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In the words of our favourite internet star of the moment (well... probably of 20 minutes ago, but since he's now featuring in TV advertising in New Zealand it's current for us) - WHAT DOES IT MEEEEEEEEEEEAN?!
GAH.
I can' believe it's bloody Hogmanay already. Hogmanay, non-Scottish people, is December 31st. NOT January 1st, which is New Year's Day. There's been some confusion re: the actual DATE of Hogmanay here in Noo Zillund from the less Sottishly-exposed.
Anyway, aside from wondering WHERE DID THE YEAR GO?! (into a six month haze of unemployment-related POVERTY and BOREDOM, that's bloody where) and mulling over that whole New Year's Resolutions thingie, I've been thinking about old Scottish Hogmanay traditions and wondering if they're different from anywhere else.
Hogmanay is meant to really be The Main Event for us Scottish people, bigger than Christmas (and therefore Bigger Than Jesus, just like The Beatles). I reckon that's probably mostly to do with the capacity for EXCESSIVE DRINK, but anyway. It's not The Main Event for me, I've always been a bit blah about New Year. It's a New Year! Just like last one! And the one before that! YAY! o_O
Anyway, in the event that Scottish Hogmanay Tradtitions may be of interest to any of you, here's the ones I could think of:
One other thing that should be mentioned is madiera cake. You HAVE to have madeira cake for Hogmanay and New Year's Day, it's practically TEH LAW. I always remember how there was a subtle shift in the supermarkets from HUGE PILES OF CHRISTMAS CAKE to HUGE PILES OF MADEIRA CAKE in the intervening days between Christmas and Hogmanay. My personal favourites were just the lemon one and the sultana-filled one. NOT the one full of disgusting chewy tasteless glace cherries. BLERG.
O_O
I have the WORST craving for a piece of madeira cake now. GODDAMMIT SOCIAL CONDITIONING! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!
In fact, I'm going to a New Year's thingie at the house of one of Himself's workmates. I might just look and see if I can find a madeira cake recipe and bake one to take with. And possibly buy a fruitcake and some pastry (CHEAT that I am) and see if I can locate a piece of coal. EX-PAT BECOMING SCOTTISHER THAN THOU, that's me!!1!
Edited to add: Now soliciting suggestions for a choon for Online Practise Club, to begin in the New Year! I've been trawling through my own collection, but any suggestions will also be considered! With many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
replyhazy for the idea to kick our own collective asses. Yay!
Anyway, aside from wondering WHERE DID THE YEAR GO?! (into a six month haze of unemployment-related POVERTY and BOREDOM, that's bloody where) and mulling over that whole New Year's Resolutions thingie, I've been thinking about old Scottish Hogmanay traditions and wondering if they're different from anywhere else.
Hogmanay is meant to really be The Main Event for us Scottish people, bigger than Christmas (and therefore Bigger Than Jesus, just like The Beatles). I reckon that's probably mostly to do with the capacity for EXCESSIVE DRINK, but anyway. It's not The Main Event for me, I've always been a bit blah about New Year. It's a New Year! Just like last one! And the one before that! YAY! o_O
Anyway, in the event that Scottish Hogmanay Tradtitions may be of interest to any of you, here's the ones I could think of:
- It's Good Luck for the first person over your threshold (the first footer) after the bells (midnight) to be a tall dark stranger (male, of course).
- It's BAD LUCK to leave the house before you have been first footed. (But SOMEONE'S got to be first, right?! Hence the tall dark stranger nonsense - clearly he is Not From Round Here, and it's all about our odd tribal hospitality thing, a bit like bedouins)
- The person to answer the door to the first footer should be the Man Of The House. The Wimmen Of The House should stay in the main room together, to be protected in the event that the first footer is rascally Auld Nick (the devil) come to make trouble.
- First footing presents which you should take with you to first foot someone (it's your duty to do at least one), should be some black bun and a piece of coal - symbolising food and warmth for the recipient family for all the year to come.
- What you're doing at the bells is what you'll be doing for the rest of the year. Which, in Scotland, is typically DRINKING and perhaps kissing strangers. So... yeah. o_O
One other thing that should be mentioned is madiera cake. You HAVE to have madeira cake for Hogmanay and New Year's Day, it's practically TEH LAW. I always remember how there was a subtle shift in the supermarkets from HUGE PILES OF CHRISTMAS CAKE to HUGE PILES OF MADEIRA CAKE in the intervening days between Christmas and Hogmanay. My personal favourites were just the lemon one and the sultana-filled one. NOT the one full of disgusting chewy tasteless glace cherries. BLERG.
O_O
I have the WORST craving for a piece of madeira cake now. GODDAMMIT SOCIAL CONDITIONING! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!
In fact, I'm going to a New Year's thingie at the house of one of Himself's workmates. I might just look and see if I can find a madeira cake recipe and bake one to take with. And possibly buy a fruitcake and some pastry (CHEAT that I am) and see if I can locate a piece of coal. EX-PAT BECOMING SCOTTISHER THAN THOU, that's me!!1!
Edited to add: Now soliciting suggestions for a choon for Online Practise Club, to begin in the New Year! I've been trawling through my own collection, but any suggestions will also be considered! With many thanks to
replyhazy for the idea to kick our own collective asses. Yay!
Christmas In a Foreign Land
Dec. 26th, 2010 01:43 pmThis is NOT a depressing post. It's not, it's not, I promise. Or I don't mean it to be. It's just a navel-gazing post, as most of mine invariably are. OK, as ALL of them are.
I am a Batman fan.
As in, pretty much all forms of Batman, except for George Clooney. I'm not big into Christian Bale (squicks me out and makes me think of Tom Cruise, for some reason), but those Batman versions were enjoyable enough. Michael Keaton, though, for ME personally, had just the right edge of "very nearly psychotic" that I think Batman needs to have.
Anyway! Saturday mornings here chez Whiz involve watching the cartoon series Batman: The Brave And The Bold from my big snuggly bed. It's not my FAVOURITE Batman cartoonification evar, but it's watchable. This morning, however? It set me a-ranting at an ungodly hour of a non-working weekend morning.
It was one of those goddamned CROSSOVER episodes. Batman somehow crosses paths with some other DC comics superhero, and lessons are learned and experiences shared and BLAH BLAH FUCKING BLAH. I'm watching for BATMAN. I don't care about bloody Superman or Spider-Man (who was always just too irritatingly ANGSTY and WHINY for my taste). Anyhoo, in this cross over, Batman and PLASTICMAN (gah) meet up with... UNCLE SAM AND THE FREEDOM FIGHTERS.
Gah.
Included in the Freedom Fighters?! DOLL MAN! THE HUMAN BOMB! PHANTOM LADY!
