Death Valley 1

As if America isn’t weird enough, it has Death Valley, where visitors to the park are greeted by coyotes and massive ravens. Joshua trees pockmark the scenery and the sun picks out the contours and the ripples on the sand dunes. There are fantastic colours in the rocks – who would have thought it could be so brutally beautiful?

Apparently a lot of car companies come here to test drive new vehicles. There is no test track as such, but the varied terrain and dramatic change in temperature and altitude are perfect to try out engines and breaks.

Mt Whitney, the highest point in ‘the lower 48 states’ is less than 100 miles from Badwater Basin – elevation -282feet and the lowest point in North America. The temperature changes 5°C for every 1,000 feet, and there are three ranges of approximately 10,000 feet and two valleys of searing hot temperatures within the park, which would certainly create some challenging driving conditions.

Despite it's unprepossessing facade, the Ensenada Grill does a good breakfast. The cheerful, sunny roadside diner has Mexican music and jolly toothless staff. The décor may be basic (plastic covers over yellow tablecloths and woven red and green tablemats) but the food is good. We both have Ensenada skillets – Him Outdoors has one with ham, bacon and chorizo sausage, while my vegetarian version has peppers, mushrooms, broccoli, potatoes, onions and tomatoes.

Him Outdoors chooses tortillas and I have biscuits and gravy as my stodge – again, very basic but hearty. The gravy is a cracked pepper white sauce. Both are accompanied with homemade salsa and endless cups of black filter coffee from a pot, with which the waitress just keeps filling our cups. How I love it; and how Kiwis with their precious and pretentious ‘coffee culture’ would loathe it.

The wind is ferocious at Ryolite, an old ghost town. When gold was discovered in the early 1900s, 10,000 people flocked here – three railroads and many buildings emerged, including casinos and a three-storey bank. The boom went bust as the price of gold fell through the floor and the ensuing panic ended the gold rush by 1912. Now the town is eerie with the sound of bits of bank and casino flapping and whistling in the wind, and signs by dilapidated stores caution ‘Rattlesnakes’.

In a strange sculpture park is a lego-woman. She is made from pink blocks with long blonde hair and a yellow pubic triangle. Her big pert breasts stick straight out in front at right angles and she is on her knees. Is this how pioneers thought women should look? Some men have not moved on in a hundred years.

Entering Death Valley National Park again, we cross the state line. The sign welcoming drivers to Nevada is riddled with bullet holes. The mustard coloured hills bear testament to the harvesting of borax at Harmony.

Old pictures show the mines and mule trains – this area is certainly rich in minerals and was ripe for exploitation until Congress passed the Mining in Parks Act in 1976, which restricted and regulated mining in Death Valley for the first time. The park is now closed to new mining claims, and previously established claims and mines are closely monitored.

The colours at Zabriskie Point, and indeed everywhere, must change hourly and would be worth photographing throughout the day. This is a crazy place full of geological treasures.

The National Park brochure claims, ‘The colourful and rugged terrain shouts tales of cataclysmic forces that thrust thick rock layers upwards and of opposing erosional forces battling to tear them down. Desert winds whisper romances of the past – of the ’49ers lured by the glitter of gold and of Chinese labourers scraping borax-rich crystals from the valley floor.'

From Dante’s View, the mineral deposits in the mountains are the colours of the Firenze cathedral’s marble walls. Rivers of salt run down the valley.

At Badwater Basin, below sea level, salt flats stretch for miles; their crusty layers look like a particularly unappetizing meringue or Kendal mint cake.

Strange miniature pinnacles dot the Devil’s Golf Course and cairns are made from slabs of salt.

The artist’s palette features mounds and bands of many hues, as though the artist has dumped all his colour and pigments into one vivid lump. The residue of the excavated minerals leaves colourful rainbows on the land.

Henry V - Band of Brothers (and Sisters)

Henry V, Summer Shakespeare
Studio 77 Amphitheatre, February 13-28

I must admit I approached the Summer Shakespeare production of Henry V with some trepidation. It is a fantastic work focussing on grand themes such as leadership and patriotism, which are frequently mocked (particularly English patriotism) in modern society. These fears were quickly dispelled, however, as director David Lawrence remains true to the passion of the play. The serious moments are tender and touching yet also stirring and powerful. There was a lump in my throat at some of the more celebrated speeches, which was entirely due to the force of direction and acting.

