After a great few days in Hong Kong, we finally touched down in Auckland airport and a couple of hours later, we were dozing in the family van as Dad drove us all down to the orchard. The weather was glorious and we looked forward to a decent summer after a long and rather arduous year of winters (for me at least).

But two days later, the skies opened and it rained steadily for 7 days!

Fortunately the rain finally abated and the blue skies returned as they always do. The rain had nourished a dry and slightly arid landscape and suddenly there was a real growth spurt around the place.

Time to get mowing!

Well - the day has finally arrived.

After 20 years in the UK, it's time to return to New Zealand - at least for awhile - in order to spend some time with the family. More time than can be spent in one of my bi-annual 6-week visits.

This has of course meant that we have had to pack up and leave the house we have lived in for 13 years, and boy was that an exercise and a half. The amount of useless crap that one accumulates over that amount of time is quite gobsmacking. I took over 30 carloads of junk to the dump and we also managed to fully fill an 8-yard skip! That's not counting the hefty piles of stuff we also managed to unload in charity shops and on unsuspecting friends!

Once the packing was complete, then came the cleaning and by the time we handed the keys back to the landlord, our hands were cracked and bleeding. The unusual cold snap dropped enough snow and ice to hamper a few last minute plans, but fortunately, did not affect our flight out of Heathrow. Andy very kindly drove us up to the airport, where we rendezvoused with Tosh for a couple of farewell drinks and a few laughs. It was a somewhat tearful farewell for us all as we said our final goodbyes for a fair while and headed through the departures lounge.

We had a couple of "Oh Shit!" moments when the flight was delayed, thanks to the BAA muppets sending it to the wrong gate and then a power cut in the air traffic control tower, which plunged it into darkness for 45 minutes or more, but some 2 hours after our scheduled take-off time, we finally got airborne.

See ya Blighty - we'll miss ya

Hong Kong, here we come!

Fifteen years ago today, I headed out to the sunny climes of Malta in the late summer, with three new friends. It was a trip that marked the beginning of an incredible bond of friendship, which is celebrated throughout the Bandanna Club website.

For me, it was a life-changing time.

It had been a tough year. My younger brother had recently passed away and his birthday which had occurred a few days earlier, was still a sharp and painful memory. I had recently separated from my wife and partner of some 10 years in what eventually became an amicable divorce, but was at the time still stressful. We were both facing a crossroads in our lives, but this time to go in different directions.

Some months prior to all this, my wife persuaded me to attend a Sealed Knot banquet at the invitation of a work-colleague of hers, who was a long-time SK Member. We headed over to Farringdon, near Oxford where we checked into a local pub and duly dressed in the period costume that was kindly loaned to us.

For some reason, my wife did not enjoy the night...probably because I got rather squiffy, spent most of the evening meeting and chatting with lots of new people and was perhaps not as attentive as I could have been. The following morning, I happily signed up as new members of Sir Marmaduke Rawdons' Regiment of Foote, one of our locally-based SK regiments, with a reputation as hard-hitters on the battlefield and good-natured drinkers in the beer tent (mostly ).

I got some of my SK kit as Christmas presents and looked forward to my first muster in Easter (which, at Christmas time is a fairly long way off). But shortly after the New year, relations with my wife began to deteriorate and the next few months were a difficult time for both of us.

Easter and my offical separation from my wife happened on the same weekend; I spent most of Good Friday helping her shift into a small flat of her own and then returned home. I had a lot on my mind and I almost decided not to go to my first muster. But I'd promised I would go and the muster was just down the road. So I changed into my Pikemans kit, grabbed my pack and headed to the Old Basing common (where the camp ground was) in a taxi.

Much of the rest of the evening (and the rest of the weekend! ) is rather hazy; I remember the laughter, the jokes, the campfire, the people and a strong sense of companionship. We drank a fair portion of port from a bottle shared around the roaring fire and stayed awake all night to watch the pre-battle dawn. I had the sense that I had landed in the middle of something that was going to prove a turning point in my life.

Within a few months, I was a regular "Knotter", blagging rides with passing Knotters to various "musters" up and down the country and I remember almost all of my time in the SK with a great deal of fondness.

More important than the musters and the general SK culture of pub-based company get-togethers that happen between musters or off-season, were the bonds of friendship that we started to develop. I soon had a smaller circle of fellow regimental members, who I got on particularly well with and it was three of this group (Andy, Su and Tosh), that now accompanied me to Malta.

While in Malta, Tosh and Andy opted to do a diving course with me and shortly after arriving, we booked into a local dive club, based near our hotel in St Julians. The full story is on our Malta diving page if you fancy a look, so I won't rehash it here.

On our first day we even managed to arrive at the dive centre a little bit early, despite nursing slight hangovers. While waiting for the place to open, Andy and Tosh wandered into a nearby sporting goods store and minutes later emerged with broad smiles.

They presented me with a Nike Bandanna, in a deep crimson red with white logo. Andy had an identical one and Tosh had a white version with crimson red logo and lettering. Andy showed me how to tie it and did the same for Tosh (who - unlike me - got it sussed immediately).

A few minutes later, the Bandanna Club was born.

Our various exploits and adventures since that time are well documented throughout the Bandanna Club website. What is perhaps not so well documented is the extraordinary bonds of friendship that we share.



In the years since Malta, we have lived in different homes and places (sometimes in different countries). Young families are being raised and careers pursued. People move further apart or closer together. Time keeps ticking and our world keeps changing.

But no matter what the changes, trials and tribulations, all that it takes to get me to smile, is contact with the boys and girls of the bandanna club.

Happy birthday brothers and sisters.

You are the good souls

"So I turn to you and I say,
Thank goodness for the good souls,
That make life better,
As I turn to you and I say,
If it wasn't for the good souls,
Life would not matter."

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This was written by an Air New Zealand flight attendant in Auckland.

I'm damn sure I'm not alone in agreeing with him...

I work, they pay me... I pay my taxes and the government distributes my taxes as it sees fit.

In order to earn that pay cheque I am required to pass a random urine test, with which I have no problem. What I do have a problem with is the distribution of my taxes to people who don't have to pass a urine test. Shouldn't one have to pass a urine test to get a welfare cheque because I have to pass one to earn it for them?

Please understand that I have no problem with helping people get back on their feet. I do on the other hand have a problem with helping someone sit on their arse, drinking beer and smoking dope.

Could you imagine how much money NZ would save if people had to pass a urine test to get a welfare cheque?

Please pass this along if you agree or simply delete if you don't. Hope you will pass it along though, because something has to change in this country!

...and soon

Well, it's almost time to fly again.

I've spent the last 5 days in Hong Kong, braving the drippy-wet humidity levels, the bursts of torrential rain that are always a part of the Typhoon season and for some reason a large influx of extremely fat, loud, crass aussies, in their "best" clobber (i.e. grotty old bermuda shorts, tank tops and floppy sandals...Jeez, what's with that?)

That aside, it's been a fun trip as always. As well as the previously reported trip to Macau, I also found time to visit the Avenue of Stars, visit the Wong Tai Sin temple and the Hong Kong Museum of History...in between the usual window shopping on Nathan Road and the great food at any number of restaurants, cafes and street stalls, all located just off the main drag.

Although my hotel room was a little bit small, the hotel itself was fairly reasonably priced, had all the usual facilities, along with a few small extras (like free bottled water at reception and free internet cafe access) and was located conveniently close to Temple Street, home of some excellent seafood restaurants and the night markets. Also within spitting distance was a 7-11, a foreign exchange bureau offering reasonable rates, an airport shuttle taxi stand and a decent wee cafe/bar. They also gave me a reasonable deal on a late checkout. Excellent!

Despite the still-reasonable hotel prices (especially compared to the UK!) I couldn't help but notice that prices in general have risen significantly in the last year or so. Hong Kong seems to have shrugged off much of the recession doom-and-gloom and is enjoying something of a mini-economic boom...which inevitably leads to increased property prices, rents and - eventually - increased consumer prices across the board. That, plus the extremely shitty GBP value has made the trip more expensive than expected, but not hugely so.

There are also other subtle changes; a few more elderly homeless people are visible, especially at night. A significant portion of the previously rather straight-laced market area has been taken over by adult entertainment shops, flogging DVD's by the score. The copy-watch and tailor touts are more prevalent than they were, but hey - this is Nathan road after all.

Still, the place remains clean and tidy - much more so than it ever was under British rule. The TV abounds with a whole range of public-service ads, broadcast during prime time and which deal with everything from fire prevention, to rodent control, to new anti-smoking legislation and cultural heritage preservation. Citizens are invited to take part in a range of public consultations on a variety of planning issues which will affect their lives and everywhere, there are PR campaigns expousing the benefits of physical fitness and a good education.

By western standards this may seem a little nanny state-like, but it's not pushed down your throat. The authorities seem to have found the right balance between stick and carrot and for every issue that involves a penalty, there seems to be one which expouses benefits.

Perhaps it's the humidity and the heavy rain, or perhaps it's other thoughts on my mind (or just the aussies), but this trip I never quite seemed to "click" with Hong Kong, in the way I always have done before. I can't quite put my finger on it, but for the first time in all my trips here, I'm looking forward to heading out.

That probably says more about me than Hong Kong though...

I've been to Hong Kong a number of times in recent years and every time I visit, a trip to Macau is usually on the to-do list. But somehow I always seem to run out of time.

This time was different. After getting settled in to the Eaton hotel on Nathan road, I started looking into the best way to visit Macau.

While the TurboJET looked interesting, it did involve a longish taxi or MTR ride to the terminal on the Hong Kong Island side of the harbour. And since I was in no particular rush, I instead opted for the regular ferry service, run from the Hong Kong China ferry terminal, about a 15-minute walk from the Eaton Hotel.

