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.

The Second Coming

Word is that Robbie ‘walks on water’ Fowler has signed for the North Queensland Fury. This means I’ll get to see him play again, so that’s definitely a game I’ll be going to watch, and it might spice things up a bit in the A-League.

Him Outdoors and I have been following the Wellington Phoenix for the past two seasons – having bought season tickets to support them. They have recently lost their two best players, Shane Smeltz and Glen Moss which is a big blow and suggests they might be struggling even more next season.

When Dad told me the news, he suggested that I might have a dilemma in whom to support. I’m not sure where he got that from – there’s simply no question – just as there’s only one Robbie ‘walks on water’ Fowler.

He is a legend and one of my favourite ever Liverpool players. His playing days alongside the likes of McManaman, Redknapp and Owen are such stuff as dreams are made on. Not least because of this against Arsenal, which was nice.

A Toast to Friendship

This morning I was sitting on the bus coming into work. As usual I had my nose in a book; The Cellist of Sarajevo as it happens. It’s a good book but I was imagining the destruction of a city that you knew well from birth and how it must feel to race across the streets to avoid sniper fire. How could this possibly feel normal? I read the following passage which made me reflect:

“It seems impossible to remember what things were like. And he suspects this is what the men on the hills want most. They would, of course, like to kill them all but, if they can’t, they would like to make them forget how they used to be, how civilised people act. He wonders how long it will take before they succeed.”

As I was thinking about this, I gazed out of the window and was confronted by a large toast image on the side of an art gallery. Maurice Bennett designed this Pasifika-themed toast piece to reflect the strong Pacific culture of Newtown. It was installed on the side of the Suite Gallery to coincide with the Six degrees of Separation exhibition.

I really like Maurice Bennett’s toast art – it’s amusing and creative and accessible, which are fine things to be found in artworks. The man also owns supermarkets and makes beer – good beer. I tasted some at the Beervana beer festival and enjoyed it immensely.

I recently read an article about Mr Bennett who has lived with leukaemia since being diagnosed with the disease in 2000. He still leads an active and inspiring life, and is quoted as saying, “Life revolves around friendship. It's not about seeing every place in the world, it's about enjoying what you've got.” This sounds glib until you think about his situation.

Juxtaposed with the terrible things I was reading about in Bosnia, it was humbling to think I could look out of the window and see a work of art that made me smile. I have a good life. I need to remind myself of that occasionally when I get stressed by work, family, or social commitments. It does revolve around friendship (and I’m including my family in that) and in that respect I move in a pretty special orbit. So thank you to all of you who make it special, and here endeth today’s lesson.

Calypso Cafe

We’ve seen the bright blue and yellow building on Taranaki Street as we drive home – in fact it’s quite hard to miss it – and I’ve often thought I would like to try it out. It’s called Calypso and is purportedly Wellington’s only Caribbean restaurant.

Last night I had an hour between work and rehearsal, and Him Outdoors was working late, so we met there for dinner. The colours, reminiscent of golden sands and seductive oceans, lured us into a sense of calm despite the busy location next to the main road. It’s bright, cheerful and spacious, with décor almost like a fast food place and the food is reasonably priced, but very different.

The dishes display the fresh ingredients and tropical produce of the island region. Apparently the local cuisine is a fusion of Native American, African, European and Asian flavours, adapted to the produce of the tropics. Him Outdoors was expecting something like goat curry, but there are plenty of curry places already, so they (and we) tried out something new.

The service was friendly and attentive without being pushy. Our waitress was keen to point out what ingredients they use and how they cook them. A basket contained breadfruit and plantain, or Caribbean banana, so we could see what they looked like in the raw. Plantains are firmer and lower in sugar than dessert bananas and are treated in a similar way to potatoes in tropical regions.

I had a seafood gumbo which was rich and hearty with plenty of seafood and vegetables, including okra – one of my favourites. Him Outdoors had a beef and corn stew with chunks of meat and baby sweet corn and breadfruit in coconut milk on the side which he also declared to be delicious. Our meals came in clay pots with pyramids of yellow rice and peas, and a hot dipping sauce. The portions were certainly substantial.