Lawrence ensures that all his cast flesh out their roles and from the entrance of the Archbishop of Canterbury (David Goldthorpe) and the Bishop of Ely (played with relish by James Barber) I was enthralled. Goldthorpe’s interpretation of Salic Law (which Shakespeare’s original audience would have known) to justify Henry’s claim to the French throne is expertly handled. I’m not sure if we are enlightened by the explanation, but we are certainly entertained. The cross-clutching, bible-bashing (literally) duo does a sterling job of illuminating the hazier parts of the script.

Alex Grieg as the eponymous king is fantastic. When hesitant at asking ‘May I with right and conscience make this claim’ or anguished at his betrayal by his old friends he is convincingly human. His lament that he cannot be like other men although he is the same ‘save ceremony’ is heartfelt, his prayer before the battle of Agincourt is profoundly moving, and his wooing of Katherine is utterly delightful. His flashes of temper, remorse and insecurity make him a beloved figure.

Henry is the sort of king who demands respect, loyalty and devotion. His battle speeches are formidable and he shows his leadership in myriad ways – granting mercy where it is due – yet he is not afraid to strike through the hearts of the ‘nest of hollow bosoms’. He forgives drunkenness but not treason. Greig embodies the king versus man dichotomy brilliantly when he personally has an old drinking buddy killed for disobeying orders, and he is fierce in his protection and respect of the defeated French, ‘for when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner’.

But, men being as they are, not all support the king. When he prowls the camp in disguise the night before the battle in the ‘little touch of Harry in the night’ scene, he learns there are those who question his motives. Daniel Watterson as Michael Williams speaks his dissent with eloquence and bitterness. With his supposition that as the men are following the orders of the king so all death and blame will be on his head, the situation in Iraq doesn’t so much spring to mind as bludgeon the brain. While Henry’s reaction is fair and indicative of the equanimous king he will become, there is perhaps little else he can do in the circumstances.

Aside from the main focus on Harry, the ensemble work is also accomplished. The reprobate triumvirate of Nym (Jack O’Donnell), Bardolph (Benyamin Albert), and Pistol (Jackson Coe doing his best Orland-Bloom-as-Will-Turner impersonation) are oddly dressed but generally good value. None of them want to go to war although they do want to bask in its reflected glory, and there is a touching moment when they bid farewell to the excellent Nell Quickly (Ameila Willcox). Her newly-wed-and-nearly-widowed character is stronger and more noble than any of the men she sees off from the shores of Southampton to an unknown fate.

As Nym is slain, Bardolph steals, and Pistol ransacks the bodies on the battlefield, the horrors of war are clearly illustrated in counterpoint to those who claim the play is gloriously bellicose. Boy remarks upon this behaviour with the license of a Shakespearean fool, ‘I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart’. Jessica Aaltonen looks cute in this role but her squeaking of the lines as though she has been ingesting helium makes her often incomprehensible.

On the subject of incomp- rehensible, I know Welsh accents are difficult at the best of times, but Christopher de Sousa Smith as Captain Fluellen sounds more like an Irishman being strangled underwater.

Fortunately he handles the comedy (including the ludicrous leek taunting scene) much better than the accent. The play also features a Scotsman and an Irishman, to show the cultural divisions in the ‘English’ camp, but they are absent from this rendition. Captain Gower is included but Bailey McCormack gets lost in the role beside the more expressive de Sousa Smith.

The French contingent is much better served, with the language excellently delivered. The women are wreathed in blue robes like the Beauxbatons from that other famous Harry of the Potter variety. The French lesson is outstanding as Louise Burston hams it up fabulously as Alice, the princess’ maid and tutor, and Alison Walls is much better as Katherine than the Chorus. Her rapid delivery, flirtatious simpering and jerky mannerisms suit the French princess far more than a pragmatic narrator.

