Garfield – The Movie

I saw Garfield - the Movie on Saturday.

It was quite nice. Apart from Nermal not being the cute one, it was quite faithful. And totally unexciting, as one would expect of Garfield. Strangely, Garfield was the only one who looked like himself though - all the other animals were animated to look like real animals. And there wasn't a single line of swearing anywhere.

Having missed the very start of the film, a coupla days later I found they had the whole movie on hard drive at the internet café I was using, so I caught-up on what I'd missed there. Usually I disapprove of this sort of thing, but the thing is, I had actually paid full-price for my ticket, and I just couldn't weasel out of that reasoning.

(Review of Garfield 2 here)

Despite unemployment

Goble still does all the work.

Yes. Thanks, Mister.

Until I was 4, we lived above our shop in Ruislip. I used to look out of our first floor window and down at Ruislip Manor High Street. Across the road there was this ice cream window, and sometimes I would see people buying and eating a double-cornet. But I never got to have one of these.

When I was 6, after we'd moved house to a residential neighbourhood across London, the ice cream van used to come down my road and park right outside my house. Father used to give me 5p pocket money a week, so when ice creams went up to 6p, so did my pocket money.

There was this one time when I wanted a 99 - the ice cream with a Flake stuck in it - but I couldn't remember what the brown chocolate thing was called. So I told the ice cream man that I wanted one with "some of that brown stuff in it." He gave me an ice cream with brown sauce or something squirted all over it. It wasn't what I wanted, but I took it and ate it anyway. What I'd really wanted was a Flake.

Today I stood outside Mr Hippy's van (at half-past midnight). I watched as he took a double-cornet, filled both halves with ice-cream and stuck a 99 Flake in each one before kindly handing it down through the open window to me. "There," he said, "is that what you wanted?"

The Girl With Kaleidoscope Pizzas

I have a lovely friend who I call Pizza Girl.

I call her Pizza Girl because she works at Pizza Haven around the corner from the hostel, and is always bringing free pizzas back with her after her shift. She gets these when people phone-in an order, but then never show up to collect it.

It occurred to me that, hypothetically, one of us could ring up an hour before the end of her shift, place a bogus order, not collect it, and then an hour later she could bring us home our free custom-made pizzas, but obviously I don't know of anyone who could ever even conceive of cheating the system that way.

Tonight, I was waiting outside the hostel for a lift from Mr Hippy, (as I shall now call him) when Pizza Girl turned the corner with a whole tower of pizzas! She's a lovely girl – cute, pretty, fun - but I guess I really like her for her pizzas.

She gave me three of them, and then, just when things couldn't get any better, Mr Hippy showed up in his ice cream van.

He drove me, with Pizza Girl's pizzas, to New Windsor to meet his friend Patrick.

Y'see Patrick runs a Christian music radio station from his house, and I was keen to get on the air again. The pizzas were a handy gift to take with me, until I learnt that Patrick was a vegan. Whoops.

Nonetheless a great time was had by all present, and Mr Hippy even opened-up his ice cream van for business for us all!

Free pizzas, free ice creams, and free radio – does my life get any better than this?

Getting Whipped

Trev, as mentioned elsewhere, drives an ice-cream van. When he bought it, it was a bright shining MR WHIPPY van. He got it's W.O.F. (M.O.T.) approved, and for 6 months successfully sold ice creams from it to all the kids around the suburbs of Auckland. Then the evil accountants at MR WHIPPY got wind of what he was doing, and determined to put a stop to him. They told him that MR WHIPPY was extremely displeased at his name being used without his permission, and insisted that Trev stop. Trev was outraged, incensed even. But when all was said and done, Mr Whippy was after all right. And so it was that, after much prayer and soul-searching, Trev reluctantly got out his paint-stripper, went to his ice-cream van, and scratched-off the letter 'W'.

Church camp

It was a cunning bit of misdirection.

I was to spend the weekend at Willow Park Christian Camp and Convention Centre, off Eastern Beach in Howick, at my church's annual retreat. On the plus side I'd been kindly given a substantial discount due to my current unemployment. On the negative side, everyone had to bring their own bedding.

Sure, I had bedding. But it was about 10,000 miles away.

Of course, the youth hostel had lent me some bedding, but that was presumably for use on their premises, and I reckoned that they might not take kindly to my asking if I could borrow some to take away with me for a few days. What to do?