Since Macau is an autonomous territory (much like Hong Kong) you have to take your passport with you and go through a sort of cut-down version of the departure / arrival procedures that most airports have. This includes the completion of departure cards, check-in, stamping of passports, but not the x-ray, metal-detector stuff so much. A round trip ticket on 1st Ferry cost me HK$270 (about 22 quid) and trip took about an hour each way. The seats were spacious and comfortable and once the ferry cleared the harbour, it picked up speed and soon we were doing heading briskly across the south china sea.

Once you clear Macau passport control and customs you have to run a little bit of a gauntlet of special duty-free offers, rickshaw and taxi touts and the inevitable casino shuttle buses before you can head on down the main drag, but if you put your smiley face on and just stroll past them all, you won't be hassled too much.

I had picked up a tourist map at the ferry terminal and after having a brief look at a handful of the harbourside casinos, I sat down to study the map in detail. It was a hot and very humid day and I soon realised that in order to see some of the more interesting locations, I would need transport. So I wandered back to the ferry terminal and negotiated a deal with one of the local chaps who spoke passable english, to take me to several of the World Heritage sites in the historic centre of Macau. We agreed on a 2 and a half hour tour for HK$650 (about 55 quid), which wasn't overly cheap, but seemed the best way to see a reasonable chunk of Macau without walking my feet off.

We headed off in his air-conditioned people-mover (ahhh bliss!) along the main drag, while my erstwhile guide gave me a few simple factoids; Macau has a population of over half a million people, crammed together in a space of just under 30 square kilometers. It's known first and foremost as a gambling mecca. Other chief economic activities in Macau are export-geared textile and garment manufacturing, banking and other financial services.

10 minutes later, we arrived at the first agreed stop, the A-Ma temple situated on the southwest tip of the Macau Peninsula, which is one of the oldest and most famous temples in Macau. Built in 1488, the temple is dedicated to the goddess of seafarers and fishermen Matsu. While my guide found a shady spot, I set off to have a closer look.

As temples go, it was interesting enough and had a few things of note. Chief among these was a bronze bowl about the size of a large meat dish with two brass handles, one on either side. When someone dipped their hands in the water and then rolled their hands over the brass handles in a smooth arc, the bowl spouted a tiny fountain, much to the delight of all onlookers.

The next stop was the historic centre of Macau, which included some interesting examples of Portugese architecture, all well maintained and painted in a variety of interesting colours. These included the Senado Square, the Na Tcha Temple and the Ruins of St Pauls.

Despite the heat, the place was pretty crowded with visitors and part of the square was adorned with large overhead nets, filled with giant paper lotus blossoms, remnants of the 9th Macau Lotus Festival, held earlier this year. Everywhere, street hawkers sold what appear to be the chief food specialities of Macau; freshly baked almond cookies and a range of spicy beef jerky.

After wandering round the square, the Moorish barracks and the Mount Fortress, I paid a brief visit to the Museum but time was running out and I didn't get a chance to spend a lot of time there.

While there were no shortage of people around, parts of Macau have quite a run-down look; grafitti adorns the sides of many buildings and there were a number of almost derelict buildings around the periphery, which were in stark contract to the smart-looking town centre. The overall impression was of somewhere that had known better times, but was still trying to put a brave face on things.

With my time up, we headed back to the Ferry terminal and after obtaining my return ferry ticket (by exchanging a transfer voucher supplied to me in Kowloon) I headed back to Kowloon. As Macau fell away into the mist, I decided that I definately had to come back. You can't really get a sense of any place in just a few hours and there were enough interesting places on my map which I didn't get a chance to visit this time, to justify another visit.

So long for now Macau.

See you again sometime...

Book burning is something that sticks in our craw a bit.

Most of us are taught that the burning of books is a bad thing. Ditto for flags. And world history during the last century has been littered with ominous events of hatred and intolerance, in which the burning of books or flags has played a central symbolic role.

Witness the mass book burnings in Nuremburg, during the rise of the Third Reich, the burning of the new testament by orthodox Jews in Jerusulem, or the burning of copies of Salman Rushdie's The Satanic verses in the cities of Bolton and Bradford, in the UK. No matter whether it's many copies of one book, or piles of different books, the image of book burning is one that tends to disturb anyone with even a modicum of education and tolerance.

Hell, even Harry Potter isn't safe.

And it's not confined to any one school of thought or religion. The extreme ends of all the tribes of Abraham; Jewish, Muslim and Christian have publicly burned books at one time or another.

This weeks' story about previously unknown, small-time, small-town self-styled pastor Terry Jones and his plans to burn copies of the Koran on the 9th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks provoked a storm of controversy around the globe.

Which was exactly what this little non-entity wanted. Now this mustachioed moron has a world stage in which to broadcast his medievil mutterings.

The media - as is so often the case - has frantically fanned the spark into a full-blown frenzy. I mean, come on - this nowhere man had a congregation of less than 100 like-minded simpletons. The protests in the Muslim fringe were likewise very small in number, but media reports made it look like some places were on the verge of nationwide uprising.

Regardless of the outcome of this particular story, the best lesson we can all learn is this:

Sometimes the best way to deal with fucking idiots like Jones, is to either ignore them, or better yet, laugh at them.

I dream of a world where this is the standard reaction when someone burns books or flags.

Laughing for happiness and world peace

...and the best way to do that, is to re-examine our attitude to book burnings.

After all, books are nothing more than paper and cardboard, with a bit of writing and binding. The book itself is not important. What is important, are the ideas that the book expouses.

And if the ideas are worthy, they remain in the hearts and minds of all those who understand and believe them.

What we should feel for those simple-minded fools that have to burn books to make a point, is not anger or outrage, but pity for their ignorance.

And in doing so, not only do we demonstrate our better nature and superior belief, we also take away the power that book burning has to hurt us.

The worst reaction we can display is precisely the one we have displayed in this instance; presidential pleas, government pressure, media coverage and flag-burning in mosques, all of which justifies and validates the actions of the moron minority and which in turn gives them power over us.

Screw that!

A book is just paper. A flag is just a rag on a pole. The real value of both is inside us.

And it's somewhere safe, that can't be burned so easily.

I am immensely relieved that no-one was killed in the recent earthquake in Canterbury. With a magnitude of 7.1 on the Richter scale, the quake struck the South Island of New Zealand at 4:35 am local time on the 4th of September and is believed to be the worst earthquake to hit Godzone since 1931.

Friends of mine who live in an apartment block in the CBD of Christchurch provided a harrowing account of the experience:-

Firstly we were woken up at 4.35am on Sat morning with loud grumbling noises and very violent shaking. The shaking was so powerful you just couldn't stand up. One of our neighbours cut her arm badly on the corner of her bathroom wall by trying to walk around while the earthquake was happening. It was like being on a ship during a hurricane. Or a roller-coaster!!

The aftershocks proved to be almost as big a problem as roads cracked, water and sewage pipes ruptured and falling debris created more damage and a bigger safety hazard.

Hell, I was only there 3 weeks ago!

The damage repair bill is already being estimated to be over a billion dollars...and rising as new aftershocks continue to hit the city of the plains.

But buildings can be repaired, infrastructure replaced. Lost lives cannot be resurrected and the body count was: zero.

That at least is something to be grateful for.

Postscript: Check out the quake location yourself by using the Christchurch Quake Map

A few weeks back, I caught up with an old school pal of mine for a whisky and a brief trip down amnesia avenue. In the course of our 20-year+ news catchup, he mentioned that he played bass in a rock covers band called The Second Sense and suggested I come along to a gig.

After a couple of false starts and last-minute drop-outs, I finally managed to get along to the Crown and Badger last night, to check them out.

Second Sense is a 4-piece, comprising Reid (lead vocals, rhythm guitar), Trevor (lead guitar and backing vocals), Shane (Bass player and Blackwatch tartan kilt wearer) and Jed (drummer). They play a good range of classic rock covers and play them well. Last night's set included a number of my old favourites including the Doobie's Long Train Running, Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall and Run Like Hell, Acka Dacka's Highway to Hell and Dragon's Rain. They even chucked in a good cover of Men at Work's Be good Johnny as an early bonus. Excellent!

The ladz have a regular circuit, that covers a fair chunk of the Bay of Plenty and Thames playing gigs in Tauranga, Rotorua, Hamilton, Cambridge, Matamata, Whitianga and the Coromandel.

Check em out for yourself when you are in the neighbourhood.

All-Blacks take it

Despite all my travels around this little blue-green planet, I have to confess that I've never been to the South Island of New Zealand.

Well, technically that's not quite true; I once boarded the ferry from Wellington to Picton in a drunken stupor. When I arrived in Picton, it was 10pm and raining hard, everything was closed and the ferry was heading back sharpish, so I hopped back on and returned to Wellington. But I figure that this doesn't really count.

Over two decades later, it was nice to finally get down to the big island, in a much more sober and inquisitive state of mind. After grabbing a cheap Pacific Blue flight from Auckland to Christchurch, I touched down in the garden city around 9:30pm and within half an hour I was having a late bite and a beer with my old friends Nick and Sian at their groovy new apartment, overlooking Hagley Park.

Saturday dawned fairly bright and we headed off to a local farmers market in nearby Lyttleton, then drove back across the ridge, stopping to get a few snaps along the way (at least Nick did; like a prat, I'd left my camera at their place!). A light lunch was followed by a wander round the Canterbury museum (paying special attention to the weird and quirky Paua Shell House) and of course the famous Christchurch Cathedral.

Having done the culture thing, it was time to head to a the Holy Grail; a well-known local pub with a huge screen, to watch the 5th Tri-Nations match between the All-Blacks and the Wallabies. The match was being played in Christchurch and the town was heaving with supporters dressed in both black and the green and gold. 80 minutes later, the All-Blacks had once again emerged victorious (beating the Wallabies 20-10) and hordes of supporters spilled onto the streets and headed for the nearest bar. We headed over to the Twisted Hop for a pint or two, before rocking on to Fat Eddie's for a couple of rusty nails and a big dose of live music, courtesy of Kate Taylor and her 5-piece funk band KTO. It was getting onto after 2am by the time, we made it home.