The French men on the eve of battle are cocksure and confident, as they know they have greater numbers than the English forces. The banter between the fiery Dauphin (Alex Rabina) and the larger-than-life Constable (Allan Henry) underlines their arrogance. As they ride off to battle with lances protruding from the sunroof of their vehicle you just know there will be a big fall to follow this pride.

The battle scenes are expertly choreographed by Allan Henry who must have staged just about every fight scene on a Wellington stage over the past few years. There are blood-thirsty priests, savage sword fights and cowardly kickings meted out. At times the men stand around cheering and it is more WWF than Agincourt, and there are Matrix-like moments of humour amidst the gore. But when bodies bestrew the set and Henry confesses ‘I know not if the day be ours or no’, it is easy to understand his confusion.

The French herald, Mountjoy is played by Hannah McKie with an innate understanding of Shakespearean speech and a calm dignity that moved me to tears and shows that there are no real winners in war. Despite the undeniable humour of the wooing, there is a discordant note – history will prove that a defeated nation can never be united with its conqueror.

The large cast use this great little venue soundly, performing to all angles, although there is little they can do about the noise from the aeroplanes. Actors encircle the audience to demonstrate superior force; they flee across bridges to signify defeat; and they lounge on balconies to depict insouciance. The tents on the surrounding grass are probably used to store equipment but they look like an encampment. The car that delivers the French envoy is a good gag, but it would have been more powerful if it were a Peugeot, Citroën or a Renault rather than a Mazda with a battered headlight.

There are two things I would question and the first is the costuming. Red for the English and Blue for the French – fair enough (les rosbifs et les bleus) and it helps distinguish between the sides, especially when named characters (Boy and the Dauphin most notably) switch allegiance to swell the ranks. When Henry is alone in red at the French court, the surrounding sea of blue highlights his isolation and the fact that he is out of his depth.

But what’s with the glaringly American baseball caps and the Converse All-Star boots? Is there a subliminal advertising message here, or an oblique reference to the homogenisation of culture? There are also product placements of Coke (the red bottles infiltrate a blue chilly bin) and the Warehouse – which is hardly ubiquitous enough to merit such treatment if so. Why do only the trio of traitors (Cambridge, Northumberland and Masham) wear the archetypically British Doc Martens? Am I reading too much into this, and is it nothing more than an attempt at the Baz Luhrmann treatment? Either way, it doesn’t work.

The other quibble is the casting of women in traditionally male roles. This play has a huge cast and almost no women. Katherine, her maid, the Queen of France, and Nell Quickly are the only ones to be given lines. The rest of the play focuses on the relationships between the groups of men, all of which define different facets of Henry’s character. Mountjoy and Burgundy (Laura Feslier) are examples of how this can work, but none of the other female soldiers ring true.

On the whole this is an excellent production and very difficult to review, as each path leads down a cul-de-sac of revelations. It is a tight ensemble piece, given cohesion by a strong person in the title role. Kenneth Branagh and Laurence Olivier are tough acts to follow, but Alex Greig’s Henry V is equally charismatic and compelling – I feel I would be proud to be among his band of brothers (and sisters).

Road trip: Oakhurst - Beatty

At one extreme we have the Cuba Street Carnival on my week in images blog, and over here we have a continuation of the America travel diary. And we are heading to Death Valley...

Him Outdoors is very impressed with the American supermarket – an aisle of cereals including several types of Cheerios; individually wrapped slices of cheese; ginseng and honey in a can; self-service checkouts for clearly honest people.

We drive through infinite swathes of nothingness, questioning of flat, shimmering patches, “Is that the sea?” No, it’s Central Valley California; the fruit and nut (oh yes) producer of California. The faded and dusty American flags hang limply from pick-up truck shops – a total contrast to the bright snapping variety with their jaunty stars and forge-ahead stripes in the waterfront cities.

Boats are for sale by the driving range in Pinedale, but where’s the water, or do people sail away on a mirage of dreams? Apparently Paul Evans sells fun – if your idea of fun is a mobile home, then maybe he does.

We pass a procession of fire trucks and a cardboard city on the edge of Fresno. How can this be when the farmers’ fields are full of corn, cattle, beets and potatoes – there is food for Africa! The suburban giants are advertising hoardings sprouting up along the motorway, signalling Shell, Taco Bell, MacDonald’s, Jack in the Box, Denny’s. One sign reads, ‘People and pets, cremation urns and keepsakes’. There’s a market for everything in America – if you think of it; you can sell it.

