go-to garment for rainy days as well.

These coats also absorb up to 10x their weight in water ... and are also an amusing vision to behold, when said jacket wearers have been walking in the rain for a while. A previous flatmate of mine did that constantly here ... a 20-minute walk home from work in the rain turned his long wool coast into a 100-lb workout weight. And, he was soaked to the bone. Double bonus for mocking fun!

Now, onto sunshine, and warmth (+ 20º C) ... and what else needs to happen to get Kiwis into proper summer attire?

Well the only Kiwis I care about here are the good-looking female ones. And as it is in most countries, for a woman to dress in proper,  revealing, sheer, summer-like attire (and to NOT dress in jackets, long dresses, heavy woolen garments, burkhas, beekeeper costumes or full-length chemical spill suits, etc), the weather has to be:

• Windless ... in fact, for some, it has to be negative-windy. If that's possible.
• Sunny, without a cloud in the sky.
• Minimum 25º C (but more likely if it's 27 or 28 minimum).

If these three stipulations are met ... boys, get your ass out the door and prepare for endless visions of excellence, soft porn and high art ... featuring the female body, cheekily, sexily, alluringly presented in most of its potential glory. 

If any of these three criteria isn't met, there shall be no sundresses ... no mini-skirts, no shorts, no thigh-length yet sheer skirts with a cheeky slit up one side ... no sheer tops, no sporty, form-fitting singlets or tube tops. No low-cut blouses, or any sort of almost-lingerie-like attire being passed off as proper clothing ... ... ... 

And under THOSE sorts of disheartening, spirit-crushing conditions, I resign myself to a darkened pub and hope for all things to be aligned perfectly tomorrow ... 

The magical wonders of a liquid lunch

Ahhh, that time-honoured tradition of  Liquid Lunch.

A magical thing to indulge in on a work day. Wondrous, even. Nay, 'tis verily the BEST thing a civilised human can do! This is what separates us from the animals ... as if animals even could think of such a magnificent bastard of an idea ...

For anyone who isn't clear on the concept, Liquid Lunch goes thusly: the 'idea person' of the group (usually me) invites one or more of The Usual Suspects out to enjoy "a drink" at lunch. This rapidly de-evolves and degenerates into more than one drink. Multiple drinks, in fact. Soon, much more fun than sense ensues.

Often, actual lunch (food) is eschewed. Because any actual chewing would detract from the rapid and guilt-ridden joy of just guzzling down some smart cocktails (or wine, or beer) on a sunny patio ... with like-minded individuals. Eatin's cheatin', after all ...

Here in Wellington, this time of the year is even more wondrous (if that's possible), as the hot summer weather rolls on in with the Xmas season. So establishing yourselves on a sun-drenched café patio, ordering alarming amounts of alcoholic beverages (and consuming same at alarming speed) is a party.

P.J. O'Rourke defined a "party" as a thing to be doing (having fun and getting wrecked) when you should otherwise be beavering away at something responsible.

Like work.

And when your two choices for the day are (a) Boring and stupid old work, or (b) having a fantastic time with your suave and charming friends, swilling down delicious alcoholic beverages in a smart and sophisticated manner on a sunny café patio ... come on.

Now the trick is to determine what type of Liquid Lunch you should indulge in.

There are three kinds of Liquid Lunches.

(1) – The Insidiously planned Liquid Lunch, where the entire afternoon has been booked off from work in advance. 

With this plan, friends amass on aforementioned sunny patios, safe in the knowledge that the next time you need to be at your desk and making sense is tomorrow (hours away!) ... and participants start knocking back the hootch with carefree abandon. Despite there being no pressure to actually return to work on that day, the twinge of a guilty feeling persists ... that you should be doing something responsible (work, Xmas shopping, picking up partner, attending a funeral, etc).

If you can somehow maintain your position on the café patio (and your upright position in your chair) this all-afternoon swill-up can continue until well past sunset. Then things get interesting ...

Will you charge on out to other clubs and pubs? Will there be wild dancing or karaoke in your immediate future? Will you purchase booze to take home and continue the onslaught?

The night is your oyster!

(2) – The Quick'n'dirty, 'let's see how fast we can knock them back and then get back to work!' Liquid Lunch.

Here, friends amass as above ... only no one has booked the afternoon off.

So now it's a race.

And, this is the true test your mettle: how many drinks can you consume without become appallingly and noticeably drunk? This is a fine line that is quite often surpassed, to disastrous consequences.

Staggering back in to your office with clothing disheveled, reeking of booze, giggling and smashing into things (and vastly overcompensating to try and cover it all up) is not good.

The goal here is to get somewhat tipsy, keep your clothing intact, eat a few breath mints, and soldier through the rest of the afternoon without giving away your tipsy-ness.

(3) The Impromptu lunch that has spun out of control, gone well past 2 hours, and everyone is shit-faced, and now must call in to work feigning a sudden illness or doctor's appointment.


This one is the MOST fun! Because, while a party is always fun, a surprise/impromptu one is about 1,000 times MORE fun.

Now you have a group of amassed funsters getting well sozzled, and realising that going back to the office now would be crazy, stupid, senseless, potentially career-limiting ... but most importantly, a lot less fun.

So the panicked phone calls to respective offices begin ... the group attempts to stop laughing and grinning and sound serious, and not too drunk ... bosses and managers are alerted ... can't make it back, nuclear war has broken out on the streets. Or zombies.

Once the duplicitous and deceptive phone calls have been made, the REAL fun begins. Lurid, illegal, immoral, tricksy fun! It's a full-on party now, because you KNOW you should have been back at your desk ages ago (sober and actually working).

One of the best parts of the lurid liquid lunch is, if you're still at it well into the afternoon, at some point you are going to sit back and realise you are The King (or Queen) of your Realm, and all that you survey ... just think, all those bored rubes and losers lashed to their office chairs, working on such a day.

And here you are on a fantastic sunny patio snorkeling down way too much alcohol ... feeling fine ... LOOKING great ... damn, in fact, you are DEAD SEXY!

Hey, let's start thinking about where we can go for some wild dancing and karaoke!