After sleeping off the hangover, we decided to head back into town to attend the 2010 International Film Festival and see a screening of Please Give and a very enjoyable film it was too. We emerged from the cinema to find the rain pelting down and a chilly wind blowing, so we ducked into a nearby cafe for a hot cup of Chai and a chat about the film, before heading back to the apartment. Around 7pm we rounded off the evening with dinner in another local bar, followed by a pub quiz that kept us occupied until almost closing time.

Not a bad way to spend a weekend eh?

It was with some reluctance that I said my farewells on Monday morning after Nick and Sian dropped me at the airport, and headed back to Auckland. Christchurch is a fun town and is definitely on my: must-visit-again list. And many thanks to my friends there for their warmth and hospitality.

Awesome!

Rawdons new website is now online.

It contains pretty much everything that a new recruit would want to know, so if you have ever thought it might be fun to give the whole reenactment thing a go, check it out. It's well worth it.

And well done Su for doing such an excellent job!

Well, it's been a pretty good day, all things considered.

I awoke around 7:30 to find a steady rain falling. By the time I had washed and eaten, it was pretty clear that there wasn't going to be much pruning done today. Fortunately, I have no job to go to and I already had lunch plans with an old family friend, so I headed over to Mount Maunganui to meet him for lunch at a nice Thai place, followed by a soak in the nearby mineral hot pools.

"It's the only time it's great to be up to your neck in hot water", a friend of mine once quipped, during a visit to the pools a few years ago (the group response was a long "aarrrhhhh" and a demand for the quipper to pay the everyone's entry fee by way of atonement). But he was right...it's a very satisfying feeling to be having a good soak.

...especially after a decent Pad Thai / Green curry combo, washed down with a cold Chang beer.
...especially in a warm, mineral, salt-water fed pool, while a light cooling rain falls overhead.

Bliss!

While the heat soothed aching backs and joints, my host and I talked some business, caught up on family news, discussed histories and exchanged ideas. I could almost feel the spirits of Socrates and Plato hovering nearby.

Visiting a mineral hot pool is something that - much like the Scandinavians - Kiwis do on at least a semi-regular basis. We just don't bother with all the self-flagellation stuff and the jumping into iced-over lakes. Seriously...wtf Sven? Hot pool visits were - and still are - a regular family favourite. Kids of similar ages often grow up dive-bombing each other from ever-greater heights until someone's Mum spots it and tells them off! At different times of the day, season or year, you will see a pretty reasonable cross-section of society, all using the hot pools. And why not? The health benefits are held to be widespread (even though you will find plenty of visitors who would say that's not proven, but who enjoy a soak just the same).

Arriving home, relaxed and refreshed, around 3pm, I ducked indoors, out of a squally shower for a cup of freshly brewed coffee and a minor Facebook update. Played a game or two of Warcraft, then a pal phones and suggests a pot luck feed and a DVD at his place. Choice!

A short drive in the pouring rain is followed by a couple of beers, a steaming plate of chops and veges, choco ice cream and a fresh cup of cappuccino, all consumed in front of a real log fire while "Traitors" plays on the box and the rain falls steadily outside. We watch the film, trade jokes, catch up on each others' news and generally have a laugh or three.

It's after 1am when I finally head home during a break in the rainfall. By 2am, I'm lying in bed, listening to the rain on the tin roof, letting it lull me off to the land of nod...

Yep - not a bad day at all!

I've only been back in New Zealand for a few weeks and already I'm sick of hearing about "the principles of the treaty".

A typical example is today's visit by a UN representative on indigenous peoples James Anaya, who said from what he has observed during his visit to New Zealand, treaty principles are too vulnerable to political discretion. Mr Anaya used the example of Te Reo Māori being made an official language, yet not made compulsory in schools.

What the F***?

Is learning the Aboriginal language compulsory in Australia? Are the Swedes all learning Sami? Are any of the native American languages compulsory in the US? I don't see the Chinese making Tibetan a compulsory language or the Northern Iraqi's making Kurdish compulsory. Who is this bozo and what medication is he being prescribed?

Of course this prompted yet another solo protest. A chap named Ropata Paora parked a beaten up old Isuzu 4x4 across the only road leading to and from One tree hill in Auckland. The 4x4 had been hastily painted up to resemble a UN vehicle and Paora stated: "Without the treaty, they'd be illegal aliens. So unless they acknowledge the treaty, my korero [speech] to them is 'I'm not the trespasser, you are,'".

Amusingly, the police cited Paora as the 4x4 had at least one deflated/unsafe tyre and no warrant of fitness (the NZ version of an MOT) since 2007.

While clowns like Paora are at least entertaining, it's ironic to see how time and political fashion have turned on the treaty of Waitangi. When I emigrated from New Zealand almost 20 years ago, Māori activists were loudly proclaiming the treaty to be "a fraud". Two decades later, protesters like Paora are complaining that it isn't being acknowledged.

What exactly is not being acknowledged?

The Treaty of Waitangi is actually a very simple document and contains only three articles:-

1. Article 1 puts all of New Zealand under the rule of the British crown.
2. Article 2 guarantees the Māori chiefs their existing lands and prevents them being sold to anyone but the crown. This was intended to protect Māori from the kinds of shady land purchases which had alienated indigenous people in other parts of the world from their land with minimal compensation.
3. Article 3 guarantees to all Māori the same rights as all other British subjects.

While it's true that complications arose (the most major one being the differences between the English and Māori versions of the treaty) and that some Māori got the shitty end of the stick in a handful of dodgy real estate deals, the fact is that this all happened over 170 years ago. Decades of discussion and billions of dollars have changed hands. From the Iwi Trust to Tāngata whenua, a huge range of social initiatives have been funded, all designed to redress the wrongs done to the self-proclaimed "indigineous" people of this land.

I have 3 words for the likes of Paora; boo fucking hoo!

It's way past the time to put this ancient crap to bed, stop thinking of ourselves as members of this ethnic group or that tribe/part of society, class and what not, stop playing the race card or waving the flag of victim-hood and start thinking of ourselves as New Zealanders first and foremost.

And maybe the first step, should be either re-defining the term: indigenous or re-examining it's use in the current context...

The Oxford English Dictionary definition of: indigenous is:-

originating or occurring naturally in a particular place; native:

By that definition, anyone born here or even those who have lived here for a major portion of their lives are...indigenous.

We have real economic, social and environmental issues we should be concentrating on. We should be focusing on creating and maintaining our schools, roads, hospitals, on global economic and environmental issues and how we can play our part in making a better world for ourselves and each other. Instead, we remain focused on the things that divide us instead of those that unite us.

Let's be the change that we want to see in the world...

Let's ALL be indigenous

Television in New Zealand can be largely summed up in 4 words: seven channels of shite.

It's full to the brim with loud, brash, unfunny American and Australian crap, interspersed with even louder and brasher ads for half-price sales at Harvey the Rabbit or some such, about every 10 minutes. It's basically a noise factory that in a very short period of time leaves the viewer numbed to the seemingly endless flow of static it spouts.

I'm not really sure why I turned the TV on, during a dark and stormy night as I sat in a comfy armchair in front of the flickering embers of a cozy fire. I'd been reading a novel by the light of a solitary lamp and listening to the rain pounding on the tin roof, when I set my book down and flicked on the boob-tube, for no particular reason that I can recall.

What I heard was a track that made me sit up and listen.

The song was called: Careful and the artist was Flip Grater.

With a distinctively smooth coffee-and-cream voice that is reminiscent of both Stevie Nicks' vocal performance in Fleetwood Mac's Dreams and Wire Daisies vocalist Treana Morris, Flip Grater has created a masterpiece of Indie subtlety in her new album While I'm Awake I'm At War.

Every aspect of the album speaks of craft; simple, clear guitar licks and a softly-played violin which carries the listener down a dark river. Minimal bass lines and a muted rhythm give the album a soft-spoken, melancholy sound that makes the heart ache and the mind reminisce and remember. The lyrics are intelligent, thought-provoking and meaningful.

It has a little bit of a country feel, but not of checkered-scarf-and-square-dancing ilk; instead it's a more folk-like sound, which evokes images of windy Celtic landscapes and salty driftwood scattered over a long stretch of lonely, wind-swept beaches. It does make use of the much-maligned steel guitar in tracks such as I am gone, but the effect is more along the lines of Chris Isaak's Wicked Game, which - coincidentally - followed on the TV almost immediately afterward.

Dark and evocative (as the best Folk music always is), but with a thin vein of light running through it (in tracks such as Bullet that I ride), While I'm Awake I'm At War is a superb arrangement by any measure and an absolute must for any fans' collection.

Play it on a dark and stormy night, when the rain pours and the wind howls. Pour yourself a dram while staring at the embers of a dying fire...and (re)discover a sound that caresses the mind and heart, a sound that evokes thoughts and feelings...

Rediscover music.

It's all downhill from here....wheeee!

Footage was shot on pocket camera, in one take. We could only get low-res photos which are not very clear, it has no video fade effects (I couldn't figure out how to do them in bloody Adobe premiere!) and all in all is a bit rough and ready (just like us!) ...

...but it's from the heart (and maybe the lungs and stomach)

One of my bugbears is dysfunctional packaging (in the UK), which appears to be a large percentage of it.

For some reason (and I have no idea what has changed to initiate it) certain packaging has become almost impregnable to the average unadorned human being (hands, teeth, feet etc). Flimsy plastic wrapping is now something a superhero could be proud to use in their fight against crime. Try opening for example a plastic bag of sugar, herbs, nuts or anything other than certain snack foods (a few of which are still designed to be opened with just our hands) and you will need tools; a knife or a pair of scissors, a hedge trimmer maybe. Because if you manage to open them by hand and don't give yourself a hernia in the process, then the bag will split (presumably in order to punish your precocity) and the contents will spill all over the place, often dramatically. A result I call CSE (contents spewing everywhere).