Dudes. AWESOME Superhero names. Can I be slightly sidetracked by how The Human Bomb is probably totally non-PC in our modern terrorist-laden times? I mean, I guess it's OK, because THIS Human Bomb fights FOR UNCLE SAM. Therefore it's good. It's stars-and-stripes-explodingly-all-over-your-screen good. ***W00t! Wave tiny American flags!***
But anyway, at this point I'm assuming (I like Batman, but I'm not up on EVERY ASPECT of the franchise) that this is rather an old series, and as such it's kind of awkwardly charming in it's anarchic non-pc ind of set up. Speaking of non-pc, did you check out Phantom Lady's AMAZING superpower?! You'll totally never guess - SHE TURNS INVISIBLE. I know, right?! AWESOMENESS!
What male comic book writer/reader DOESN'T want a hawt sexy mama who can just be vanished into thin air when she gets cranky/naggy/otherwise bored of? How many other goddamned invisible women are there in comics and sci-fi? Should we be receiving a message here, girls? Not so much seen and not heard - seen when we want to view your hawt short shorts, and then get me a sammich or vanish into thin air, kthnxbai. *eyeroll*.
Know of any Invisible MEN (aside from, you know, the obvious one) flisties? No? I can't think of any. Is that possibly because as a story it would be horrifically boring, because all said Invisible Man would do would be lurk around in ladies locker rooms working on developing one enormous Hulk arm? And thereby possibly causing a GLOBAL KLEENEX SHORTAGE, OMFG THINK OF THE CHILDRENNNNNN!?!
Huh.
Anyway, at the end of the episode, PlasticMan, who saves the day by discovering his patriotism (which, incidentally, we are encouraged to learn COMES FROM TEH HEART, rather than from learning dates and places and names. No, kids! GOD FORBID you should learn about significant events in your country's history lest you develop a political view OF YOUR OWN! Just sing Yankee Doodle Dandy! It doesn't even matter if you don't know the words. Uncle Sam will save the world for you if you JUST BELIEVE!!1!) - and he gets thanked by someone very special, the Man In Charge Himself, the President of the USA get out here you goombah... BARACK FUCKING OBAMA.
WHUT?! This.. this is a NEW cartoon?! This blatantly flag-waving, completely undisguised propaganda machine? With Uncle Sam talking about fighting THE RED ALIEN MENACE?! Really?! Well, HOLY SHIT. We seem to have slipped back into 1940-something where we were teaching the kids to hate the Germans.
See the episode (illegally!) in three parts on YouTube - or just watch the last one for the Obama cameo right at the end.
As in, pretty much all forms of Batman, except for George Clooney. I'm not big into Christian Bale (squicks me out and makes me think of Tom Cruise, for some reason), but those Batman versions were enjoyable enough. Michael Keaton, though, for ME personally, had just the right edge of "very nearly psychotic" that I think Batman needs to have.
Anyway! Saturday mornings here chez Whiz involve watching the cartoon series Batman: The Brave And The Bold from my big snuggly bed. It's not my FAVOURITE Batman cartoonification evar, but it's watchable. This morning, however? It set me a-ranting at an ungodly hour of a non-working weekend morning.
It was one of those goddamned CROSSOVER episodes. Batman somehow crosses paths with some other DC comics superhero, and lessons are learned and experiences shared and BLAH BLAH FUCKING BLAH. I'm watching for BATMAN. I don't care about bloody Superman or Spider-Man (who was always just too irritatingly ANGSTY and WHINY for my taste). Anyhoo, in this cross over, Batman and PLASTICMAN (gah) meet up with... UNCLE SAM AND THE FREEDOM FIGHTERS.
Gah.
Included in the Freedom Fighters?! DOLL MAN! THE HUMAN BOMB! PHANTOM LADY!
Dudes. AWESOME Superhero names. Can I be slightly sidetracked by how The Human Bomb is probably totally non-PC in our modern terrorist-laden times? I mean, I guess it's OK, because THIS Human Bomb fights FOR UNCLE SAM. Therefore it's good. It's stars-and-stripes-explodingly-all-over-your-screen good. ***W00t! Wave tiny American flags!***
But anyway, at this point I'm assuming (I like Batman, but I'm not up on EVERY ASPECT of the franchise) that this is rather an old series, and as such it's kind of awkwardly charming in it's anarchic non-pc ind of set up. Speaking of non-pc, did you check out Phantom Lady's AMAZING superpower?! You'll totally never guess - SHE TURNS INVISIBLE. I know, right?! AWESOMENESS!
What male comic book writer/reader DOESN'T want a hawt sexy mama who can just be vanished into thin air when she gets cranky/naggy/otherwise bored of? How many other goddamned invisible women are there in comics and sci-fi? Should we be receiving a message here, girls? Not so much seen and not heard - seen when we want to view your hawt short shorts, and then get me a sammich or vanish into thin air, kthnxbai. *eyeroll*.
Know of any Invisible MEN (aside from, you know, the obvious one) flisties? No? I can't think of any. Is that possibly because as a story it would be horrifically boring, because all said Invisible Man would do would be lurk around in ladies locker rooms working on developing one enormous Hulk arm? And thereby possibly causing a GLOBAL KLEENEX SHORTAGE, OMFG THINK OF THE CHILDRENNNNNN!?!
Huh.
Anyway, at the end of the episode, PlasticMan, who saves the day by discovering his patriotism (which, incidentally, we are encouraged to learn COMES FROM TEH HEART, rather than from learning dates and places and names. No, kids! GOD FORBID you should learn about significant events in your country's history lest you develop a political view OF YOUR OWN! Just sing Yankee Doodle Dandy! It doesn't even matter if you don't know the words. Uncle Sam will save the world for you if you JUST BELIEVE!!1!) - and he gets thanked by someone very special, the Man In Charge Himself, the President of the USA get out here you goombah... BARACK FUCKING OBAMA.
WHUT?! This.. this is a NEW cartoon?! This blatantly flag-waving, completely undisguised propaganda machine? With Uncle Sam talking about fighting THE RED ALIEN MENACE?! Really?! Well, HOLY SHIT. We seem to have slipped back into 1940-something where we were teaching the kids to hate the Germans.
See the episode (illegally!) in three parts on YouTube - or just watch the last one for the Obama cameo right at the end.