I turned this over in my mind at the hostel yesterday while I was making my bed with clean sheets before leaving. It would be so easy to just rip these sheets and quilt off of the bed and stuff them in my bag, but anyone who spotted my bed's nakedness while I was away would quickly put two and two together. There was nothing else for it.

Leaving my bed neatly made, I closed the door behind me, and caught my lift with Dean to Howick.

Once there, obviously, I opened my rucksack and unpacked the duplicate sheets that I had stripped from my hostel bed immediately prior to making it with clean ones.

Heh heh heh, the perfect crime...

It was great to have a weekend away, even though, technically, every day of my life was spent away now.

And yet, as I lay on my newly made bed in Howick just relaxing in the daylight, (daylight! In my bedroom!) I discerned a pattern in the differences between British and kiwi cultures: one or two people here didn't understand that I was happy just lying on my bed relaxing. There was the assumption that that meant that something was wrong with me.

Like the recent weekend down in Hamilton, these two days were another great chance to spend some time getting to know my friends better, and I had to reflect on God's grace in providing me with people to be my friends while I was so alone on this side of the world.

And there would be tons to do here. Crazy golf, tennis...


... table-tennis...


... football...


... table-football...


... pétanque...

... the list goes on, even though there was sadly no table-pétanque.

After the evening service, Trev the ice cream salesman and I headed out through the darkened streets to Howick town centre, where we located the local Pizza Hut. Trev has a ton of stories, some of them about punching people. But hey – that's why he's the tough-talking no-nonsense ice-cream salesmen with a heart of gold, right?

Sunday

Slept in my bedding. Ahhh...

This afternoon, being on the coast, people were getting baptised. They'd taken preparation courses and things, and so for at least some of them, this day had been a long time in coming.

I gotta say, baptism is one of those things that I've never quite 'got'. In fact, I don't think many people quite 'get' it. In my experience, everyone I've met says that Christians should get baptised, but that they don't have to, but that they should. Whoa - which?

I guess I've always assumed that I myself would get baptised one day, but I figured you'd want your public declaration of your faith to be done properly, y'know, with your family there and all.

But I knew that, if I was waiting for those circumstances, I would simply never ever get onto to it. I also knew that I had thrown my lot in with God, for better for worse, so I should really get baptised. To not do so, I felt, was backing away from embracing that.

So I sat on the shore, watching all those who'd prepared for this afternoon, wading into the sea, getting dunked, exchanging words with the leadership team, and wading out again as live music was played and singing floated across the sand from the assembled church standing around. It looked like this:


I wanted to go in and get baptised too, but I hadn't taken the course, which of course no-one in the Bible seemed to have taken either. I guess I was hoping that someone would invite me. I even had my towel with me, just on the off-chance.

Then they finished. The last person had been 'done.' So that was that.

And then one of the team in the sea called to the crowd, "Does anyone else want to get baptised?"

I seized my moment.

I thrust my camera into a stranger's hands and asked them to take a picture.

I strode into the sea. Mike looked at me in surprise. I said, "I've been a Christian all my life, but I've never been baptised. But hey – I'm here, you're here, let's do it."

So they got me to place my arms across my chest in a cross, as they took hold of me on each side, ready to lower me down.

Mike asked me, "Do you acknowledge your need for Jesus Christ in every part of your life?"

I think I replied, "Yes, I do."

At this, they dunked me under the surface, my hair floated briefly up in that way that it always does when your head goes under the water, and then they lifted me straight back up again.

Mike and the others prayed for me, a thrilled Mike saying "Lord, you've brought him all the way around the world, just to be baptised!"

Then suddenly I was one of those people striding out of the sea to the cheering crowd.

Afterwards I showered all the sand away, and actually did feel kind of energised, but this may well be just because of the shower.

I didn't know where my camera was.

Later that afternoon, Nathan (who's a window-cleaner by trade) had some ropes strung-up the side of one of the buildings, and was giving guests the chance to try to climb the side of the brick building. So of course, I had a go.

The 2-storey building was made out of big bricks and cement, and had an abseiling rope attached to it, me and Nathan, who was on the ground taking the strain at the other end in case I fell.