Ok fine I have scissors in the kitchen, so I use them. But the way the bag has been designed - folded and glued - means that it is not possible to do a clean cut straight across or even a clean straight cut of a corner, unless you are a origami expert twice removed (some dishwasher salt bag designers please take note). So the top or corner is now zigzagged shaped, which means that pouring anything out of it involves, yes you guessed it, 'contents spewing everywhere' again. Ok, so I quite like the bottom of my dishwasher covered in salt crystals ... looks kinda festive don'tya think?

Or ... bags of sugar which are so full that to cut below the top glue line means (unless you have a steady hand, good eyesight and are really careful) 'contents spewing ... ' yeah I think you get what I mean. Then they add insult to injury and include that useless large piece of sticky tape, which is <sarcasm type="extreme">really handy</sarcasm> for you to stick down the top after opening, even though the bag is so full that it bursts open a few nanoseconds later; then when the bag becomes more comfortably empty the tape loses its stickiness anyway.

I am beginning to think that packaging designers are just taking the proverbial ... Ok maybe a tad paranoid, but I wouldn't be writing this if it was just an occasional occurrence; because just lately it appears to be that too many packaging items have some sort of dysfunction. It's a trend of sorts. I'm sure that there are all kinds of security, health & safety and other reasons that it happens - but it still annoys the heck out of me, because it just feels gratuitous or badly thought out.

Anyway here's just a few initial items on my personal aggravation list:

• Juice cartons, you know the hard to open, cardboard/foil/plastic/whatever combination cartons which are practicably unrecyclable and will only pour anything if allowed to gurgle-slop and then more often than not 'spew contents everywhere'. I've lost count of the amount of times the plastic ring-pull security seal thingy has snapped off, so that you cannot open them without some kind of electrical equipment and a sort of grim determination.
• Sugar, herbs, nuts for cooking etc or anything that has that horrible stiff plastic wrapping and is glued up the whazzoo (in order I presume to stop people opening them in the store, wandering around whilst snacking out and perhaps doing a little shopping in the meantime). Thus trying to open them by hand (as previously mentioned) almost always results in CSE (contents spewing everywhere) in your kitchen and possible starvation if you are in the 'field' caught short without a Swiss knife, machete or ice pick to hand.
• Wine bottles with foil tops, that have no tab to help peal them off, although it is one way to spend an almost Zen-like and rather thoughtful afternoon pealing off the foil top, micromillimeter by micromillimeter. Just keep a packet of plasters handy (... if you can open them that is ... sob).
• Milk bottles (plastic), those with foil security tops that occasionally are overglued and just will not come off, resulting in ... once you do get them off and before calling emergency to treat your dislocated shoulder, more blooming CSE!
• Teabag boxes, with that flimsy plastic outer covering that is fiddly to open and peal off ... piece by piece by ... and then you have to 'unseal' the cardboard box underneath anyway (whereby you learn that paper/cardboard is actually strongest at the perforations). But I guess the plastic outer cover stops damage to the teabags when the packets fall in water; which could be handy if you keep them say in the shower stall instead of the cupboard, or the delivery lorry drivers forget to batten the hatches in a rainstorm, or a 100ft tidal wave ...
• Crackers, you know the 'fragile' ones that come in micron thin plastic wrapping which affords zero protection against percussion damage. In fact my guess is that this wrapping creates a minus protection factor (anti-packaging!) ... in other words crackers in this stuff are more likely to be damaged than if they were completely loose. Then they have that <sarcasm type="major">handy</sarcasm> tab you pull to guillotine the top off ... which works only when the moon is full and you aren't in any kind of hurry.
• Any kind of packaging which is that spongy, soft plastic wrap (the type that your bread comes in), or other types of flimsy plastic that you screw up and put in the bin ... but then quietly unwraps itself over the next few minutes to a size that is actually larger than it was beforehand; thus defying several laws of physics in the process. This causes an inverse square mass issue inside your bin, necessitating the use of heavy items in order to weigh down the plastic 'explosion' and make room for anything else.
• Margarine tub lids, a fiddle to get off, almost impossible to put back on, without specialist equipment, so that they 'click' properly. Which means you make a grab for the marge in the fridge and the loose lid flips off ... you lose your grip (in more ways than one I might add) and the tub somersaults impressively into the air ... it lands on the floor with a splat (and we all know which way round it lands) and results in another major CSE event.
• That stupid, useless and aggravating push-lock-plastic-strip thingy (don't know the official name ... don't care). On certain packaging you have a plastic strip on the inside of the opened edge, which when pressed together grips and seals the package opening (hahahahahah - if only) like a zip.  As you can guess by my maniacal laughter they just hardly ever and I mean ever work, ever, ever, ever! Arggghhhhhhh ... [takes deep breath] ...

There are more examples I'm sure, but I think I've just blocked them from memory.

So [another deep breath] every time I see a <sarcasm type="global" class="of its own">handy</sarcasm> 'pull here to open' message or tab on any type of packaging: I grit my teeth, gird my loins (at least I think I do as, like Terry Pratchett's Rev Oats, I'm not entirely sure how you do that) and make a mental note of where the knives/scissors/chain saw ... tissues/soap/biohazard suit are located ... I'll let you know how I get on.

Su

Most people probably don't need further reasons, but for the undecided among you, consider these:-

1. Allegations by BP's deepwater rig partner Andarko Petroleum who have openly accused the company of being "reckless". James Hackett, chief executive of Anadarko Petroleum, said it was considering "contractual remedies" for what the company has described as BP's "gross negligence or wilful misconduct" over the spill.
2. BP's increasingly desperate attempts to stop the flow of crude oil following the rig explosion have demonstrated a total lack of workable disaster / contingency planning.
3. Thanks to lax US and UK laws (allegedly watered down by oil-industry lobbyists), BP was permitted to operate the rig without the use of safety devices such as the acoustic switch blowout system. This fail-safe device costs a half a million dollars to implement, but BP appears to have decided that this was an unnecessary expense. Yet another legacy of the Bush/Cheney administration.
4. While people died and others continue to risk their lives to contain the disaster, BP top dog Tony Hayward swanned off on a rich-boy's yacht race.
5. Instead of gratefully accepting their help and focusing on the problem at hand, BP's lawyers attempted to gag fisherman volunteering to help with oil spill clean-up efforts, by forcing them to sign away their right to free speech, from holding BP harmless for any accidents that might occur, and requiring them to give the oil giant a month's notice before filing any legal claims.
6. Despite preliminary estimates of a cleanup cost running into billions, along with BP's average net earnings of close to $20bn per year for the last 3 years, sailing-boy CEO Tony Hayward has decided to proceed with dividend payments, before the cleanup costs can even be properly estimated.
7. BP has a poor environmental and safety record that dates back for decades. It was named by Mother Jones Magazine as one of the "ten worst corporations" in both 2001 and 2005 based on its environmental and human rights records. Between January 1997 and March 1998, BP was responsible for 104 oil spills.
8. In recent years, BP has been implicated in a number of gas price manipulation scandals. Detailed allegations by federal investigators that BP traders illegally manipulated propane prices in 2004 and formal charges brought against BP by the Oklahoma Attorney General left BP executives squirming and red-faced, but did little to change their ways.
9. On the local front, BP has a long history of always being the first to increase fuel prices at the pumps and the last to reduce them - so much so that fuel price increases are refereed to in New Zealand as: "the BP subsidy".
10. At the same time, BP have demonstrated that they don't give a damn about their forecourt customers and have managed to take the last remaining vestiges of "Service" out of the "Service station" by mumbling something incoherent about health and safety laws, without being able to quote chapter and verse when pressed. This has even extended to one station refusing to assist a disabled driver and ordering him off the forecourt for apparently "creating a safety hazard".

Seen enough? Join the boycott

The only thing that governments and corporate interests still fear, is public opinion.

Today is the 100th birthday of Jacques Cousteau.

Few men have led lives as rich and full as his was; naval officer, explorer, ecologist, filmmaker, innovator, scientist, photographer, author and researcher, Cousteau studied the sea and all forms of life in water. He co-developed the aqua-lung and pioneered marine conservation, sharing his fascination of oceanic life in all it's rich and diverse forms with the world, in the reams of film he and his crews produced and broadcast around the globe for over 50 years.

Through these oceanographic and cinematographic campaigns, Cousteau became a passionate and outspoken conservationist who was able to leverage his worldwide fame to promote the idea of the Earth as a limited and fragile environment that needed to be preserved. He was able to explain the ideas of biodiversity and the often fragile links in the eco-chain in a way that the average viewer could appreciate and understand. Cousteau was also the only non-politician to take part in the 1992 Rio Summit.

Cousteau occasionally became a key figure involved in direct action in the eco-cause. In October 1960, a large amount of radioactive waste was scheduled to be discarded in the Mediterranean Sea by the French Atomic Energy Agency (CEA). They argued that the dumps were experimental in nature, and that French oceanographers such as Vsevelod Romanovsky had recommended it. The CEA also claimed that there was little circulation - and therefore no need for concern - at the dump site located between Nice and Corsica, but public opinion sided with the oceanographers, including Cousteau, who repudiated the claims. Cousteau organized a publicity campaign which in less than two weeks gained wide and popular support and the train carrying atomic waste was stopped by women and children sitting on the railway tracks, and was eventually forced to return to it's point of origin.

Cousteau was also rarely afraid of courting controversy. In November 1991, he gave an interview to the UNESCO courier, in which he stated that he was in favour of human population control and population decrease. As he grew older, his views became understandably more pessimistic and somewhat misanthropic: An ideal planet, he apparently confided to Yves Paccalet, would be one in which humanity is limited to 100,000 people who are both educated and respectful of nature.

Despite the much-publicized family conflicts (culminating in at least one lawsuit) which chipped away at the persona known and beloved by the public, Cousteau's greatest single legacy is the kind of underwater adventure films he is synonymous with - a genre that has never been more popular and continues to thrill and fascinate people the world over.

Cousteau's death in June 1997 (aged 87) left an impressive legacy which included more than 120 television documentaries, over 50 books, and an environmental protection foundation with 300,000 members.