Randomness
Nov. 29th, 2010 05:59 pmI just watched an episode of a children's cartoon (the serialised version of The Barnyard. Yes, this is what I'm reduced to). Otis (the cow) had to wrangle the sheep back to the farm, and did so by saying he would do ANYTHING. Cue him wearing some bizarre headpiece and complaining that he'd laid on a traditional New Zealand banquet and was wearing this STUPID outfit (which.. looked NOTHING like traditional Maori dress, so I don't know what the hell it was supposed to be), and the sheep insisting for their final act of attrition that he had to do some "traditional Kiwi folk dance". Which he then did (apparently), jigging around ungainly to the sounds of... DIDGERIDOO. Way to go there, Hollywood.
blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah
In other sociomological insightification news, I just about peed my pants with excitement the other day at a news article on TV about the upcoming Royal Wedding. NOT because I'm excited about the Royal Wedding or anything (I am a Scot, after all)... but because they were talking about how Queen Lizzie was a formidable woman (agreed, even though I don't feel particularly... you know, patriotic or dynastic or... whatever) and how What's Her Name (Waity Katey) had a lot to learn from her. This was illustrated with clips of HRH and poor old Prince Open-Mouth-Insert-Both-Feet on their recent visit to Abu Dhabi. Obligatory snide comments were made by the newsreader about the "folk" dances used to greet HRH - which was a long line of men in thobes and keffiyah dancing in a line with canes (thin canes, complete with shepherd crook IIRC. Definitely NOT tahtib style manly man sticks). I think I've generally always seen khaleegy male line dancing with swords, so that was interesting. The news commentary wasn't MASSIVELY rude, just that really typical "Oh, foreigners are SO FUNNY, aren't they, with their funny little ways! How lovely!" kind of condescention that pisses me off so much (and that I associate with the BBC). I can't remember exactly what was said, but it was along the lines of "There's no end of strange receptions to get through - such as this one in Abu Dhabi, featuring men tapping canes and girls swishing their hair" - and BINGO! Brief (oh so brief) snippet of pretty dark-haired girl in a yellow/orange khaleegy thobe rather sedately swishing said long dark hair. Honestly, the footage of her must have been about THREE SECONDS LONG.
NEWSFLASH - I found it I found it I found it! http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-11835776
Oh. It's not women, it's little girls. I was really interested when I saw the footage, because I was THRILLED to see raqs nasha'at being used to greet a foreign dignitary. Because that must mean it's VALUED, right?! Now I'm feeling... well, a little bit more deflated that it was little girls and not EVIL SEXEE WIMMEN. *sigh* Well, at least it was there.
I also found this little gem, showing some photos from Princess Alice's 1938 visit to Saudi Arabia. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-11505153 Sadly, no women in the photographs other than the Princess herself - I was looking for evidence of Farida Fahmy's assertion that conservatism in the Middle East is cyclical - mind you, Farida WAS talking about the post-WW2 period, so perhaps I'll have to look there. (And maybe in Egypt rather than in more traditional areas like the Gulf.)
blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah
It's been another hot muggy day down here, and I've had another headache. Two days of weather-system pressure headaches in a row is not so much fun. I proably should have gone outside, got some sunshiney feel-good vibes, but I've been feeling so bleh about everything that I couldn't drag up the energy.
I had to put the heat pump on (set to COOL, obviously), and was horrified to discover a SPIDER living inside it. Poor thing seemed a bit baffled by what was going on.
Tired. Bleh. This was supposed to be Day One of being back on the wagon and getting on with getting some weight off, but. Tired. Bleh. Energy. Not there.
No news from the job I applied for last week yet - it only closed on Friday, but... yeah. Feels a bit bleak, but I shall endeavour to hope. My mother has re-named me Percy Verance, because that's just what I have to have right now! (Oh, and in silly name news, I have decided not to take a dance name. It's just Not Me.)
I DID indeed receive my Combination Nation DVD's the other day. And I've been watching them and writing one of my "I Obviously Wrote This WHILE I Was Watching" live-action type reviews. I may get round to posting it at some point soon, although I'm sure none of my flisties are particularly interested. But hey! Some bellydance n00b may one day stumble across my journal or something, so... yeah, I provide a totally clear, concise and valuable service. Or... something.
Anyway, I'm slo-o-owly recovering from the massive disappointment body blow that was my EPIC FAIL of acheiving Awesome Job at Company E. I've been off the fucking rails eating wise, and have gained 1.4 kilos.
fuckshitarsebastardfuckshitarsebastardfuckshitarsebastardfuckshitarsebastardfuckshitarsebastard
Well, shit happens. *sigh*. I'll get back on the wagon this week and see how I go.
So I've seen two jobs that I could apply for this week. This is a HUGE number here in Invercargill - it's much more common for at least two weeks to go by before ONE job I can apply for comes up, so two in one week is a pretty big deal.
ACTUALLY, really there's THREE. The shoe shop manager job that I applied and interviewed (and was fucking rejected) for probably about three months ago is being advertised again. Guess the person who was selected over me wasn't that fantastic after all, eh?! *snerk* However, I've decided not to apply for it again. Much as I adore shoes (like... deeply and possibly unhealthily), I HATE Retail and just don't think I can work in it. I am *not* a salesperson. While I'm desperate for a job and OMFG NEEEEEEEEEEEEEED to earn some money, I won't do myself any favours securing a job that I won't be any good at and won't enjoy. Not worth the stress.
Which brings me neatly on to a job I have just sent an application away for this evening (closes tomorrow). It is.... DUN DUN DUUUUUNNNNN... a fucking PAYROLL job.
I've done Payroll for the last three years.
( Why this is a problem... )
As you know, I bought little notecards last week to send as Thank You cards to my Company E interviewers. They are BRIGHT PINK and reminded me of mehndi designs and Islamic art - I KNOW, I'm a bellydancer right down to my corporate core. I CAN'T HELP IT. (Side note 1 - does nobody write notecards or letters anymore? Because it was nearly BLOODY IMPOSSIBLE to buy nice, plain - i.e. blank - notelets or notecards in the shops.) Last night, I wrote the cards out. I kept it brief (the notecards are very little!), and just said thanks for your time, was lovely to meet you and to hear about your plan for this exciting new role, really keen, hope to hear from you soon kind of thing. I did NOT go for any of the lengthy suck-up letter bullshit advice from the Interview Assvice websites, because DUDE. It's bad enough that I'm having to WRITE A FUCKING NOTELET, I'm not essentially writing another (hate hate HATE) Cover Letter. (Side note 2 - how long has it been since you wrote, BY HAND, a little letter? Even a little notelet? I.e SOMETHING NOT TYPED? Because my hand fucking CRAMPED like a bastard after every two lines or so. OUCHIE.)
This morning, I popped round to Company E and handed the cards over to the Receptionist, who did seem a bit baffled by it but what the hell. She probably thinks I fancy them or something. *eyeroll eyeroll* But let's not get me into a Gender Politiks In The Workplace rant or we'll be here all day.
So anyway, got home and got onto Skype to chat with Ma about how the whole thing had gone - she texted me about it last night, but I was too tired to bother answering because I am a bad daughter. (Side Rant: How come whenever Oprah Bloody Winfrey uses Skype on her show it's all FABULOUS smooth clean pictures and perfect sound? And when I use it the picture looks VAGUELY like you COULD be looking at the right person [through a smearing of vaseline] and every now and then the speech g e t s d r a w n o u t l i k e t h i s a n d b e c o m e s a l l r o b o t y f o r a m i n u t e andthenspeedsuptocatchupandsoundslikesomekindofChipmunksOnSpeedWTF? Fucking favouritism, that's why. Goddamn Oprahism.) Anyway, my mum was NOT IMPRESSED with the Thank You Cards idea. Not impressed at all. And neither was I when I read the tip, and neither was Himself when I told him I was going to the shops to buy Thank You Cards for my interviewers. Because we are British. Even worse, we're both BRITISH and the subset thereof: SCOTTISH.