There was no need for desserts, although the puddings listed on the blackboard all looked enticing (and coconut-laden) but I’m pretty sure I’ll go back and try them again. Next time I’m also going to have one of their cocktails ($10 and rum features heavily). Last night they had a special concoction called ‘Obama-rama’ but sadly, being as we both had to concentrate for the next couple of hours, we had to give this a miss.

For some reason, I've had Blue Bayou in my head ever since - beautiful song, The Roy Orbison version - not the Linda Ronstadt one, which is way more screechy and less powerful to me.

Betrayal - Harold Pinter

Last night I went with Him Outdoors and my parents to Circa Theatre to see Betrayal. It was fabulous – all four of us thought so, which is a pretty good strike rate from a fairly diverse audience. My parents first saw this play about 30 years ago and were keen to see it again. Him Outdoors has never seen a play by Pinter and wondered what I meant when I said a play was ‘Pinteresque’. I think he has a pretty good idea now.

Betrayal is the story of an affair between Emma (Danielle Mason) and Jerry (Toby Leach). Emma is married to Robert (Jason Whyte), and Robert and Jerry are best friends. Yes, it’s an old story and the love triangle has been played out on stage in so many ways, but this feels fresh and memorable. The split level divided set works well and the sound and lighting add to the ambience without intruding, allowing the audience to concentrate purely on the three people in the ring.

It is a play about power and the distortion of assumptions, which is told in reverse. The effect is like finishing a book and going back immediately to re-read it to wonder, ‘would I have seen that coming?’ Founded on dramatic irony, there are times when we know that she knows that he knows, but he doesn’t know. If this sounds like it’s confusing, it could be. It pays to pay attention; to keep the upper hand.

Toby Leach is on crutches due to a pre-play incident which must have altered the staging of some scenes. It is tricky to indicate power when you are sitting on a sofa with your leg in plaster, but the play is one of verbal sparring rather than anything physical and many of the scenes are critical in their repressed motion – an arm flung across a sofa; a tightly belted coat; a briskly-snapped-shut book all speak volumes.

The revealing moments thick and fast, and the sympathy switches from wronged husband to aggrieved couple to man/woman desperately trapped in a loveless marriage and back again. This play was written in 1978, and there is a tendency of critics to ask, ‘Is Pinter still relevant?’ Hell, yes. Love; jealousy; repression; competition; excitement; self-affirmation; and, indeed, betrayal – aren’t these universal themes? Or are we all perfect now?

Jason Whyte is excellent as Robert; his fast-paced delivery with crystal clear enunciation is the perfect counterpoint to Leach’s more languorous posturing. Whyte plays his part with controlled menace and a smile that could give you nightmares. Danielle Mason could concentrate less on the accent and more on the assent. Her Emma is beautiful in a willowy way, but she radiates more constipated sterility than consummate sensuality.

The dialogue is almost frustratingly natural, giving the play its moments of humour. The circuitous communication conceived here gave birth to the conversations beloved of modern comedy (think Teachers; Green Wing; The Office; Alan Partridge). Apparently Harold Pinter hated actors (or other directors) messing with his script. Why would you when one of the definitive playwrights of modern theatre has laid it all out for you?

Unless they have been seduced by American popular psychology talk shows, real people don’t analyse their feelings in excruciating detail. You have to surmise what they mean from what they say and how they act, and that is exactly what we are given in Betrayal.

Is there an underlying current? Under close questioning from Emma, Jerry barks back, ‘I said exactly what I meant’. There is a lot of movement beneath these still waters, and, as a popular contemporary advert would have it, ‘If you’ve never learned to swim, you’re like a baby in the water.’ Will these characters drown or stay afloat? It all depends how well they have learned to negotiate the hidden rapids.