Je vous remercie Monsieur Cousteau a partir de de plongeurs partout. Votre don a une valeur enorm.

I'm expecting to get quite a lot of flak from fellow Kiwi's for what I'm about to say, but I'll say it anyway...

Australia is awesome!

I haven't been to Sydney since I was 6 or 7 and I've never visited Melbourne at all. So when a rather serendipitous set of circumstances set me on a Qantas flight bound for the other Great Southern land, I jumped at the chance.

Stunning Sydney

Even arriving in the middle of a fairly massive thunderstorm did little to dampen my spirits and within an hour we were checked into the conveniently located, mid-range Park Regis hotel.

One point worth noting for those contemplating a stay in Sydney's CBD; if Auckland is the "City of sails" then Sydney seems to be the "City of sirens". In the 6 days I spent in Sydney I estimate that I saw/heard a daily average of between 15 and 20 fire-trucks go racing through the city with lights flashing and sirens screaming - quite a few of them after 2am in the morning! However, I understand from the locals that the vast bulk of these are false alarms, often triggered by office workers having a crafty smoke in some cupboard and tripping the alarm. Whatever the cause, it must be as frustrating for the firemen and women as it is for the hapless Park Regis guests, woken up at 3am for the 3rd time by squealing sirens!

Anyway, an hour after settling in, we were wandering through the Queen Victoria Building. In many ways the building represents the culmination of the Victorian architectural concepts; it's striking features include the dominant central dome, fantastic mosaics throughout and a number of eye-catching stained glass panels (one of which includes a cartwheel window depicting the arms of the City of Sydney). Two mechanical clocks, both featuring dioramas and moving figures from moments in history, can be seen from the adjacent railed walkways.

In a brass-bound case on one wall is a sealed letter from Queen Elizabeth II, "To be opened in 2085 by the future Lord Mayor of Sydney and read aloud to the People of Sydney". We can of course only speculate about what it might say, but I am willing to offer very long odds on the following:-

• Sorry, but one prefers Melbourne
• Waaaasssssssuuuuupppppppp!
• Wasn't John Howard a prat?
• Can one still get a foot-long Subway with Meatballs and cheese?
• Get orf one's land!
• As Australians, you are all shining examples of how well the British penal system used to function.

The following day dawned bright and clear, so my folks and I decided to take a stroll around Sydney's CBD. We meandered through the fig-lined avenues of Sydney's Hyde Park, through the adjoining domain and onto the rather spectacular Royal Botanical Gardens.

There are several noteworthy differences between green spaces in Aussie and those in many other parts of the world. Firstly, the grounds are spotless; not a single fag butt or chewing-gum stain marks the well-maintained paths and walkways, yet there are relatively few trash bins around the place and no shortage of people slurping on a coke or munching on a sandwich from a paper bag as they walk through the gardens. Aussies seem to care enough about their home towns to carry their trash as far as necessary to dispose of it properly (something both the Brits and kiwis could learn a lesson from).

Secondly, the grounds are obviously intended for real use by locals and visitors alike. Not once did I see a "keep off the grass" sign anywhere and throughout the park areas, people were making good use of all the space available; from physical pursuits including a couple of 5-a-side football matches, an open air kickboxing class and a frisbee-throwing rally involving about 20 people and a dozen pet dogs, to more contemplative pursuits such as lying under the shade of a tree with a book, or sketching a particular scene.

Everywhere you looked, people were interacting with the environment and each other; Families with young kids held picnics or held the hands of their kids as they toddled around the grounds or in a pool of water. Young couples sprawled on the grass, chatting, laughing and making the affectionate gestures of the newly in-love. Older folks strolled through the network of paths, pausing to admire a particular specimen of flora or to shake hands with a friend or two that they met along the way. When architects sit down to design these kind of open spaces, I'm sure that this is the kind of picture they have in mind.

Heading north down Macquarie St, we headed down to the famous Circular Quay, home of two of Sydney's most iconic landmarks; the Harbour Bridge and the Opera house.

Sydney is a coastal bay city and much of it's identity is linked with 70-plus harbour and ocean beaches that are reachable either by car or by ferry or water taxi across the harbour. Both the Circular Quay and the neighboring Darling Harbour are absolutely spectacular. Each features a wide range of shops, bars and restaurants which cater to pretty much every taste imaginable. A number of street performers add color and flavour to the daytime harbour scene. In Darling harbour I met an old friend for dinner and had the best Calamari I've ever tasted. Both harbours are at their best on a warm dry night, when the lights illuminate the bars, salsa clubs and restaurants which help make the Sydney nightlife scene well worth a visit.

Magnificent Melbourne

If Sydney has one drawback, it's that (by Australian standards at least) it's a bit hectic. There are rather too many shopping malls and department stores, packed to the gills with all that chain-store and designer-brand shit. There isn't a whole lot of individuality to be found in Sydney central, although I am reliably informed that the chain-store influence is somewhat less, the further out you venture (a brief visit to Manly beach did little to confirm or deny this assertion).

Melbourne, on the other hand seems to have found a better balance; true there are no shortage of the chain-store brands around the place, but small independent shops, cafes and bars still nestle in amongst them and seem to be flourishing. Turn down any alley in Melbourne and you are likely to wander past (or into) a great little bar, music club, cafe, bakery or any other kind of small, independently run operation. Some of the more interesting places in Melbourne are to be found just off the beaten track.

Like, London, Melbourne is a river city that is divided roughly in half by the turgid waters of the river Yarra. The north bank is the home of the vast bulk of the office buildings, shopping etc, while the south bank forms a large part of the city's leisure and entertainment facilities, including a large range of waterfront bars, restaurants and the Crown Casino. There's a bridge every couple of hundred yards and no shortage of buses, trams (the largest tram network in the world) or other modes of transport to get you around the place.

For music fans, Melbourne is major centre for contemporary and traditional Australian music and has an excellent live music scene. During my short visit, I headed up to the Royal Standard Hotel on the corner of William and Walsh streets, for their weekly blues jam (Tuesday nights) and had a great time.

But the highlight of the trip happened the following evening, when a friend of mine also took me along to the Bennetts Lane Jazz club, which has been called (with some justification) the best jazz club in the southern hemisphere. The club is located down the end of a brick-lined alleyway and is open 7 nights a week. You stroll past a nice retro neon sign and in through an archetypal red door, into a dimly lit and intimate little venue with comfortable seating, loosely arranged around a slightly-elevated stage. You could easily imagine that you were in a jazz club in New York or Paris, having stepped inside out of the rain, wrapped in a James Dean-style overcoat with the collar turned up. You might bump into Miles Davis or John Coltrane heading to the bar or tuning up; it just has that kind of atmosphere.

I'd never set foot in the place before, but the charming (and rather dishy) all-female staff greeted me warmly and treated me like an old and favoured customer, who had finally returned after a prolonged absence. Straight away I felt relaxed and comfortable. It was excellent!

Pretty soon, my pal and I were settled in at the bar with a large glass of red wine each, listening to the smooth groove of the Albare band, featuring front man and Aussie acid jazz pioneer Albare, along with Evri Evripedou, Tony Floyd, Scott Griffith, Rob Burke and Joe Chindamo, performing tracks from After the Rain. By the end of the set I felt like I was walking on air and I made a solemn vow; to never again visit Melbourne without coming along to Bennetts Lane.

Like Sydney, Melbourne is very multi-cultural and has a number of thriving ethnic eateries. There are some superb Greek and Italian eateries and Chinatown serves some reasonable Dim sum for lunch of course, but for a really great Asian dining experience with a difference, you can't beat a visit to Cookie on Swanston street, as I found out when another Melbournian friend took me there for dinner.

You won't find your archetypal sweet-and-sour or something-in-black-bean-sauce dishes at Cookies! Every dish has an interesting twist in it's flavours and presentation that make dining at Cookies a must-do when in Melbourne. It's the Bennett's lane of gastronomy. I can enthusiastically recommend the Betel bliss bombs (DIY- betel leaves, peanuts, lime, coconut, ginger, onion & dried shrimp with sticky shrimp & coconut sauce). Also the steamed tapioca dumplings with pickled turnip and peanuts as well as the stir fried pork belly with red curry, kaffir lime and beans. I'm told that it's best to visit in a group of at least 6 people, in order to sample a broad range of the restaurants' fascinating and delicious menu.

All too quickly it was time to leave and as my plane rose from Tullamarine I looked out at the Melbourne with a great deal of affection; I hadn't seen much, but I was impressed.

I'll be back...

Well the UK 2010 election is now over...and at least it's been an entertaining one.

As usual, the British version of "organisation" (known everywhere else as a "cluster-f*ck") swung into play, with scores of people prevented from voting for a range of reasons including lost or insufficient ballot papers, lack of staff, resources etc.

Despite that fiasco, just under a week after the election is over, it looks like we will have a Tory / Lib Dem coalition.

This was not at all unexpected and most of the political pundits had been forecasting a hung parliament for some time. And a coalition between the Tories and the Lib Dems does represent the best democratic solution, because it collectively represents both the largest number of seats (363 out of a possible 650) and the single biggest chunk of votes (about 59% of the 29,653,638 votes cast).

But as the details of the Tory-Dem pact started to emerge, there were a few surprises in store.

Both David Cameron and Nick Clegg spent a fair bit of time during the pre-election campaigning, talking about addressing the most pressing issue of the moment; the state of the economy. And following the hung parliament coalition talks, both committed to a "significant acceleration" of efforts to reduce the budget deficit - including £6bn of spending reductions this year. An emergency Budget will also take place within 50 days.

But why the hell have they agreed to keep Trident - a £20bn pound white elephant, which even MoD sources admit is a complete waste of money?

Trident may have had some value as a nuclear deterrent during the Cold-War years, but these days the real threat seems to be from small groups of hard-line fanatics rather than nation-state tyrants. Trident is no deterrent to a maniac with a suitcase-sized dirty nuke in his or her possession.