Non-British flisties may wonder why this is an issue, and if we Brits have some kind of ANTI-NOTELET POLICY or something, so I shall explain what the problem is, in a nutshell - Pride. The Great British Stiff Upper Lip. Tall Poppy Sydrome. There's something very British about not tooting one's own horn. Being a boastful, arrogant asshat is really anathema to the British personality (although perhaps less so nowadays) - to write a THANK YOU card after an interview seems like BEGGING. Or like some kind of underhanded attempt to get yourself to the front of the queue instead of getting there on your own merit. It's... it's downright unsportsmanlike or ungentlemanly conduct. So for me, countenancing buying that little notelet and writing some kind of greasy thank you note was a real step into heathen foreign territory.
And for the Scot in me? Just writing any kind of notelet was GAY. Possibly even using the WORD "notelet" is gay. We don't HAVE feelings of which to write! Bring me a small fluffy animal that I might BITE OFF IT'S HEAD and write threatening sweary words in it's blood! That'll show 'em who to hire! I jest (of course), but there's an element of that. Scots also have a PROFOUND case of Tall Poppy Syndrome - you are *not* meant to try to be "better" than you are. Salt of the earth is a good thing, overacheiving IS NOT. Pride comes before a fall. My father was perversely proud of being "Working Class" (even though he... didn't work. Hm.), and poured scorn aplenty on anyone who tried to have "grand ideas" or "get above their station" in life by... oh, you know, WORKING or GETTING AN EDUCATION or any of those filthy high-faloutin' things that GOOD PEOPLE shouldn't have any truck with. So going for an interview for a higher-status job was loaded enough for me, much less then write some kind of GROVELLY LETTER. It pressed all kinds of strange, guilty, "You KNOW you're not really good enough" buttons in my subconscious. Not a nice experience.
Anyway, once I'd written my notelets to MY standards (brief, no grovelly hoo-hah), I was happy enough to take a chance to deliver them. Himself, initially HORRIFIED by presumably the thought that I was going into a card shop to buy two overpriced "THANK YOU" cards featuring teddy bears and butterflies and dear GOD a POEM, warmed to the idea very much when I showed him the notecards, and more so when I showed him the wording. We both figured that there was nothing OFFENSIVE about them that would be shooting myself in the foot, and that if nothing else, reminding the interviewers of my name on Day Two of the interview schedule was probably useful.
And then, as mothers often have an uncanny knack for doing, Ma reached through Skype and punched a hole in the whole thing, making me completely doubt myself. AFTER I had already handed the fucking cards in and couldn't do a damn thing about it. Ma is a high-faloutin', managerial type, BTW, not like Evil Dad at all.
Says she: "Oh." *screws up little tiny face in disgust, although I'm not quite sure through the vaseliney film of Skype... she might just have been fighting a sneeze* "Oh, I'm not sure what I would have made of that when I was an interviewer."
Says I: "Well, I know. I'm not comfortable with it either. I think it's an American thing. It can't hurt though, right?"
Says she: "It just seems a bit... cheeky."
Says I: o_O *tries to convey "WTF, thanks muchly, Ma" through grainy poor quality webcam picture Evil Eye*
Says she: "I mean, I'm SURE it'll be OK, but I always thought thank you letters were more of a rejection thing, you know, 'Thanks for your time, such a shame to have missed out, keep me in mind' ? No?"
Says I: "It is, mum. But if it gets them thinking about me on day two of interviews it just kind of raises my profile a little."
Says she, in the terribly heavy, LOADED way that only a mother can: "Oh well. I guess it'll be interesting to see what they make of that."
*sigh*
Thanks, Ma. You always know just what to say to make me QUESTION EVERYTHING I JUST DID, ALAS AND ALACK, TOO FUCKING LATE. And you always manage to come down juuuuuuuust on the Other Person's side of the Devil Advocacy. You're just lucky that you're the only Good Parent I've got, or I would so trade you in for a puppy.
The Noo Zillunders that Himself works with thought it was an excellent idea - I'll just have to take some consolation in that. Who knows whether Operation Notecard will pay off? Or if Operation Stealth Awesomess Document will pay dividends. Or whether none of the above apply and some other awesome candidate is currently rocking the interviewers world. At the very least, I can say I tried my absolute best, even putting aside my British Awkwardness and everything.
(well... not TOTALLY aside. It's fish 'n' chips for tea. You can take the girl out of Britain, but you can't take the Brit out of the girl. More's the pity!)
Just Beachy
Oct. 7th, 2010 10:51 pmHimself was finishing work early (well... 4pm) today, so we decided since it was such a glorious, cloudless Spring day, to head to the beach.
We'd been hearing a lot about this beach - a girl got chomped by a shark (just a small bite, she was absolutely fine!) there, and apparently you can drive on it, and it's allegedly lovely. I can now attest to the latter two, but I didn't see any sharks.
New Zealand beaches, in my experience, are FANTASTIC. Generally huge, long stretches of sand with very few people for the size of the space. We used to walk along New Brighton beach in Christchurch probably once or twice a week (occasionally with my friend's dogs, which usually led to a search for Houdini the beagle. You can probably guess why he has that moniker).
So, going to Oreti Beach in Otatara just beyond Invercargill - you literally drive onto the beach. You drive up the road, suddenly you notice sand at the side of the road, the speed limit drops to a sensible 30kmph, there's a bit more sand and then OH LOOK! We's on ur beach, drivin' our car. Bizarre, and awesome, and feels a bit rebellious and rule-breakery. Can you imagine being allowed to drive along a beach in Britain? Park you car on the sand and have a little stroll? Hoon around on it in your go-cart/dunebuggy/piece of shit $500 car? Well... without someone tutting at you or calling the police because WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDRENNNNN?!
So, in short - beach + car = strangely awesome. Must do again.
We'd been hearing a lot about this beach - a girl got chomped by a shark (just a small bite, she was absolutely fine!) there, and apparently you can drive on it, and it's allegedly lovely. I can now attest to the latter two, but I didn't see any sharks.
New Zealand beaches, in my experience, are FANTASTIC. Generally huge, long stretches of sand with very few people for the size of the space. We used to walk along New Brighton beach in Christchurch probably once or twice a week (occasionally with my friend's dogs, which usually led to a search for Houdini the beagle. You can probably guess why he has that moniker).
So, going to Oreti Beach in Otatara just beyond Invercargill - you literally drive onto the beach. You drive up the road, suddenly you notice sand at the side of the road, the speed limit drops to a sensible 30kmph, there's a bit more sand and then OH LOOK! We's on ur beach, drivin' our car. Bizarre, and awesome, and feels a bit rebellious and rule-breakery. Can you imagine being allowed to drive along a beach in Britain? Park you car on the sand and have a little stroll? Hoon around on it in your go-cart/dunebuggy/piece of shit $500 car? Well... without someone tutting at you or calling the police because WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDRENNNNN?!