The first few steps up the sheer drop were quite easy, but as I got higher, I found that there were fewer and fewer gaps in the mortar for me to place my feet and hands. Grimly hanging on, I found that I had blood running out of my finger-tips and down my hands, but I kept on going. I got most of the way to the top, certainly above the second set of windows, before deciding that the remaining stretch was just too smooth, so I decided to call it a day there.

Way below, Nathan yelled up to me what a great job I'd done. So I yelled down that he'd done all the work taking my weight at the other end of the rope. At this, he flicked the slack rope at me to prove that I'd climbed the whole building without him supporting me at all.

Whu...?

I mean, if I had fallen, then the rope would have caught me, but I thought the rope had been taking my weight the whole time, but it hadn't. The rope had done nothing. So I could actually have climbed it with no rope at all.

The rope just enabled me to have faith that I could do it.

Was this an analogy for my baptism?

Monday

Found my abandoned camera again.

Timeslip (in color when available)

I read TV Zone in Borders today. It has an item on the ATV series Timeslip from about 1970 - just as colour tv was coming in.

The first six episodes were set during world war 2, so they made them in black-in-white, probably in truth to save money. Then the rest of the series was made in colour, with the intention of selling the whole lot to America, who were into new colour shows.

Then there was a union strike. The union refused to let any of its members use the evil new colour tv equipment. So the final three episodes (set in the silver-costumed future of 1990) had to go back to being made on the old black-and-white equipment again. So the Americans never wanted it. So the second series was axed. So the series was wiped.

Today of course some of the episodes have been recovered. All except one of the recovered colour episodes now exist, you guessed it, only in black-and-white.

The thing that I have to do in London on Monday has been cancelled. Literally, with less than a day to go before getting on the plane, I've moved my flight back. New flight-date is just before Christmas.

Dog Gone

Barking movie about a police dog who comes back from the dead to see his assassin brought to justice.

It's all tremendous fun, mainly because it's been written by someone who clearly 'gets' how silly the whole premise is, and is enjoying milking it for all it's worth. The doggy jokes just never let up, and the levels of ridiculousness just keep on escalating.

Great fun. This film should win a lot.

TV Remote

I guess it's all down to my mate Bill.

Back in March he told me all about a local Christian TV station, and even pointed it out to me in town. This had been a personal revelation to me – community TV? Really?

As both a long-term low-budget film-maker, and a community radio broadcaster, that idea fitted me like a glove.

Bill subsequently showed me their front door, but I felt as though it would be imposing of me to ask him to hang on while I went in for a - possibly lengthy – look around.

Even the morning that I had left NZ I had silently wanted to go and make contact with them on the way to the airport, but for the same reason felt bad about holding-up my driver.

Today, however, it was different. Today, I had made contact with one of the directors over the internet, and set-up an interview. Thus today, I walked from the coach-stop to the front door myself, and boldly determined to take the world of local TV by storm.

It was locked. And all the lights were off. Even the street was utterly deserted.

Apparently they'd forgotten that I was coming.

I left my heaving rucksack in the doorway and headed-out to find him. There's something intangible about that town that reassures you your stuff will be safe.

I located him in the church across the road, where I think he'd naturally assumed that I would come to find him when I arrived. A fair enough supposition, for a man who ran a Christian TV station.

The service was just finishing, and there was much debate about the sermon, which had – controversially – not been based on the Bible. Was that liberating the truth, or an abandonment of it? As I tucked into the free barbeque afterwards, I couldn't decide.

Seeing around the deserted station was fascinating. It was being run by computer-equipment similar to the one I'd already seen round up north, but which had been plundered from secular stations who had been throwing it all out.

I watched the start of a shopping show, and then the middle of a cookery one. The latter was weird. The presenter was from somewhere in the UK with an incredibly thick regional accent, which immediately made me feel as though she was an old friend. We were both, after all, a long way from home.

Afterwards the guy invited me back to his house for the afternoon. We actually did some baking together before he piled me up with food in preparation for my long journey back to my cupboard.

As I'd promised to, I dropped-in on Bill, but sadly he wasn't about, so I never got to thank him for giving me the contact. I did manage to finally drop-off some chockies and other European souvenirs for him and his family though, not to mention some photos I was asked for. Sheesh, they've been burning a hole in my fridge for the entire three months now!