What's more the cost of maintaining and then replacing trident has soared to over £100bn.

Nick Clegg, together with Menzies Campbell, personally undertook a comprehensive review on the like-for-like cost for a Trident replacement. They concluded that it was just too damn expensive and would not do it's job. So unless the Tories want to dispute the findings of the review, what else is there to discuss? Trident should be - at the very least - replaced with something far more cost-effective and far more fit-for-purpose.

Well...unilateral disarmament would be favorite.

It's a worrying sign that less than 24 hours after the official sealing of the Tory-Lib Dem coalition, we appear to already be seeing a massive Lib-Dem manifesto pledge (to abandon Trident's like-for-like replacement), be largely chucked out the window.

It's particularly worrying because dropping this worthless project would go a pretty long way to helping our nation through the current economic quagmire, without the need to slash as deeply at a range of key public services, including hospitals, schools, police and fire and a host of others, essential to any civilized and developed 1st-world society.

The Lib Dems are now in a position to exercise more influence at a cabinet-level than they have ever had before.

But Clegg and his team had better grow a few pairs of balls quickly, if the LD's are to be more than a Tory rubber-stamp committee.

...continued from part 1

Despite the rather full-on day I had yesterday, I was determined not to miss my planned excursion today. Even so, when the alarm woke me at 6:45am, it took some effort to drag myself out of bed. Still, it's amazing what an ice-cold shower and a decent breakfast will do, even without the coffee (no coffee, tea, coke or red wine for 10 days said the dentist) and by 8:30 I was on my way to the Chatuchak markets.

Chatuchak is the largest open-air market in the world, comprising some 5,000 stalls covering a 35-acre area; the size of a few city blocks or a good size stadium. My Dad had advised me to get there early, in order to beat the worst of the heat and the crowds which inevitably flock there and by 9am I was strolling through the gates.

Like many features of developed and westernised Asian cities, the Chatuchak markets are a curious (and sometimes ironic) mix of the ancient and the modern; Old men and women carrying large packages on poles or bicycles are tooted aside by young men in Toyota pickup trucks, loaded with brand-covered boxes and crates. Traditional Thai folk music, drifts and mixes weirdly with strains from Oasis Wonderwall and Loretta Lynn's Coal Miner's Daughter. The occasional pungent smell of plastic packaging (filled with insecticide) quickly gives way to burning Sandalwood incense or freshly cooked food.

While the market is technically "open air", much of it is covered in a corrugated iron framework and many of the permanent stalls have roller-door security. This creates a huge maze of little alleyways and it's easy to get a little disoriented. But moments after stepping out onto one of the two main roads that run the length of the market and you quickly re-acquire your bearings.

In terms of layout, the market is divided into a number of rough sections, each offering a particular range or type of goods. There are separate areas for household goods, arts and crafts, clothing (new and used), curios, souvenirs and so forth. But in the best traditions of markets everywhere, the lines are nicely blurred to a degree that it's sometimes several minutes before you realise you have wandered into a new area.

The range and variety of goods on sale was not huge, and many stalls sold pretty much identical stuff. Still, there were a few exceptions and on the whole, it was enough to remain interesting for awhile. Quite a few of the stallholders were sullen and didn't seem to want to bargain much, perhaps because of the uncertain political situation, but more likely because of the heat, which reached around 35 degrees Celsius by midday.

Just before noon, I passed a large stall offering foot massages. My aching feet took control of my brain and marched me straight to the nearest comfortable recliner under a cooling fan, where an attractive and smiling masseuse washed and then massaged my feet and calves for a glorious 30 minutes. I emerged in a blissful state, feeling like I was walking on air.

After stopping at a drinks stall to purchase an ice-cold coconut juice, I felt invigorated enough to continue the circuit, but 20 minutes later I caught a whiff of something delicious, drifting from a nearby covered walkway and my stomach directed my now-happy feet in the appropriate direction. I soon located the source; a wonderful little restaurant of hardwood tables and comfortable leather-backed chairs, set amid sprays of ferns and fresh flowers, with the mingled smells of Jasmine tea, incense and cooking.

A chilled hand towel and cold Chang beer arrived minutes after I settled into a corner table and 15 minutes later I was enjoying freshly quick-fried prawns with sticky coconut rice with fresh greens and slivers of mango, mixed with a much more reasonable level of garlic and chilli. What a find!

The Thai love of spicy food is of course well known, but less well known is their almost equal love of anything sweet. A number of their traditional desert dishes and cakes (which are often light and clear the palate very well) are delicious and well worth sampling. I particularly liked the a green cream-filled sponge cake, known locally as "Pandam".

With the body fully refuelled, I reluctantly emerged back into the now scorching heat. 15 minutes later, I decided I'd seen enough and made my way back to the hotel and a quiet night in...

While writing this blog entry in the wee hours, I picked up the news of a second grenade attack - this time targeting the house of former Thai Prime Minister Banharn Silpa-archa and injuring 11 people (including 3 policemen) in the process. Assailants who were on a motorcycle missed Bahran's residence, but injured the three police officers on guard as well as eight other people, one of whom is in critical condition.

Not such a restful night followed...

Monday dawned with a dreamy blue sky that promised another hot day. having no plans, I had a late, leisurely breakfast and then surfed the web looking for something to do. I settled on visiting the Temple of the Golden Buddha, the largest gold statue in the world.

Taking the MRT to Hua Lamphong, I walked out into the full heat of the day and after wandering around a little, eventually bumped into a couple of German tourists; they needed to know the way to the MRT and I needed to know the way to the temple of Wat Traimit - a perfect swap. 5 minutes later, I was standing at the gates.

So that's what 5 tonnes of gold looks like...pretty impressive.

On my way back to Huai Kwang, I noticed that the police were now sporting handcuffs and side arms...

Back to the hotel around 4:30 for a shower and a lite bite, before heading out into Huai Kwang for the evening. Found a great little outdoor bar with a duet of guitarists, singing underneath a huge palm tree, with tea-light lamps hanging from it's fronds, all under a balmy moonlit sky...I knew I was stopping for the night and it was 4am by the time I stumbled back into the hotel.

The following afternoon as I headed out to the airport, we passed a platoon of troops setting up roadblocks / checkpoints. All were dressed in what looked like full battle kit, though arms were not overly evident. At the airport, most of the airport concourse entrances had been sealed off and roving patrols of both police and army personnel had been increased.

As my plane took off, I pondered the slightly surreal experience of what I'd seen in the last few days; It's a bit weird, watching people trying to get on with the day-to-day business of living, when a potential disaster looms so prominently overhead.

Here's hoping they find a way to stop the trouble brewing...

Update: The day after I flew out, the red-shirts clashed with troops and two days later protesters forced their way onto the grounds of a Bangkok hospital. The situation remains tense...

My second trip to Bangkok was undertaken with some degree of trepidation.

Shortly after I booked my tickets in early March, large numbers of supporters of the ousted president Thaksin Shinawatra started to congregate around the business and government districts of Bangkok. Similar protests had occurred during my previous visit just under a year ago but I had narrowly missed the worst of them; they were reported by the international press around the time I was gratefully dropping my bags on the floor of my parents' place in New Zealand and I was a little stunned to see TV images of the police clashing with red-shirted protesters outside what appeared to be the hotel I had stayed in less that 24 hours previously!

This time around, the volcanic eruption in Iceland closed UK and Europe airspace for six days just prior to my scheduled departure and I watched my Qantas flight cancelled...and then miraculously reinstated. Even after I reached Heathrow, my nerves didn't settle until I had cleared passport control and boarded the flight and a little over 10 hours later I arrived at Suvarnabhumi airport, grateful to be through the first of the hurdles, but now facing the next challenge.

In the days leading up to my flight, protesters had clashed with government security forces, who were attempting to disband the impromptu protester camps. I decided to register the details of my stopover with both the New Zealand embassy and the Foreign Commonwealth Office, the first time in 20 years of travelling that I've ever felt the need to do so. I also made sure that this time I stayed at a hotel well away from the government and business districts, where the protester presence was strongest. Fortunately, my folks had visited Bangkok a few months earlier and were able to suggest the Palazzo hotel in Huai Khwang.

This seemed to be a smart move, because while I was en-route to Bangkok, the violence culminated with a series of explosions near the red-shirts enclave in the business district.

Up to 5 M-79 grenades were apparently fired from launchers some distance from Sala Daeng station, possibly from within the Red Shirt encampment or a nearby high-rise. One person was killed and more than 80 injured, but the incident seemed to galvanise both sides into stepping back from the impending disaster a little. By the time I checked into the hotel, reports had started to appear in the worldwide press about offers and negotiations and while the situation was far from resolved, this at least seemed to offer a small vestige of sanity and hope of a peaceful resolution to the issue.

Even so, I had taken note of the increased police presence at Suvarnabhumi airport; impassively-faced blue-clad officers in berets and combat boots worn commando-style, standing their posts right across the concourse. Occasionally, a pair of patrolling army officers in camouflage kit wandered in and out of view. None seemed to be carrying small arms though, which I took to be a positive sign. But as my taxi threaded it's way through the notorious Bangkok traffic, a convoy of pickup trucks full of protesters sporting red flags drove past at speed and in the distance, I could hear the wail of sirens. Not so positive...

As always, I spent the first evening orientating myself with the usual tasks of a budget-conscious tourist; stock a few beers and snacks from a nearby 7-11 in the mini-bar fridge, find a working ATM, locate the nearest MTR station etc. By 10pm I returned to the hotel, armed with all the necessaries and then went downstairs for one of the weirdest dining experiences I've ever had.

KaraJoke (some like it HOT!)

In a nearly-empty restaurant I ordered a cold Singha beer and a couple of dishes from the menu (the buffet was of course long since finished) and watched a trio of the worst Karaoke singers I've ever heard. Everything about them was terrible. They had no sense of rhythm. They couldn't hold a note. They sung off-key harmonies, out of time and in different (mismatched) octaves. They were accompanied by an enthusiastic but entirely untalented pianist on that most evil of instruments, the Hammond organ. They couldn't even read the lyrics off the screen.