So, in short - beach + car = strangely awesome. Must do again.
Property Inspection!
Oct. 7th, 2010 02:10 pmSo! I got a letter yesterday from my landlord/Letting Agent people, telling me that they were going to come by at some point between 1pm and 5pm (don't you just HATE that?! Can't ANYONE make a goddamned appointment anymore, rather than leaving these MASSIVE windows where someone "might" come by, so if you don't mind putting yourself ON HOLD for all of an afternoon, that would be great, kthnx! Arses.) to do a Property Inspection.
Hm.
Now, I should say that this is only the third property I've ever rented in my life. The first was rented from the Local Authority back home in good old Blighty, who frankly really didn't give a shit what you did in their houses (short of being all ASBO and whatnot). You could paint and decorate, all the furniture was your own, all the council really wanted was for you to hand it back empty. And, preferrably, clean. Which I absolutely 100% did when I left it - although how they would have tracked me down to penalise me if I'd left it in a shocking state like you see in those awful Environmental Health Squad type programmes, I have no idea.
Anyway, I rented that place for 11 years. I accumulated a lot of stuff. I painted and decorated MANY times. I even tiled. (Like, MYSELF. TWICE. Without the help of a tradesman. I will never tile again if I have the money to pay someone else to do it. Urgh.). I was kind of sad to see it go, what with the length of time it'd been "mine" (I even though briefly of buying it. [side note: totally going for a parentheses record here. Lookit, parentheses INSIDE parentheses! Meta!]). But it was also just one of those occasions where it was "time", I'd been there long enough, I was absolutely ready to move on. So, no biggie. The "letting it go" part consisted of popping down the council office and giving notice that I was terminating my lease, signing to that effect on my old lease documentation from 11 years before (hello, young me! Look at your shitty handwriting and all the YOUTHFUL HOPE leeching out of it! SUCKER!), and then when I'd moved all my stuff out, popping down to the office with the keys. Nobody inspected anything or got JUDGY. There were no bad consequences of your lazy housekeeping or your terrible choice of paint schemes.
So myself and Himself then rented a little unit in Christchurch for 18 months. It was the first house we saw, and we snapped it up. And no, not because it was a dream home or anything. In fact, think a very small, very dated little apartment that your gran would have. Complete with old lady knick-knacks (nick-nacks?) and colour schemes and the type of sofas old people seem to like - the kind with strange wing things at the sides and with little doilies on the armrests so they stay good. It was sufficient for us, though - it was furnished and in our price range and available right away, when we were just newly arrived from the UK and had no fucking idea where anything was or what we were going to be doing with ourselves.
We rented direct from the owner, not through any letting agency nonsense. The landlady owned several of the surrounding units, and seemed really nice. In the eighteen months we lived there, we had... ooh... one problem, I think - the hot water heater packed in. We contacted our landlady and she sent a plumber and electrician right round and it was fixed next day. She was awesome. And when we left, she popped round to once-over the place, but really gave it the most sparing of glances and wished us well in our next leg of the adventure. (Incidentally, we nearly KILLED OURSELVES in the fortnight before leaving, washing curtains and bleaching things and trying to get mold off of surfaces [more on that later] and using caustic oven cleaners that BLISTERED MY SKIN and shit knows what else. We really needn't have bothered).
This place that we're currently renting in Invercargill is WAY more swish than the place in Christchurch. It's bigger, has more furniture of a much higher spec, and has more complicated (thought probably not really larger) gardens. Which WE need to take care of, which is kind of a pain in the arse given that the grounds maintenance in the last place was taken care of by the landlady. And gardening sucks. Anyway.
So! The Letting Agent is coming to inspect in two weeks. Which has me bizarrely nervous and just about jumping out of my skin. Because I'm LIVING here. And I'll BE here while they're looking around, which totally makes me feel like I'm going to be being JUDGED and there'll be notes taken about my housekeeping or something. We've been going nuts in the garden chopping back some of the overgrowth, and it looks a bit... well, brutal. Which I'm wondering if they'll JUDGE and be all arsey about it... or maybe even want to claim money from our deposit or something. At which point I will absolutely Lose. My. Fucking. SHIT, because we FOUND A GATE to the garden behind all that mahoosive bush (heh), AND reclaimed 5 FUCKING FEET of lawn space which we are going to re-seed ourselves, so GET FUCKED, JUDGEY McSNEER!
I've been thinking about repainting the "feature" wall in one of the spare bedrooms (the one that we've decided will be the official Fancy Guest Bedroom), because I fucking HATE the too-dark blue colour that's in there and because the wall is damaged and that kind of thing really BUGS ME. Do I have to ask permission to paint a fucking wall? Will they totally know I was thinking about just painting it anyway without asking and be all "We're ONTO YOU, you wreckless painting type. We heard about your lime green/cobalt blue/silver STAMPING paint job in your kitchen 9 years ago and we're fucking watching you.", and I'll be all "OMG, I was YOUNG! I was a STUDENT! I was too poor for real tiles and I honestly thought those colours would go together and that was 9 YEARS AGO, man! I've got the shitty colour schemes out of my system and all I wanted was a plain, soothing soft green, I swear!" But they'll put me on some kind of BANNED list at Mitre 10 (like B&Q, you UK people) anyway and I won't even be allowed to buy a paintbrush as if I'm some kind of fucking Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen decorating terrorist?!
I am NOT over-reacting. EVERYONE ALWAYS SAYS THAT, IT'S A CONSPIRACEEEEEEEEEE!
The thing that annoys me the absolute most about it? Mold. On the letter it said they're particularly going to be paying attention to "evidence of mold and dirt on windows and ceilings". Now, for you people who have no experience of New Zealand housing, allow me to introduce you to the most disappointing thing about it. MOLD. The houses are pretty. They're all different from each other. They have character. But FUCK, you'd think these people had never heard of insulation. Or double glazing. Because the houses are cold. And DAMP.
It's a huge problem and one that the government is trying to tackle with legislation and insulation grants and fuck knows what else. Which is absolutely fuck all use, of course, if you're a renter rather than an owner. The mold in the place in Christchurch DISGUSTED me, and I got fed up trying to fight it with bleach sprays and dehumidifiers and gawd knows what else. I thought when we came here, to a bigger place with more natural air movement (where I got that idea, I really don't know), it would be mold-free. It LOOKED mold-free when we inspected the place. As soon as we moved in and looked closer? FUCKING MOLD. We keep the windows cracked just open most of the time, and open open during the day to get fresh air and remove condensation. THERE IS STILL MOLD. And these people are going to come round and get all judgy about whether there's mold on the ceilings and windowsill like it's my fucking FAULT?! How about the money I'm paying you to rent a fucking moldy house, you bastards?! And the fact that I have bloody asthma and this is messing with my health?! DAMMIT!