There are stop signs at crossroads to nowhere. Delano is characterized by tattooed men in Stetsons driving pick-up trucks with tinted windows. We lock our doors and drive on through. As we approach the brown hills and distant mountains it looks like Graham Sydney country. A large black crow flaps and a wily coyote lopes away from the road kill at the dusty verge.

Many churches present
opportunities to worship along the way – there are Seven Day Adventists; Latter Day Saints; Baptists; Lighthouse Pentecostal, but none of your traditional everyday Catholics, Anglicans and Presbyterians. A forlorn sign pitched in a field of dirt reads, ‘Prayer changes things’ and a white painted cross on a brown barren hillside presides over the wasteland.

China Lake is a strange place – a naval weapons centre in the middle of the desert. There are acres of nuclear testing sites in nearby Nevada. These are represented by featureless purple blocks of shading on the map, and surrounded by a barbed wire perimeter fence in reality with a warning to keep out posted every twenty yards in case you don’t get the message.

Only two shops are in evidence – one sells ‘outdoor additions’ which appear to be gazebos, conservatories, barns and anything else that can conceivably fill the space. The other shop is the Gem and Mineral Society – a gathering of cars suggests the consumption of tacos, hot dogs and car washes offered for sale. Angus is boarded up and derelict; everything is demolished or for sale – this looks like real Mad Max stuff. Dry lakes, salt mines, deserted towns and a naval weapons centre – this really is an odd part of the country.

As the day is getting on, we drive right through Death Valley National Park. A mid-west couple (from New Mexico) tell us at the visitor centre of a ‘groovy little town’ called Beatty in Nevada, on the other side of the park, so we head there. If this is a groovy little town by their standards, I dread to think where they live. The motel we stay at has an industrial shower curtain, strange connecting doors, and a polyester bedspread in blue, orange, pink and yellow, with images of bears, flamingos, Canada geese, shells, skyscrapers, forest scenes and mountains. Still, it’s a room.

We go out to the Sourdough Saloon which we instantly rename the sour faced saloon on account of the extremely unfriendly waitress. The bar is in a horseshoe shape with high stools – there is nowhere else to sit but at the middle of this sea of Stetsons, baseball caps and cigarette smoke. Worrying that we might be sitting in a local’s seat, we order Michelob Amber Bock (the only thing we recognise other than Bud from the list the landlady barks at us). No one else drinks tap beer – it’s all bottles, spirits and Jaeger bombs. A man buys a bottle of vodka, which he wraps in a brown paper bag before leaving.

A turn-off in Beatty leads to Las Vegas, and that’s where many people are expected to go. The ceiling is papered with dollar bills from passers by. One woman swears loudly at her relatives across the bar. Another tells us she moved here two years ago from ‘the high desert in California’. She loves it here and sits out on the porch in the mornings with her coffee watching ‘the beautiful light’. She is not even deterred by the 70 mile drive once a week to Parumph to buy groceries.

The road to our hotel is lined with ammunition cases on sale – I’ve never seen such a collection and am even more disturbed by the potential market. There is a casino next to our motel and the lights flash on and off all night. It’s quite a draw card as there are no legal casinos in California (apart from on Indian land).

I watch True Blood on HBO, a series Our Gracious Hostess has recommended. It is slightly alarming that the images of vampires infiltrating society do not seem out of place in Beatty, Nevada.

Training Session

We had training at work and it made me think of those awful 80s style training sessions where the facilitors meant well but you came out having learned nothing but lost the will to live. You know the ones I mean. It inspired this:

Training Session

Post-it notes and play-doh
Play dumb but have fun
No question is a dumb question
And there is a parking lot for thoughts that rock your boat.
Write your thoughts on the tree of objectives and expectations
Growing from the trunk of ground rules on a
Flip chart with smelly pens in a variety of fruit flavours.

Check out the emergency exits and toilets

Introduce your partner to the group in three words

Shouting above the air-con that freezes the room.

Understand who you are and what you want

With name badges and thumbs up

Allow the feelings to come into the room and the work will happen.