Read other reviews

The Blackhurst Beer Festival (continued)

Continuing on with the Blackhurst Beer Festival. The conversation and the beer was flowing by the time we got to,

Beer Number Six - Green Man Dark Mild, 3.5%, New Zealand

Green by name; um, black by nature. Brewed in Dunedin at the Green Man Brewery to strictly organic standards (with no additives, sugar or isinglass – a fish product often used to clear beer), the Dark Mild is even suitable for vegans! Mellow, rich and sweet with an underlying bitterness, this style of beer was very popular in the North and the Midlands of England in the early-mid 20th century as the ‘beer of choice’ for manual workers looking to quench their thirst after a hard day’s work down t’pit or at t’mill, and is undergoing a revival among real ale producers in the UK.

It is named after the Green Man, oddly enough, an old folk-fertility symbol, said to represent the essence of nature itself. Hedonistic and ritualistic, the pagan figure dies each year in November and is reborn on 1st May.

The brewery website claims, ‘He is found in the spirit of the trees, and his presence can be felt around you, in the bush… He is in orgies on the hillside, riots in the street, the celebrations of plenty, and the privations of crop failure. He is in inebriation, orgasm, trance and possession. His eyes typically do not focus, and his image is part comforting and part worrying, like the force he represents.’ Sounds like a drunken old hippy to me – hurrah!

Comments:
Smooth silky little number
Dark and sexy – like an Asian prostitute
Rich, full of potential but overall a letdown – just like Man City
Hints of charred oak – or how I imagine it tastes
A Shakespeare beer – full of great content, but not everyone will appreciate it
Insipid and dark – the Keanu Reeves of ale
Chocolatey burnt taste – very nice; put me down for a case
Sticky but not that strong – I likeeee likeeee
A seductive, languid liquid – bloody good. Well done to whoever made this

Green Man Dark Mild came in at 6th place.

Beer Number Seven - Köstritzer Schwarzbier, 4.8%, Germany

The brewery that produces this fine drop was founded in 1543 and is one of the oldest producers of black beer (schwarzbier) in Germany. It was a favourite of Goethe who sustained himself on its health-giving properties when he was too ill to eat. Perhaps if we all fortified ourselves thus we too could write literary masterpieces with the impact of Faust. Here’s to trying…

Typical words used to describe this beer include chocolate, coffee, creamy, malty, roasted cereal, and (strangely considering all that) bitter. The amusingly translated German website states, ‘Brewed according to the German Purity Law of 1516, the original is convincing by its light and sparkling character; it really is a great enjoyment. The production of Köstritzer Schwarzbier is based on the Pilsner style. Its strength is comparable with light beers. It has been and will remain the nation-wide market leader.’ And who are we to argue with the Germans…?

Comments:
Revolting fizzy black stuff
I would rather eat glass than drink this
Marvin Gaye of ales – smooth, smooth and darkly dreamy
Hints of liquorice
Yuk, bitter and twisted – the Joan Collins of beers
Aroma of treacle and roasted nuts – perfect accompaniment to a Sunday afternoon
A big black lovely hole – dark, dreamy heaven
Another tasty beer, defo on the road to somewhere
Malty molasses on a wintry evening to warm the cockles of one’s soul – except it is summer

Quite a range of comments for this - some people like black beer and others simply don't. It came 8th overall.

Beer Number Eight - Jenning's Sneck Lifter, 5.1%, England

Another offering from the Lake District (Cockermouth to be precise), this winter warmer is a completely different ale. It is strong and dark with a reddish tinge derived from the use of coloured malts, described as ‘like diving through a bubble bath of hops’ – now there’s an image... Bitter and smoky; rich and chocolately; nutty and almost ashy, it is one for a night in front of the fire.

A sneck is a door latch in Northern-speak and a sneck-lifter was a man’s last sixpence with which he lifted the latch and entered the pub. Jenning’s are committed to beer drinking in the fells and sponsor ‘Geo-trails’ a GPS service that allows fell-walkers to know how far away they are from the nearest pub. This sounds like the sort of thing every household should have.