So now, for some reason, I am armed with the bleach spray and am going to try to tackle as mch of the mold as possible so that I don't get JUDGED. Even though I should totally be judging THEM and demanding that they do something about the unhealthy conditions. Fuck, I am such a pushover.
Hm.
Now, I should say that this is only the third property I've ever rented in my life. The first was rented from the Local Authority back home in good old Blighty, who frankly really didn't give a shit what you did in their houses (short of being all ASBO and whatnot). You could paint and decorate, all the furniture was your own, all the council really wanted was for you to hand it back empty. And, preferrably, clean. Which I absolutely 100% did when I left it - although how they would have tracked me down to penalise me if I'd left it in a shocking state like you see in those awful Environmental Health Squad type programmes, I have no idea.
Anyway, I rented that place for 11 years. I accumulated a lot of stuff. I painted and decorated MANY times. I even tiled. (Like, MYSELF. TWICE. Without the help of a tradesman. I will never tile again if I have the money to pay someone else to do it. Urgh.). I was kind of sad to see it go, what with the length of time it'd been "mine" (I even though briefly of buying it. [side note: totally going for a parentheses record here. Lookit, parentheses INSIDE parentheses! Meta!]). But it was also just one of those occasions where it was "time", I'd been there long enough, I was absolutely ready to move on. So, no biggie. The "letting it go" part consisted of popping down the council office and giving notice that I was terminating my lease, signing to that effect on my old lease documentation from 11 years before (hello, young me! Look at your shitty handwriting and all the YOUTHFUL HOPE leeching out of it! SUCKER!), and then when I'd moved all my stuff out, popping down to the office with the keys. Nobody inspected anything or got JUDGY. There were no bad consequences of your lazy housekeeping or your terrible choice of paint schemes.
So myself and Himself then rented a little unit in Christchurch for 18 months. It was the first house we saw, and we snapped it up. And no, not because it was a dream home or anything. In fact, think a very small, very dated little apartment that your gran would have. Complete with old lady knick-knacks (nick-nacks?) and colour schemes and the type of sofas old people seem to like - the kind with strange wing things at the sides and with little doilies on the armrests so they stay good. It was sufficient for us, though - it was furnished and in our price range and available right away, when we were just newly arrived from the UK and had no fucking idea where anything was or what we were going to be doing with ourselves.
We rented direct from the owner, not through any letting agency nonsense. The landlady owned several of the surrounding units, and seemed really nice. In the eighteen months we lived there, we had... ooh... one problem, I think - the hot water heater packed in. We contacted our landlady and she sent a plumber and electrician right round and it was fixed next day. She was awesome. And when we left, she popped round to once-over the place, but really gave it the most sparing of glances and wished us well in our next leg of the adventure. (Incidentally, we nearly KILLED OURSELVES in the fortnight before leaving, washing curtains and bleaching things and trying to get mold off of surfaces [more on that later] and using caustic oven cleaners that BLISTERED MY SKIN and shit knows what else. We really needn't have bothered).
This place that we're currently renting in Invercargill is WAY more swish than the place in Christchurch. It's bigger, has more furniture of a much higher spec, and has more complicated (thought probably not really larger) gardens. Which WE need to take care of, which is kind of a pain in the arse given that the grounds maintenance in the last place was taken care of by the landlady. And gardening sucks. Anyway.
So! The Letting Agent is coming to inspect in two weeks. Which has me bizarrely nervous and just about jumping out of my skin. Because I'm LIVING here. And I'll BE here while they're looking around, which totally makes me feel like I'm going to be being JUDGED and there'll be notes taken about my housekeeping or something. We've been going nuts in the garden chopping back some of the overgrowth, and it looks a bit... well, brutal. Which I'm wondering if they'll JUDGE and be all arsey about it... or maybe even want to claim money from our deposit or something. At which point I will absolutely Lose. My. Fucking. SHIT, because we FOUND A GATE to the garden behind all that mahoosive bush (heh), AND reclaimed 5 FUCKING FEET of lawn space which we are going to re-seed ourselves, so GET FUCKED, JUDGEY McSNEER!
I've been thinking about repainting the "feature" wall in one of the spare bedrooms (the one that we've decided will be the official Fancy Guest Bedroom), because I fucking HATE the too-dark blue colour that's in there and because the wall is damaged and that kind of thing really BUGS ME. Do I have to ask permission to paint a fucking wall? Will they totally know I was thinking about just painting it anyway without asking and be all "We're ONTO YOU, you wreckless painting type. We heard about your lime green/cobalt blue/silver STAMPING paint job in your kitchen 9 years ago and we're fucking watching you.", and I'll be all "OMG, I was YOUNG! I was a STUDENT! I was too poor for real tiles and I honestly thought those colours would go together and that was 9 YEARS AGO, man! I've got the shitty colour schemes out of my system and all I wanted was a plain, soothing soft green, I swear!" But they'll put me on some kind of BANNED list at Mitre 10 (like B&Q, you UK people) anyway and I won't even be allowed to buy a paintbrush as if I'm some kind of fucking Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen decorating terrorist?!
I am NOT over-reacting. EVERYONE ALWAYS SAYS THAT, IT'S A CONSPIRACEEEEEEEEEE!
The thing that annoys me the absolute most about it? Mold. On the letter it said they're particularly going to be paying attention to "evidence of mold and dirt on windows and ceilings". Now, for you people who have no experience of New Zealand housing, allow me to introduce you to the most disappointing thing about it. MOLD. The houses are pretty. They're all different from each other. They have character. But FUCK, you'd think these people had never heard of insulation. Or double glazing. Because the houses are cold. And DAMP.
It's a huge problem and one that the government is trying to tackle with legislation and insulation grants and fuck knows what else. Which is absolutely fuck all use, of course, if you're a renter rather than an owner. The mold in the place in Christchurch DISGUSTED me, and I got fed up trying to fight it with bleach sprays and dehumidifiers and gawd knows what else. I thought when we came here, to a bigger place with more natural air movement (where I got that idea, I really don't know), it would be mold-free. It LOOKED mold-free when we inspected the place. As soon as we moved in and looked closer? FUCKING MOLD. We keep the windows cracked just open most of the time, and open open during the day to get fresh air and remove condensation. THERE IS STILL MOLD. And these people are going to come round and get all judgy about whether there's mold on the ceilings and windowsill like it's my fucking FAULT?! How about the money I'm paying you to rent a fucking moldy house, you bastards?! And the fact that I have bloody asthma and this is messing with my health?! DAMMIT!
So now, for some reason, I am armed with the bleach spray and am going to try to tackle as mch of the mold as possible so that I don't get JUDGED. Even though I should totally be judging THEM and demanding that they do something about the unhealthy conditions. Fuck, I am such a pushover.
I'm quite sure, given that I've mentioned I'm struggling with my weight, that you'll be unsurprised to learn that I am not a sporty person. Shock! Horror! I know. Just sit down, put your head between your knees and breathe slowly and evenly. It'll pass.