Two more old friends later, I retook a few photos that had originally been damaged at the Kodak lab in Austria, and caught the coach back up to the city again.

And the position at the TV station? They offered it to me, on one condition: that I honestly believed that God wanted me there.

Out of the 100-200 applications I've made here, it's the only offer I've had.

And it's been yet another entire day that I've spent getting fed for free.

And They Have Lunch At Midnight

It's a well-known fact that water goes down the plughole clockwise in New Zealand.

What's less well-appreciated is that it gets hotter as you head north, NZ is in the centre of the world atlas here, and the maps of South Island have north flapping around at the top-left-hand corner somewhere. (It's easier to fit it on a page if they tilt it)

And did I mention that they reckon down is up too?

Churching

Awaking once more in Hamilton, I had naturally intended to go to Gateway Church again this morning, but somewhat pushed for time, in the end I climbed up a winding path off of Victoria Street to drop into St. Peter's Anglican Cathedral instead.

I was there for just ten minutes, but I don't think I'll ever forget them.

As I slouched in with my huge rucksack hanging off my back, initially I was alone. The service hadn't started yet, and it didn't look like it was going to until after I had left.

Next I met the priest - a grinning fellow - who invited me to join a small gathering in the little foyer there. I duly deposited my rucksack, and gratefully took-in a lovely cup of tea.

They began their gathering. The priest welcomed their guest for the morning (me), and promptly began to interview me in front of the group. Suddenly we were forming an impromptu double-act, as I told him where in London I was from, and he revealed that he had a relative from a nearby town there. We were joking and bouncing off of each other, and then it was time for me to go.

Everyone wished me well, and as I heaved my belongings onto my back again and returned down the winding path out into the great big world again, I reflected how these people – much older than myself – had just done church really well.

In a faraway town, I'd met a group of complete strangers who had all become my friends for ten minutes.

You can't do it better than that.

Leading With Excellence

As things stand at present, a week from today I will be touching-down at Heathrow Airport back home in the UK once more. (I have something fairly important to do in London the following week)

To round my three-month trip off then, I accepted an invitation from my church to join them on a retreat down to Gateway Church in Hamilton for a Christian teaching weekend entitled "Leading With Excellence".


I'm not sure how I wound-up pursuing a subject like Christian leadership skills, but my plan all along has been to just go through the doors that God opens, and to refuse the opportunity just seemed like turning away from that.

So after the drive down with Nev (during which we spotted a car with the numberplate EIEIO, which we both really hoped belonged to a farmer named McDonald) the motel he dropped me off at turned out to be a lesson in experience.

When I learnt that there were no padlockable lockers to stash my gear in, I sagely booked a private room. I knew I was going to be out most of the time, and leaving my stuff on display for anyone to pinch seemed a bit inviting.

Or was I – a novice backpacker - just being paranoid?

After I'd locked the door of my private room, I peeked into the much cheaper dorm that I'd turned-down, and quickly ascertained that no-one was staying there. Oh well, what else had I been going to spend my last remaining NZ dollars on anyway?



The course was inspiring. It was a good chance to get to know some of my new friends better, and I was genuinely pleased to find myself sitting down outside to eat sandwiches with my pastor, and chatting about something as trivial as football. (a subject I know little about) I also made one or two other new friends, and found myself delving quite a bit into 1 Samuel afterwards.

By coincidence, my co-pilot from my first trip down under also lives in Hamilton now, and I was aware that it might hurt their feelings if I went home without having offered to catch-up while in town. So having fulfilled the obligation to offer, and been charged by said amigo to keep in touch, I took the opportunity to re-explore the town centre alone. It was sloshing down with rain, but when you only have one night, you take what you've got and swim with it.

And Hamilton town centre is long. New Zealand's fifth largest city takes much longer to walk across than Auckland's CBD, but there were a heap of places that held prior meaning for me. As the raindrops splashed down, and I and my course-notes got soaked, I took some comfort in the knowledge that, since I returned to New Zealand three months ago, I have honestly given living in Auckland my best shot.

The North Shore

With the end of my three months in NZ looming, colleague Leanne kindly insisted that I couldn't return to the UK without having seen Auckland's North Shore.

So it was a nostalgic evening, and reminiscent of my time down under in February / March, as I got shown around by a local, and once more got to listen to a kiwi girl's voice chattering a heap of Maori place-names.