It was enough to make my fillings buzz madly and the leaves of a nearby plant fall to the ground in a shower. Even the exclusively Thai staff winced as they busied themselves setting the tables for the following morning's breakfast, before legging it as fast as they could.

It was so bad it was almost entertaining.

When the two Thai dishes that I ordered arrived, I gratefully forked a piece of steaming pork into my mouth...and for a minute or more, I genuinely thought my head would explode! The dish was literally swimming in garlic and the infamous Thai red chillis. I confess to being a little bit of a "curry wimp" but I've fought my way through a phal-strength vindaloo a few times. This dish however made vindaloo seem like vanilla ice cream by comparison. Even lager couldn't kill it! Still, I struggled on, sweating profusely with every mouthful before eventually admitting defeat and at the earliest opportunity, I paid the bill and belchingly headed back to my room and a fitful nights' sleep...

A tale of TWO cities

Around 4am I awoke and couldn't get back to sleep. I propped my back against the headboard and picked up my copy of the excellent Zimbabwe memoir "The Last Resort" by Douglas Rogers and the next time I glanced at the clock it was 5:30.

Stepping out onto the balcony with a cup of instant coffee and a local-brand cigarette, I watched the sun rise over the rough rows of slightly ramshackle tenement blocks, nestled between Wisteria trees and the occasional coconut palm, with their laundry hanging over railings and their scattering of satellite dishes.

With no traffic noise and in a relatively cooler part of the day, Bangkok is quite a different place. The trees were full of birds swooping back and forth across the tenement carparks, plucking insects from the air and occasionally crapping on a gleaming Toyota pickup. One slightly scrawny speckled bird about the size of a small dove landed on the railing just 3 feet from me, cocked it's head sideways as it regarded me with it's beady bird-eyes, before taking to the sky again. By 7:30am the humidity and traffic had returned and the birds had vanished.

It's always a little strange walking around a place during the early part of commuter rush hour, especially when you are so obviously a foreigner. The strange quizzical looks you get from glum-faced commuters waiting at the bus stops all seem to ask the same question: You're a tourist on holiday...what the f*ck are you doing up and out here at this hour? Still, every now and then you catch the eye of a street vendor or a passing pedestrian and when you smile at them and they smile back, you are reminded that some things are a little bit universal. I felt encouraged...

Bangkok is very much a drivers city and although there is a pretty good public transport infrastructure, you really do take your life in your hands, anytime you want to walk anywhere. There are few pedestrian crossings and long stretches of the arterial roads are impossible to cross due to the speed of the bumper-to-bumper traffic and a shitload of concrete crash barriers. There are walkovers about every quarter of a mile, but be prepared to climb a fair few stairs. Oh, and watch out for all the motorbikes and scooters, whose riders think nothing of mounting the pavement to get around the traffic. Only two types of pedestrian exist in Bangkok; those who look in every direction, all the time and those lying on their back with tyre marks across their chests, wondering what the hell just happened.

Surprisingly in a city as geared towards shopping as Bangkok is, there seems to be a bit of a shortfall of foreign exchange kiosks and being Saturday all the banks were closed. I had to walk a couple of miles through a heavy tropical shower, to find a wizened little bloke who could do a reasonable Quid to Baht swap. Like everywhere else, Bangkok hotels all make a killing in the FX rates they supply, so it's worth the stroll to save a few bob. At least that's what I told myself when the rain stopped...

By 10am, armed with my newly converted cash and still wringing the rainwater out of my shirt, I wandered around a couple of the large malls that dot this part of the city, in search of a cheap digital camera. Not a huge range of choice in this area (although you are totally spoilt for choice if you want to buy a new mobile phone - the bloody things were everywhere!) but I found a nice compact little Canon model that did what I needed it to do and was the right price and by 11:30am I was heading to my next destination.

Open up and say Ahhhhh...

Ask most people to do a simple word-association with the word: holiday is likely to give an entertaining (and possibly revealing) result. But the one word that virtually no-one would associate with: holiday is the word: dentist. Yet Bangkok has a thriving "dental tourist" trade, encouraging scores of Europeans to have expensive dental work done in Bangkok, at a fraction of what it costs in places like Europe and the US. Earlier this year, my folks came over for just under 2 weeks, for exactly this reason and they reckoned that even factoring in the cost of flights, accommodation, taxis, food etc, it was still cheaper than having the same work done back home. Plus they got a 2-week holiday.

The Bangkok International Dental Center was conveniently located about 200 yards down the road and on a whim, I decided to slide on in and see what they could do about the years of stains on my gnashers. A full consultation, examination, full clean and a significant degree of whitening set me back around 12,000 Baht (about 270 quid) - less than half the price demanded by any half-reasonable private dentist back in Blighty. The practice was immaculate, the staff all seemed to speak pretty good English and were very friendly and helpful. My dentist was extremely professional and hygiene standards were as good if not better than any dental surgery I've set foot in, anywhere else. What's more I was able to walk in without booking weeks in advance and a couple of hours later I was back on the streets, doing my parody of the Osmond smile.

Wrong move?

After a wash and a quick snack, I decided to head over to Siam, to have a look around the night markets and duly jumped on the MTR to Asok, before switching to the Sky train out to Siam. My first inkling that this was a mistake was when I found myself herded with lots of others through steel security gates, under the gaze of two serious-looking security personnel while nearby I can hear the voice of a determined-sounding Thai gent over a fairly large tannoy. As I rounded the corner, I found myself smack in the middle of one of the major red-shirt encampments.

Oops!

Still on the station stairwell, I was able to see the T-junction below pretty clearly. In all 3 directions, as far as the eye could see, were a seething mass of red-shirts that frankly made an Arsenal-at- home match look like a village tea party. Several people glanced in my direction, realised I was just another dipshit foreigner and ignored me, returning their attention to one of a number of large overhead screens, and to the speaker making an impassioned monologue.

I cautiously headed downstairs and with a show of casual nonchalence that I didn't feel at all, strolled about 100 yards down the main road in both directions, before realising how far the encampment seemed to extend. Minutes later, as I returned to the station, the speaker completed his speech and the applause broke out. Then he began the speech again...in English.

The gist of it was that the government had refused to accept the protesters' offer to disband the protest camps in exchange for the promise of early elections.

Oh shit!

I managed to snatch a couple of short video clips and then got my non-red-shirt-chicken-tourist-ass back onto the Sky train. Less than 10 minutes after arriving back in Asok, the Sky train was closed.

Fortunately, I could still grab the MTR and around 9pm I was back in Huai Khwang, tucking onto a a mix of stir-fried scallops and jellyfish, on a bed of steamed rice with garlic, ginger and lime, at one of the many little food stalls that are all over the place. Two Singha beers later and all was right with the world again.

Part 2 follows...

Well, my time at the NPIA in Bramshill is now over. It was a very busy 9 months working at my favourite client site and I got a lot done, but as always time caught up with me.

I will miss the terrific team that I was part of, the fantastic site I was lucky enough to work at on and off for over 4 years, the fab meals and the challenging work.

Like any contract, it had it's down sides on occasion, but on the whole I feel pretty lucky to have worked there.

Ah well - that's enough looking back - time to look down the road.

So long folks - and thanks for all the fish.

The Depeche Mode gig at the O2 stadium in London on Saturday 20th February 2010 has been a long time coming.

Having bought the tickets over a year ago, the planned 30th May '09 gig offered the usual agonizing wait, but then to find it was postponed for another 9 months was excruciating! However, the day finally arrived and not without a little anticipation - not only to see Depeche Mode again, which I have only seen live twice before, but also for the venue; the London O2 Arena I had been told is an amazing stadium and with great acoustics.

Having driven down with 2 local friends from Northampton, one a fellow fan who had been bought a ticket as a birthday present for the year before, and his missus who was a complete concert virgin, we met up with Phil outside the venue. Phil had experienced the kind of journey from Basingstoke that you just don't need when you need to be somewhere by a certain time, involving taxis, buses, trains and even a boat ride up the Thames when trains and tubes colluded to make things difficult! However, we all made it there in good time on a very chilly night (Phil perhaps a little colder from the crisp river breezes!)

I'd been to the O2 once before when it was still the Millennium Dome, which was impressive to say the least, but I was keen to see what it had to offer now as a concert venue, and again, although it had changed a lot. Word to the wise here though; parking. a complete farce! I looked on-line prior to the event and was tempted by the 'Pre-Booking' to save money and disappointment, but for whatever reason, decided against it and to take my chances when I got there. Well, I'm glad I did!

On-line booking offered parking tickets from £11-20 or so, and then approaching the dome, both stewards and a big digital board pushed you into parking in Car Park 1 for 'Depeche Mode Parking', at £25. Ignoring this, as we wanted to hook up with Phil whose boat would dock right outside the dome, we found plenty of pay and display spaces, right outside the entrance itself, at just £3 all day Sat/Sun. A heck of a difference and we felt sorry for those who were robbed by following instruction by signage and stewards alike, who then would have had the poor fortune of having to walk through the £3 parking area on the way in, to have their noses rubbed in it! We were lucky.

Having got inside the main dome, we had a little trouble establishing where to actually queue to gain entry to the gig itself, joking that that when someone told you to go around the other side, that there were surely no sides, being fairly round in structure!

We eventually got duly processed and tagged, but were surprised and disappointed that your ticket was taken from you and replaced with a wrist band; what happened to keeping your ticket as a souvenir of the event? Puzzled, we walked through into an amazing stadium, with seats that seemed to reach up into the heavens, but with standing tickets were able to find a nice spot about 1/4 of the way back from the stage and off to one side for good viewing with ready access to the bar at the back for a few pre-show sherbets.