Comments:
I couldn’t drink a lot of this, but I expect it’s expensive and gets you drunk quickly
Black and fizzy – like coke but not
Poor!
Not my favourite – burnt taste, burnt after-taste and a burpy after-hue I want a grappa with this one – magic stuff
Very tasty beer
Chocolatey in a beer-like way

Really rather nice
Sweet and yummy
Many a good night forgotten on this one
Chocolatey goodness
Like velvet on the back of the throat
Chocolate and coffee – mochabeero

Ladies and gentlemen - we have a winner. Jenning's Sneck Lifter is our Champion Ale of the night.

Beer Number Nine - Petrus Dubbel Bruin, 6.5%, Belgium

A Belgian offering ‘brewed with pure spring water and carefully selected hops and malts’ – so they didn’t just bung them all in then? I particularly like the jolly monk on the label waving a tulip glass of beer and a large ‘key to heaven’ – that is not a euphemism for anything nasty.

The beer is made at the Bavik Brewery in Bavikhove, West Flanders; a town with an admirable history. Records from the end of the seventeenth century show that the population was about 800 people and the village had six pubs – a document signed by the mayor and the aldermen, and addressed to the higher authorities, states that all these pubs ‘are a necessity and useful’. Quite so.

The Bavik Brewery was ‘confiscated’ by the German army during WWI, but they were persuaded to keep it open while the town and several nearby cities, such as Ypres, were destroyed. After the war, the brewery owner married a brickie’s daughter and he sent barrels of his beer on the cart with the bricks from the brickyard to the building front – bricks and beer; the foundation of any good city.

Now the largest international criterion for professional cyclists takes place in Bavikhove annually. It is accepted and expected that spectators take their glass of beer out onto the streets to watch the race. As the Bavik Brewery writes, ‘We don’t want anyone to be thirsty or having a dry mouth while shouting and encouraging the racers.’

Comments:

Creamy, good body
Very sweet and syrupy – a bit sickly really
Definitely a friend of Dorothy’s – far too fruity for friendship
Belgian beer, much liked by the group – suitable for cold dark evenings by the fire
Sweet finish yet malty – strong in alcohol like a Belgian beer
Couldn’t drink a lot, but a little is lovely
Like a cream pudding – you want a small slice but couldn’t eat the whole pie
Strong and sweet like alcoholic treacle
Fruity aroma initially – very fruity and a little jammy
Ginger, yeast, lovely magic beer
Malty, citrusy and gingery

Coming in at second overall, this proved quite a popular choice, 'much liked by the group' indeed!

Beer Number Ten - Urbock, 7%, Namibia

This is a traditional German-style bock, proof of Namibia’s past history as a German colony. Bocks are made with all malt and are strong, malty, medium to full-bodied beers with moderate hop bitterness. It is brewed in Swakopmund which is also interestingly enough the birthplace of the world’s most unfortunately-named human spoonerism; Shiloh-Pitt (think about it).

Namibia Breweries Ltd make this beer once a year so it is only available in May of each year in limited quality. It adheres to the German Purity Law and samples are regularly sent to a leading German brewing institute in Munich where the product is evaluated against quality standards prevailing in Europe.

Huge squabbles have developed between NBL and the giant South Africa Breweries and things seem to be getting nastily political, with the Advertising Standards Authority and the Namibian Government becoming involved. It’s serious stuff, is beer.

Comments:
A brooding beer
Packs a punch but a bit crazy – like Frank Bruno
Not bad at all for something I would never order in the pub
Taste of seasons greetings – Chateau Neuf de Christmas
No idea what this is, but I’d have it again once I found out what it was Undertones of honey – I like it
Looks fruity, smells strong – sticky
A small taste explosion occurs in the mouth – malty, yeasty, hoppy and quite yummy
Very strong with BIG flavour – too much
Liquorice, aniseed and black treacle

And this tasty little number merited a 4th place overall.

So, there we have it - the Annual Blackhurst Beer Festival is drunk and dusted for another year. Thanks to everyone for caming and sharing yur thoughtsand comments with the group. We may see you again next time. Meawhile, here is a reminder of the ladder of success.