I was one of those kids who religiously avoided PE (gym for any Yanks in the audience). This was condoned by my dad, who wrote me a note to excuse me from gym for the entire year. I don't know what it said. I know it started an argument with the gym teacher, my dad came in to meet her behind closed doors, he left victorious and she visibly upset. I'm sure he was a 14-carat asshole to her and I feel guilty for that now - but it got me out of gym FOREVA. Which was cool.
I just don't understand sport. (And yet I am phenomenally competitive, and a profoundly baaaaaad loser. Like, throw the checker/Scrabble/Monopoly board and a drink in your face if you beat me kind of bad loser. Even if, like, you're five years old and I'm 32. Don't invite me to Games Night I guess is what I'm saying.) You know, ORGANISED sport*. The kind with structure and great big rulebooks and crazy-dedicated fans. Because.... I'm not good with rules - in bizarre ways. Let me explain - I am a rule-follower. A pedantic, cold-sweat-breaking with the slightest deviance, even when nobody's looking kind of rule follower. I get super aggro when people drive the wrong way over arrows in the car park (and I never, ever do this because it makes me feel sick). I once hit another car in the car park, nobody saw me, and I marched down the the mall manager's office and INSISTED they put a call out with the description and plate number of the car so I could explain myself to the owner. They never showed and I still feel sick with guilt today about being ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE who do bad things and sneak away (Hi, do you have a red Mini? Did you park it one time at the EK Town Centre and come back to it to find silver paint transfer on your bumper and the smell of shame and guilt in the air? Call me!). I always pay for my parking, never overstay, never park where you're not supposed to. I queue super patiently in an orderly fashion, and feel like I'm breaking the rules if someone opens a new checkout and beckons me over. I KNOW, it's lame.
And yet... I have no patience to LEARN rules. Social rules, I'm all over it. Conscientiously. But sport rules? They're kind of like stupid club rules. No thanks, opting out. If I have to understand a whole new slew of rules and regulations that I might unbeknownst to myself be (oh god) breaking? My nerdy rule-abiding brain will kersplode. And that would be blancmangey and traumatising for everyone.
Anyway, despite my extreme aversion to sport, I went to a rugby match this past weekend. My partner used to play rugby (and has gnarly, irregular-bone-growthy damaged shinbones to prove it. Ouch), and his brother still plays rugby back home. Also, you know, this is New Zealand. Home of the All Blacks, which is basically like a team of Jesuses to rugby afficionados. We went to see our home team (now The Southland Stags rather than our old home team of The Canterbury Crusaders, who had a super cool rugby shirt with a big sword on the front AND THEN THEY CHANGED IT, and the only part of me that could ever have loved sport DIED. Thanks, Canterbury.) playing against Otago. There were.... lots of Otago fans. In face paint. And wigs. And.... Power Rangers costumes? Yeah. And lots of Southland fans wearing carved-out swedes as helmets. No, I don't understand why either.
The weirdness began in the pub before the game. It was an Irish bar, which always feels strange to me. I don't know why, probably some deep-rooted hoo-hah about Irish=Catholic mixing with my lapsed-Catholic family background (point of order: I was never a Catholic. But my mother once was) makes me feel guilty and hellbound. Or something. Anyway, the pub was filling up. With rugby fans. FROM BOTH SIDES. We were part of a large group going to root for Southland, and there were all these.... OTAGO people in there, in their conspicuous team colours. And....
....get this...
... NOBODY WAS FIGHTING.
Or even arguing. Or eyeballing each other to silent, in-their-heads-only Western High Noon tunes. They were drinking (DRINKING and yet NOT FIGHTING. WTF?!). They were chatting (not with each other, because then holy fuck I really would have expected HORSES TO START EATING EACH OTHER, which as Stan will tell you equals ARMAGEDDON), in their little team cliques.
Then we got on the bus. The bus that the Southland fans had clubbed together to put on (to drive, like, five damn minutes to the stadium but let's try to stay on track). AND THESE OTAGO FANS GOT ON THE BUS WITH US.
There was some light-spirited ribbing and banter. Nobody got glassed in the face, or stamped, or spat on. Nobody even used the "C" word. I was completely lost, freaked out, and scared. I looked out of the bus window but there weren't any horses to see in the city. I'm sure, in the fields, they were totally eyeing each other and seeing chicken drumsticks just like in the cartoons.
We got to the ground, and entered the stands. [SIDE NOTE: The stands were totally out in the open. UNCOVERED. SOMEONE who shall remain nameless but might wake up in the bed with me each morning told me that they would be covered in the highly likely event of rain. Shitebag.] It was kind of disorganised and I just took a spot that I thought would be kind of vaguely visible (it wasn't. More later). Then people started walking past me carrying six packs of beer. CANS of beer. You know, heavy cans of beer? That can be used as missiles? There were... loads of them, wandering past wearing their swede helmets (wtf?) and carrying a six pack each. I... began to get a bit nervous.
Then the Otago fans filed in next to me. NEXT TO ME. In the same stand. Milling around in their conspicuous Otago colours with their big "O" flags <snicker> and whatnot. And I turned to He Who Was Not Earlier Named Despite His Lies, Damn Lies - and stared. He stared back. Were there really going to be... drunken, beer-carrying RIVAL FANS standing in the same stands as us? Surely not! Look, there's a nice high-vis-vested security person, I'm sure they're going to huckle these dirty rotten Otagians (go me, getting my game face on) and send them packing to their own stand.
They didn't.
They just nodded and wandered past.
So, there we were, all game, in mixed bunches who were obvious either because of the colours they were bedecked in, or the particular side that got cheered or jeered. I was SURE Shit Was Going To Go Down. And... it never did. It was a close run game, and in the end Southland won (kind of narrowly). Given that the (very, VERY) drunken Otago fans in front of us were chanting "Let's Go Fucking Men-Tal" (and funnily, my brain interpreted it into Scottish accents, because it seemed so very familiar), I figured the Trouble would come in the walk out of the stadium, in and around the side streets, in the city centre.
It... didn't. The Otago fans who were on the bus with us on the way to the game got back on the bus on the way home, pretty good-humoured about their defeat, to some slight ribbing but an awful lot of terribly SPORTSMANLIKE comments about the good quality of the game. What the HELL?! Where was the blood? The faces twisted up in mindless hatred, the biggoted chanting, the viscious insults? Where the improvised weapons and creative use of expletives?
There are very many ways in which I'm reminded that I am Not From Around Here and have my own crazy customs. This was perhaps the single most vivid one.
And I really, really liked it.
(PS - I didn't actually see any of the game, partly because [shortness + random drunken persons falling around and about and into me] * crowded stands = SHIT ALL VISIBILTY and PLENTY RAGE. I learned nothing about the rules of rugby, and still don't know how it works. C'est la vie)
*Calvinball. That's my kind of sport right there. And also, being a bad sport at that would totally be acceptable - nay, required.