Bless this meeting; bless this group; bless this crap.

Gather round the brightly coloured laminated arrows:

Visuals 'to make you think'.

Call for volunteers to press blu-tac to cork boards

Split into groups for animated discussions.

Go to the activity tables where you will find
Glu-sticks and craft scissors; pipe cleaners and stress balls

Be creative with kindergarten exercises!

Polysterene cups full of seeds and scroggin.
Think of surveys done about urine traces collected from nuts
And there's no milk for the tea or coffee granules.

Stimulate yourself with brain teasers - but look up the answers

Play with the plastic hammers and rattles

And when you hear the squeaky rubber chicken,

Report back with your findings and help yourself to a prize.

Surround yourself with inspirational quotes on fluoro A4 paper

Like a cheap bargain basement market store.

'We're not here to persuade or influence; we're here to facilitate the process.

I see the role as being a conduit rather than a preacher

Or a teacher.

Let's just recap and review what we've done.

We've looked at insights and blindspots.

We've been on a collective journey towards improved understanding

Kua puta ai te mārama

Thank you for participating in our puzzle.

You've worked hard today; give yourselves a round of applause

Go well; kia kaha

Finish with a quote and a feedback form.

What did you like most about today?

The End

Wellington Summer Festivals - Something for Everyone

There's always something going on in Wellington, and that's why I like living here.

We've just had the Sevens and there is cricket coming up. The fact that sailboats are constantly whizzing about on the water suggests that there are regattas and whatnot occurring for the boatie folk. Events are planned or have been raced for swimming, dragon boating, running and 5-a-side football.

Circus artists are performing on the wharf and the Cuba Street Carnival is on this weekend. There are outdoor film screenings, Shakespeare productions and music festivals. Recently we have had concerts in the park form a variety of artists, the One Love concert, featuriung dub, roots and reggae, and even some decent acts - Fur Patrol and David Byrne among them. In the coming weeks saxophones and double basses will abound in the Jazz Festival.

Festival is the word of the summer with one for the Chinese New Year, a Pasifikia one, and a beer festival in Waitangi Park coming up in a couple of weeks. Touring exhibitions include one of Leonardo da Vinci's more imaginative creations, and the Boston exhibition of Monet and the Impressionists at Te Papa.

Amidst all this is the Fringe Festival. I am trying to get to some shows - so far I have seen two (both of which I have thoroughly enjoyed) with more scheduled for next week. I hope to write reviews of them, but in the meantime here's my review of The Mountain which was published on Lumiere.

Wellington is a wonderfully compact little city (little more than a town really) and it's pretty easy to get to any of these events. It markets itself as the 'culture capital' and this summer it has certainly showcased its assets. From ballet dancing to Billy Connolly, there has been something for everyone. And there's plenty more where that came from.

Scorching Bay Triathlon - Workplace Challenge

As the alarm goes off at 6am on Sunday after four hours of sleep and three heavy nights (it was the Sevens after all) my thoughts are less than charitable – ‘whose stupid idea was it to enter the workplace challenge triathlon?’ I grumble. The fact that it was my suggestion doesn’t make it any more palatable.

I eat my two slices of toast and honey (which is a bit of a ritual before a race) and wait for another of my team member to arrive while blearily watching the football. Liverpool are 0-0 with Portsmouth at half-time. (They go on to a thrilling 3-2 victory away from home, so that cheers me up when I watch the second half later.)

When I start to wonder why she hasn’t arrived, I check my cell phone which bleeps jauntily that she will meet me at transition – I must have got my wires crossed, or definitely blurred!

I cram on my helmet and shoes (my feet are swollen from dancing all night in high heeled boots – well, England won the Sevens!) and leap onto my bike to pedal to the start. What a day! The wind barely ruffles the harbour, although it is steadily building, and the sun is out strong already. Today will certainly be a day to slip, slop, slap, and wrap, or whatever other non-alliterative words have been added to the slogan.

My team are there at the start as I rack my bike among the other trusty steeds waiting patiently for the long course – sorry, I get a bit carried away when talking about my bike. I love my bike. We have team photos. There are two of our workplace teams – a girl team (called ‘Don’t Give Up Your Day Job’)


and a boy team (called ‘The Fit, the Fat, and the Frog).