The first point-of-interest was a lamp-post opposite Auckland railway station. And only a local could point this out. Can you see what we stopped to look at? The answer's in the picture. Clue: ho-ho, the shadow knows...


Next we caught the ferry across to the North Shore, taking some time to admire the Harbour Bridge (above, obviously) and other surrounding features such as Rangitoto Island.


One Red Dog in Takapuna provided the most awesome pizzas I've ever enjoyed. When their advertising describes them as "gourmet pizzas", they ain't jokin'...

Then it was off to see the city from a distance at night. Alas, vehicles aren't allowed to stop on the motorway, so I knew taking a time-lapse was never going to work...


North Shore: done!

Found 4 slices of bread, a packet of butter, an apple, a 300ml carton of milk and some parmesan cheese today. And some crisps. And spaghetti.

Free Everything

Everything in this photo, I got for free, including the bed.

I now have a NZ Fly Buys card (to use at New World supermarket), a VIP card (for money off backpacking things like transport and accommodation), an ANZ card for my NZ bank account, and this morning I received my One Card to use at Woolworths and Food Town. All this is in addition to my Subway card, on which I am collecting stamps for a free baguette (I found a free stamp in the internet café this morning). And people keep leaving free drink vouchers behind in their rooms, which I use to have orange juices with my free pizza on Wednesdays.

Tonight, in a moment of some irony, I got some sandwiches at the Kwikimart and gave them to a homeless guy.

Otherwise no news. No jobs have come up, so nothing is pending. I have some more applications to make this week, and then I’ll probably call it a day.

I’ve started taking driving lessons again, which seem to be going quite well, although learning to drive in a busy coastal city centre, with lots of ups and downs, is quite challenging.

Go God.

Auckland Yachting Catastrophe

Part 1 of 8: Prologue

So I went to the bar under the youth hostel tonight where they serve free pizzas every Wednesday, and was delighted to get away with 4 slices of top-quality Pizza Hut joy! Mm-mm!

Anyway, after Tiger, Kazu, Paolo, Mickala, Kirsty, Ross, Wei and myself had finished our pizzas, the bar, in its desperate secular attempt to be exciting and rebellious, normally holds a goldfish race. This week however, the goldfish were not available. (maybe they were just being koi) (sorry) Anyway, to replaice (even sorrier) the lost soles (hrrrrrmmm…), someone in authority had actually decided to instead hold…a build your own yacht contest!

NNNOOOOO!!!!!

Flashbacks from my shameful yacht-building past immediately returned to haunt me...

Part 2 of 8: Flashback

That night – September 20th - in Crete last year...

Paul, Angela, Carmel and myself had slumped back to the Bali Star Hotel exhausted after a tennis session, only to be faced with having to take part in a far-too-cerebral Mastersun quiz night. Cerebral in that we weren't answering simple Q&As, ooohhh noooooo, we had to... construct a yacht.

Just a small one, mind, y'know, out of a sheet of paper, a couple of paperclips and a few other odds and ends. Dazed, we sat and looked at it. Our tired brains weren't even up to the task of naming our team, let alone writing our sea-shanty that we also had to sing, and certainly not building a regata-winning model yacht-race.

However, once Anna-Lisa had ingeniously dubbed us "The Dream Team," we made a token effort at fitting the bits and pieces together to build a yacht.

Today, as far as I know, there is no surviving photographic evidence of the tangle of wreckage that we 'constructed.' What I do remember is that it wouldn't even stand-up on the table, so I advocated unbending and straightening the paperclips to support it, which we did, sticking them both through the hull, as though this would help. It remained there on its side, utterly useless, like a dead pet that had been cruelly stabbed twice.

Time was up, and the other teams were already presenting their witticism-laden sea shanties. One team's tune was a parody of Queen's "We Are The Champions." Another seemed to have a many-versed tribute to ABBA going on. We looked down at the four lines we'd managed to scrawl:

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of Uzo,
Come and join us on our cruise-o,
Out of the port and across the sea,
Chucking-up 'til half-past three.


Seriously, that was it. And we didn't even have any music. As the team before us crooned onward to their no doubt firework-enhanced conclusion, we looked at each other with an honesty of inadequacy that I've rarely experienced, even from close friends.