I was one of those kids who religiously avoided PE (gym for any Yanks in the audience). This was condoned by my dad, who wrote me a note to excuse me from gym for the entire year. I don't know what it said. I know it started an argument with the gym teacher, my dad came in to meet her behind closed doors, he left victorious and she visibly upset. I'm sure he was a 14-carat asshole to her and I feel guilty for that now - but it got me out of gym FOREVA. Which was cool.
I just don't understand sport. (And yet I am phenomenally competitive, and a profoundly baaaaaad loser. Like, throw the checker/Scrabble/Monopoly board and a drink in your face if you beat me kind of bad loser. Even if, like, you're five years old and I'm 32. Don't invite me to Games Night I guess is what I'm saying.) You know, ORGANISED sport*. The kind with structure and great big rulebooks and crazy-dedicated fans. Because.... I'm not good with rules - in bizarre ways. Let me explain - I am a rule-follower. A pedantic, cold-sweat-breaking with the slightest deviance, even when nobody's looking kind of rule follower. I get super aggro when people drive the wrong way over arrows in the car park (and I never, ever do this because it makes me feel sick). I once hit another car in the car park, nobody saw me, and I marched down the the mall manager's office and INSISTED they put a call out with the description and plate number of the car so I could explain myself to the owner. They never showed and I still feel sick with guilt today about being ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE who do bad things and sneak away (Hi, do you have a red Mini? Did you park it one time at the EK Town Centre and come back to it to find silver paint transfer on your bumper and the smell of shame and guilt in the air? Call me!). I always pay for my parking, never overstay, never park where you're not supposed to. I queue super patiently in an orderly fashion, and feel like I'm breaking the rules if someone opens a new checkout and beckons me over. I KNOW, it's lame.
And yet... I have no patience to LEARN rules. Social rules, I'm all over it. Conscientiously. But sport rules? They're kind of like stupid club rules. No thanks, opting out. If I have to understand a whole new slew of rules and regulations that I might unbeknownst to myself be (oh god) breaking? My nerdy rule-abiding brain will kersplode. And that would be blancmangey and traumatising for everyone.
Anyway, despite my extreme aversion to sport, I went to a rugby match this past weekend. My partner used to play rugby (and has gnarly, irregular-bone-growthy damaged shinbones to prove it. Ouch), and his brother still plays rugby back home. Also, you know, this is New Zealand. Home of the All Blacks, which is basically like a team of Jesuses to rugby afficionados. We went to see our home team (now The Southland Stags rather than our old home team of The Canterbury Crusaders, who had a super cool rugby shirt with a big sword on the front AND THEN THEY CHANGED IT, and the only part of me that could ever have loved sport DIED. Thanks, Canterbury.) playing against Otago. There were.... lots of Otago fans. In face paint. And wigs. And.... Power Rangers costumes? Yeah. And lots of Southland fans wearing carved-out swedes as helmets. No, I don't understand why either.
The weirdness began in the pub before the game. It was an Irish bar, which always feels strange to me. I don't know why, probably some deep-rooted hoo-hah about Irish=Catholic mixing with my lapsed-Catholic family background (point of order: I was never a Catholic. But my mother once was) makes me feel guilty and hellbound. Or something. Anyway, the pub was filling up. With rugby fans. FROM BOTH SIDES. We were part of a large group going to root for Southland, and there were all these.... OTAGO people in there, in their conspicuous team colours. And....
....get this...
... NOBODY WAS FIGHTING.
Or even arguing. Or eyeballing each other to silent, in-their-heads-only Western High Noon tunes. They were drinking (DRINKING and yet NOT FIGHTING. WTF?!). They were chatting (not with each other, because then holy fuck I really would have expected HORSES TO START EATING EACH OTHER, which as Stan will tell you equals ARMAGEDDON), in their little team cliques.
Then we got on the bus. The bus that the Southland fans had clubbed together to put on (to drive, like, five damn minutes to the stadium but let's try to stay on track). AND THESE OTAGO FANS GOT ON THE BUS WITH US.
There was some light-spirited ribbing and banter. Nobody got glassed in the face, or stamped, or spat on. Nobody even used the "C" word. I was completely lost, freaked out, and scared. I looked out of the bus window but there weren't any horses to see in the city. I'm sure, in the fields, they were totally eyeing each other and seeing chicken drumsticks just like in the cartoons.
We got to the ground, and entered the stands. [SIDE NOTE: The stands were totally out in the open. UNCOVERED. SOMEONE who shall remain nameless but might wake up in the bed with me each morning told me that they would be covered in the highly likely event of rain. Shitebag.] It was kind of disorganised and I just took a spot that I thought would be kind of vaguely visible (it wasn't. More later). Then people started walking past me carrying six packs of beer. CANS of beer. You know, heavy cans of beer? That can be used as missiles? There were... loads of them, wandering past wearing their swede helmets (wtf?) and carrying a six pack each. I... began to get a bit nervous.
Then the Otago fans filed in next to me. NEXT TO ME. In the same stand. Milling around in their conspicuous Otago colours with their big "O" flags <snicker> and whatnot. And I turned to He Who Was Not Earlier Named Despite His Lies, Damn Lies - and stared. He stared back. Were there really going to be... drunken, beer-carrying RIVAL FANS standing in the same stands as us? Surely not! Look, there's a nice high-vis-vested security person, I'm sure they're going to huckle these dirty rotten Otagians (go me, getting my game face on) and send them packing to their own stand.
They didn't.
They just nodded and wandered past.
So, there we were, all game, in mixed bunches who were obvious either because of the colours they were bedecked in, or the particular side that got cheered or jeered. I was SURE Shit Was Going To Go Down. And... it never did. It was a close run game, and in the end Southland won (kind of narrowly). Given that the (very, VERY) drunken Otago fans in front of us were chanting "Let's Go Fucking Men-Tal" (and funnily, my brain interpreted it into Scottish accents, because it seemed so very familiar), I figured the Trouble would come in the walk out of the stadium, in and around the side streets, in the city centre.
It... didn't. The Otago fans who were on the bus with us on the way to the game got back on the bus on the way home, pretty good-humoured about their defeat, to some slight ribbing but an awful lot of terribly SPORTSMANLIKE comments about the good quality of the game. What the HELL?! Where was the blood? The faces twisted up in mindless hatred, the biggoted chanting, the viscious insults? Where the improvised weapons and creative use of expletives?
There are very many ways in which I'm reminded that I am Not From Around Here and have my own crazy customs. This was perhaps the single most vivid one.
And I really, really liked it.
(PS - I didn't actually see any of the game, partly because [shortness + random drunken persons falling around and about and into me] * crowded stands = SHIT ALL VISIBILTY and PLENTY RAGE. I learned nothing about the rules of rugby, and still don't know how it works. C'est la vie)
*Calvinball. That's my kind of sport right there. And also, being a bad sport at that would totally be acceptable - nay, required.