Our fearless swimmer is clad merely in togs. She is nuts. Or maybe, just German. Last night as I partied hard in Courtenay Place with some Morris Dancers and the Cookie Monster, a tiny voice in the back of my mind was telling me to go home and get some rest. A couple of pints of Epic silenced it without too many problems, but I knew our fearless swimmer would be safely tucked up in bed. She was.

Their fearless swimmer is not looking too keen. He too was at the Sevens, and he too thinks this is a ridiculous idea, but at least he is wearing a wetsuit. There is some nervous standing about at the water’s edge, and then they’re off, splashing about in the water and hunting down those orange buoys. The wind is picking up and things start bobbing in the water.

Our fearless swimmer does a great time and she sprints dripping up into the transition where she hands over to me and I set out on my trip around the bays. Their fearless swimmer emerges from the water a short while later so I have to try and maintain the gap between us.

Of course, the wind is strong now – particularly heading past the airport at Lyall Bay – and I know this will be even worse on my return. People come whistling past me and the medium course turn around (at 10km) looks very tempting. I briefly consider whether anyone would notice if I didn’t plough on up the hill and stopped for a coffee instead. But this would be cheating, and even if I feel terrible, I do not cheat.

I start grinding up the hill and my mind wonders off somewhere, only to be startled and alarmed when I find I have fallen into the gutter by the side of the road and can’t get back out. Ouch. I bump to a standstill. Bumping and grinding, but it’s not that much fun and I have knocked the speed and distance counter doodacky out of kilter. I’m embarrassed more than hurt as I dust myself off and try to get going again – uphill into a headwind – and find it’s hard to get enough pressure to clip into my pedals.

I concentrate for the rest of the way round and although people hurtle past on the way down as well (I am such a womble going downhill) and the wind is buffeting me off my bike on the way back, I make it to the transition in one piece. I hand over to our fearless runner and she skips off looking fresh and sprightly and not at all as though she was sinking pints in the pub last night.

Crazy frog is right behind and his fearless runner sets off in hot (and I do mean hot – that wind is doing nothing to reduce the temperature) pursuit. Their team is the fit, the fat and the frog – and as he is French, I’m guessing that he is the latter of the trio. His first words on dismount are, ‘My bottom is sore!’ but he has done a great job.

He hands over to their fearless runner, who (as an ex-army dude) is racing in tracksters. It is so hot that he will come to regret that later. The run is two laps, so we see them both come and go out and back and out and then back again – hurrah! Our team wins so there are even more hurrahs, but we can afford to be gracious in victory.

I realise that our teams combined comprise Team Europe. Of the six people from our workplace who accepted this challenge, not a one is a Kiwi – aren’t they meant to be a healthy sporting nation? There is a coffee queue for miles at the café on the front, and not a single one of our sextet collects a spot prize, but we go back to mine where Him Outdoors has cooked a massive fry-up so we all feel like winners.

The wind is now more than a stiff breeze and the sailboats are zipping across the bay. As we stretch out on the sofas and drink cups of tea we congratulate ourselves on our efforts. We are saying nicer things about the race now than we did this morning, but everyone is still wary about committing to the next one!

If you're interested in things like results, check them out here.

Wellington Sevens Dress-Ups

What to wear to the Wellington Sevens? Believe me, it’s a big issue. Now don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing I like more than seeing a few people dressed up in ridiculous costumes at a sporting event. Scooby Doo often turns up to the cricket and it’s very amusing to see him talking to Marilyn Monroe or Gene Simmons in the pub later on. Shrek, stromtroopers, legomen and traffic cones all stand out for various reasons.

But for some reason, everyone (well, about 90%) in Wellington who goes to the Sevens feels the need to dress up. A friend reckons New Zealanders are so repressed that they can only be ‘whacky’ when dressed as someone else. Him Outdoors reckons it’s a personality substitute (which he says is why Kiwis hold more dress-up theme parties than anyone else) but let’s save that nugget for another day…

I was going with a group of girls, and trying to get them to formulate a plan on which they can all agree and then put it into action is like herding kittens. You see, in general, women also want to look good. And they will invariably have different body shapes and comfort zones, so what looks good on one will not suit another.