As the support band ploughed through their numbers (we didn't catch their name or see any signage to tell us who they were) we remarked on the sheer size and scale of the venue and how the acoustics sounded great with just the slightest reverb bouncing back off the far "side" a split second later, which was weird but didn't really detract from the overall quality of sound. A steward informed us that the venue should have taken up to 20,000 people both seated and standing and they expected around 17,700 that evening so it would get close to capacity.

I expected a fairly electric atmosphere! Knowing that DM's 'Sounds of the Universe' world tour was well and truly done, and this gig was now re-scheduled for well afterwards, I expected a mixture of old and new and that's exactly what we got. However, they almost appeared on stage unexpectedly, without the usual slow build up to raise the suspense and anticipation, so it came as a bit of a surprise when they just cracked on with things, which, I feel, didn't get the crowd going as well as they would have done at previous gigs.

After a few numbers from SOTU, it also became apparent that the acoustics were not that great at all, we think that once the venue filled with people, the sound was dampened down a lot and so almost muffled and distorted it when played loud. On the upside, the visual displays behind the band and lighting was, as usual of the Mode, very different, exciting and stimulating, with wonderfully surreal and evolving imagery for each track.

The only other slight disappointments I guess for me was that they didn't take the time even a few tracks in to the set just to say 'sorry for the long wait guys' and also that the usual energy and passion seemed to be lacking compared to the last time I saw them with Phil at the Manchester Evening News Arena several years ago. That being said, I reminded myself that this was now on the back of a very long and comprehensive world tour, rather than before one, and like us, they are getting a little older, they must have been pretty exhausted!

Don't get me wrong though, I am not one of life's complainers by any means, and after a slow start, once they started plugging the old anthems it really started to gather momentum and they started to get the fans back on side and singing again, as you might expect. Highlights included Behind the Wheel, Home, In Your Room, Never Let Me Down Again which got the usual frantic arm wave going as expected, Enjoy The Silence which got the heartfelt singing underway from the crowd, and a passionate rendition of Personal Jesus certainly seemed to make the crescendo of the evening. At various times poor Dave Gahan needed the crowd to sing for him a little more than usual, but Martin Gore's solos were soulful and poignant as ever, and by the end of the set, the crowd seemed satisfied enough.

Two more surprises were in store at the end of the evening; firstly, the expected and usual 'thank you, leave the stage, wait for the cheers and stamping feet, OK go on then we'll do another few tracks encore' didn't happen. The crowd wanted it, and waited patiently with due applause and encouragement, but after a short wait, the sound cut, the lights came on, and we were treated instead to a dazzling array of corporate brand advertising around the perimeter of the stadium, which, wasn't quite what we were all after by any means!

Slightly deflated by this, we shuffled our way out to find the second surprise; not only did the O2 stewards then decide to give us a souvenir ticket back on the way out (weird and of course, not the actual ticket you had nursed for 12 months or so). Then everyone was funnelled painfully slowly right around the perimeter, to the main entrance in order to leave the venue (rather than just throw open all the doors), which took ages and was completely unnecessary. A ploy to get you to part with more cash and to sample the shops and restaurants that make up the outer perimeter no doubt, but which just caused a lot of frustration and boredom.

Overall, the venue though impressive at first glance, was not the best stadium for Depeche Mode in our opinion. And as for the band themselves? Well, a little older and a little tired from what we could see and hear, but nevertheless, they've still got it, after all these years!

Our concert virgin remarked how much better they were than she expected after all this time, and personally, whilst I left the gig not quite in an ecstatic state this time around, I certainly had a great time, sang my chops off, and would wait another 12 months with a postponed ticket to see them again, although, hopefully, next time, at a better venue and at the start of a tour again!

The recently reported deaths of two post-modern heroes of our time, left me contemplating not only the diversity in their respective character makeup, but also the remarkable size of the contributions they made and the legacies they have left behind.

The Catcher...

The first of the two figures in question was J.D.Salinger, well known author of: "The Catcher in the Rye", which struck a worldwide chord with the young, by dealing with complex issues of identity, belonging, connection, and alienation.

Despite being listed as one of the best novels of the 20th century, it indirectly found itself in the centre of a series of censorship and morality controversies and between 1961 and 1980, The Catcher in the Rye was the most censored book in high schools and libraries across the US.

During this time, a number of legal challenges were brought by individuals or groups seeking to ban or further censor the book, based on a variety of moral objections. Ironically (and inevitably), these actions only served to increase sales of the book and when reports began to emerge that some of the plantiffs had not actually read the book themselves, credibility faltered and the cases were dropped.

The book's fame also had a dark side; Mark David Chapman's shooting of John Lennon, John Hinckley, Jr.'s assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan and other murders have also been associated with the novel and 60 years on, the book is remembered as much for it's controversial history as for it's story.

Soon after its publication, Salinger became disillusioned with the publishing industry and in 1953 he bought a house at Cornish, New Hampshire and became a recluse for the rest of his life. He died of natural causes on the 27th January 2010, aged 91.

References to The Catcher in the Rye in media and popular culture are numerous and the book continues to be regarded as iconic by many. It's influences are apparent in films and music and a number of contemporary figures still cite the book as an important influence.

But perhaps it's most important legacy is that it forced us to examine our own ideas about where the line between freedom of expression and censorship should be drawn. Something that we all need to do now and again...

...and the Rye (on the rocks)

The second figure is almost Salinger's alter-ego; retired US Congressman Charlie Wilson. Wilson is best known for leading Congress into supporting Operation Cyclone, the largest-ever CIA covert operation, which supplied military equipment, including Stinger missiles, to the Afghan Mujahideen during the Soviet war in Afghanistan.

A colourful and charming character by any standards, Wilson's early history in the US navy where he received the second highest number of demerit points in history, was to set the tone for the rest of his high-profile, gregarious party lifestyle. Occasionally this lifestyle courted public controversy with a number of accusations of cocaine use and a hit and run charge, none of which resulted in conviction.

As the Congressional representative of the 2nd Texas district, a place that Wilson said "didn't want anything more than lower taxes and no gun laws", he was well placed to: "say yes" as he put it. This allowed him to bargain a large number of political favours for causes he believed were especially important.

For 12 years, Wilson made his reputation in the Texas legislature as the "liberal from Lufkin". He battled for the regulation of utilities, fought for Medicaid, tax exemptions for the elderly, the Equal Rights Amendment, and a minimum wage bill. He was also one of the few prominent Texas politicians to be pro-choice.

His most momentous contribution began in 1980 when after reading an Associated Press dispatch on the congressional wires describing the refugees fleeing Soviet-occupied Afghanistan, Wilson used his authority as a member of the House Appropriations Subcommittee on Defense, to double the CIA budget for covert operations in the region.

This and other funding increases he approved, led CIA officer Gust Avrakotos to directly approach Wilson (breaking the CIA's policy against lobbying Congress for money) to ask Wilson for $50 million more. Wilson agreed and convinced Congress, by saying:-

"The U.S. had nothing whatsoever to do with these people's decision to fight ... but we'll be damned by history if we let them fight with stones."

Charlie Wilson's relationship with Joanne Herring, a Houston socialite, political activist and successful businesswoman was to play a significant role in helping the Afghan resistance fighters get support and military equipment from the U.S. government. She persuaded Wilson to meet the Pakistani leadership, and after meeting with them he was taken to a major Pakistan-based Afghan refugee camp so he could see for himself the atrocities committed by the Soviets against the Afghan people.

About that visit, Wilson later said:

"the experience that will always be seared in my memory, was going through those hospitals and seeing, especially those children with their hands blown off from the mines that the Soviets were dropping from their helicopters. That was perhaps the deciding thing... and it made a huge difference for the next 10 or 12 years of my life because I left those hospitals determined, as long as I had a breath in my body and was a member in Congress, that I was going to do what I could to make the Soviets pay for what they were doing!"

Wilson's efforts were a major contribution to the turning of the war in favour of the Afghans and the complete withdrawal of Soviet forces from Afghanistan. For his efforts, Wilson was presented with the Honored Colleague Award by the CIA and he became the first civilian to receive the award.

But as public interest declined, Wilson found it increasingly difficult to convince the US Congress of the need to rebuild the Afghan infrastructure. The resulting reduction in funding led to a civil war in which the victors were largely the more hardline Islamic fundamentalists, including the Taliban. Of this situation, Wilson said:

"These things happened. They were glorious and they changed the world... and then we fucked up the endgame"

Wilson retired from Congress in 1997 and died from a heart attack on the 10th of February 2010, aged 76.

Wilson's contribution to the current global situation is as obvious as it is huge. Without Wilson, the Soviets may have rolled through Afghanistan all the way to the Persian gulf. If his advice about funding the post-Soviet Afghan economy had been heeded, the Taliban and Al Queda may never have become more than a political sideshow and the twin towers might still be standing.

History has cycles and our ignorance keeps those cycles turning. Every time we don't learn the lessons of history, we have to stay after class for a repeat performance. If there is a lesson to be learned from Charlie it is this; Take a stand and make a choice...but see it to it's proper end.

Thanks' be to you both...

oh...and Lord?

Please buy them both a drink...

What a shite few months we've had!

A seemingly endless list of personal problems, work issues and general winter maladies left Su and I pretty tired and depressed by the time Christmas rolled around and we were both looking forward to some quiet time to recharge the batteries and get ourselves back on a more even keel.

Unfortunately it wasn't to be.

In the lead-up to Christmas, I got caught in the first serious (at least for the UK) snowstorm of the winter on back-country roads, heaving with snow, ice and idiot drivers. An 11-mile journey took over 7 hours, but at least I made it home (I must have passed over 100 abandoned cars on this journey). Subsequent attempts to get to work and to the local hospital for a couple of appointments were also hampered by the snow, which continued throughout the xmas break and into the 1st two weeks of the new year.

Just before Christmas, our current ISP all but died and after days of frantically trying to contact them by every means possible without success, we were forced to move all our websites to a new ISP. That pretty much sucked up all the time off we had planned. So much for any kind of break...

So here we are in 2010, hoping for a little ray of sunshine to take the edge of the blues.

...and in the absence of that I'm trying booze!