You could all go as variations on a theme, but a simple costume repeated on a large number of people has dramatic impact, as evinced by the monks and the Flash Gordons.

There are actually rules as to what you can and can’t wear. Let’s start with the revealing. Certain costumes – such as the Borat-thong – have been banned for showing too much flesh. This smacks of double standards as women are allowed to (and frequently do) wear the shortest skirts and lowest tops. This is deemed acceptable as most of the photographers and cameramen are male, and most of the females want to get in the papers or on television. Apparently the way to do this is to thrust your cleavage at a lens and you’ll get all the attention you can handle.

60+ years of feminism fighting for equal rights and to be taken seriously, so that teenage girls can flaunt their sluttishness in public – their parents must be so proud. Perhaps they are; their offspring are ‘famous’ for five seconds, until the next piece of meat comes along. There are skanky cheerleaders; sluttish schoolgirls; tarty nurses; lewd airhostesses; indecent policewomen; vulgar prison officers – do you see the pattern emerging? Incidentally, the most stylish group of women I saw were the Spitfire Girls dressed stunningly in 1940s glamour.

Another taboo is the too-large-for-the-seat category. Sumo suits and people dressed as sofas are out (although these are amusing). The wheelchair-bound bloke dressed as Thomas the Tank engine, however, was a star! Some people were dressed as Barbie dolls in boxes (their aspirations couldn’t be clearer) or cardboard i-pods. These people are actually very annoying to sit behind if you are – heaven forbid – actually trying to watch any rugby, or to stand behind if (as is more likely) you are in the beer queue.

For hours. Buying warm Speights with a 15% sur-charge. Come on Westpac Stadium, as if you weren’t creaming it anyway – I’m certain you could afford to pay your staff without ripping off your patrons. If, as reports showed, people stayed in town for longer drinking at bars with big screens, decent beer and no sur-charge (not a bar that I went into on Friday had one) it serves you right for your shameless exploitation of the people you claim to cater for.

And then there are the weapons. Anything that looks like it could cause bodily harm is unacceptable – and rightly so. It is somewhat disturbing to see the SWAT team casually swigging beer while holding semi-automatic guns, but they were denuded of these (the guns, not the beer) and then must have felt vulnerable – not to mention hot.

There were heaps of Spartans and gladiators – all with bendy swords. Friends of ours went as droogs from A Clockwork Orange, and had their canes examined. They were permitted, after they promised not to indulge in any ultraviolence.

There are no rules about bad taste – as one man’s offence is another one’s humour. Hence people blackened their skin to appear as belly dancers, snake charmers and Arabs. A line of black-hooded, orange-jumpsuited Guantanamo Bay inmates (not folk from Guatemala, as my dad referred to them) may be considered tasteless, but what about the black-and-white-striped chain gang?

Adam and Eve wearing not much more than their fig-leaves were allowed in, but a bloke wearing a full-length fully-flesh-concealing penis costume was not.

By the end of the weekend (or even half-way through the first day) several costumes – and bodies – were severely worse for wear. Some had neglected to slip, slop, slap and there were acres of flesh, usually hidden but for some reason exposed, that was now bright red. The Mexicans with their giant sombreros had the right idea – there was no excuse for them to get sunburned.

We saw a bee with crushed wings and antenna, separated from her swarm and bringing a new interpretation to bumbling at 1pm on the first day. We saw brides vomiting rather than blushing in the seats behind us – although the ‘soldier’ she had picked up didn’t even seem to care, or even to notice. A match made in heaven. I’m sure everyone had a good time. Later they will dress in their civvies and resume their normal bland personas, but for this weekend they came; they drank; they dressed up.


For the record, we went as 60s throw-backs. We could choose our own skirt length and neckline, although the high-heeled boots were not a good idea in hindsight. My dad said I looked like my mother from yesteryear.

The boys went as Morris Dancers. When England won they waved their hankies and jingled their bells – even though some of them were Irish. Seeing them dance with Oscar the Grouch in the street at 1am was one of those surreal moments that make up major sporting tournaments.