Trying to think how we might best salvage the situation, I said "I really think that just one of should just read this out as a poem."

Paul was quick: "I'm not reading it out."

Angela: "I'm not reading it out either."

Carmel: "I'm not reading it out."

Beat. They were all looking at me.

"Well I'm not reading it out, I've just told everyone here that I want to be a writer."

We knew we had only seconds left until the other team finished their masterpiece, and then our credibility would be blasted to pieces. Forever.

We looked at each other. We looked at the other team. We looked at Anna-Lisa and Wing-Commander, our quizmasters. We looked down at this dilapidated naval jalopy, still lying motionless on its side with two unwound paperclips spiking out of the bottom of the hull garrotting it, a mass of crumpled paper that could neither float nor stand up, let alone race.

On some subconscious level, we grimly realised that that barbed tangle of Greek stationery represented... us.

There was another beat, as we all four locked eye-contact with each other, and four minds shared a single thought.

We bolted for the door. And then we didn't stop running. Not until we were far, far away...


That night was a lesson to never, ever be unlearnt. Never again enter a yacht-building contest. Ever. Never! Never... never... never...

As my mind returned to the Auckland nightclub tonight, I still shuddered at the memory of the sheer derision and ridicule that Paul, Angela, Carmel and myself would have faced if we had gone through with mumbling our abysmal 4-line sea-shanty, followed by presenting our 'boat."

Inevitably I had to ask myself the thought that I did not wish to form into words:

Was history about to repeat itself? Or was this my once-in-a-lifetime chance to redeem myself and heal the memory of that terrible night?

Part 3 of 8: Hello Tiger

In the end, Tiger decided for me.

Tiger (who’s Korean): Steve! You come with me. We build boat.
Me: You don’t know who you’re talking to.
Tiger: Come. We build boat.
Me: I’ve done this before. I’m rubbish at it.
Tiger: No you not. You good. You clever. You come with me. We build boat. We win race!
Me: The last boat I built was so bad we all had to run away in shame. We didn’t go back for hours! Such was the effect of this boat on the local population, that in some parts of Crete when they find a dilapidated piece of flotsam or wreckage, they now actually call it a “Dream Team boat!” I have a stamp in my passport refusing my re-entry to the EU for contributing to such a poorly constructed piece of refuse! No! There is absolutely no way I am going to help you build this boat!
Tiger: Great. We build boat over here.

Part 4 of 8: Everybody's Building

It was pretty straightforward stuff. Rather than recklessly issuing each team with paper, paperclips etc., we had all actually been given a box containing a cellophane bag, which itself contained a really simple model boat to construct. We had a solid wooden hull, a wooden mast, a plastic sail, 2 rudders and stickers. That was it, apart from an instruction sheet and a scalpel. As usual, nothing else was allowed to be used in its construction.

This was going to be all right. We could just build a simple bog-standard boat, exactly the same as everyone else’s, and then any subsequent shame would surely fall on everyone else with their identical boats too. My pride was safe. Unless we sank at the start of the race, we could only look as bad as everyone else with the same wait a minute. Instruction sheet? Hang on, that was a bit bigger than the plastic sail we’d been provided with. And if it was bigger, then surely it could catch more air and…and…and…it was too late. I had been sucked in, and was even now foolishly running-up to the 3-metre water-track to measure its width (about 9cm) to determine how big our new sail should be. Bugs on the motorway are probably in a similar frame of mind when they decide that an approaching windscreen looks quite interesting.

So after I’d torn the instructions in 2, plotted where the holes should go, punched them, rolled the paper up to give it a curl, joined it with the excellent work that Tiger had done on the rudders, used the stickers to reinforce it to the mast, and mumbled the world-record-breakingly stupid suggestion that we call ourselves The Dream Team (Tiger, thank goodness, turned it down in favour of the “HMS 2 Fast 2 Furious”), we had built our boat!

As mentioned earlier, the water track in which we would be racing was approximately 3 metres long, and about 9cm wide. There were 2 of them – enough therefore for 2 boats to race at once.

Tests went well! The sail made out of the instruction sheet just fitted into this narrow-track. If it had been a bit lower, then it would have knocked the sides, which would have minimised it drifting from side to side during the race, and kept it going in a straight line, but one can’t have everything. It caught the wind admirably (no pun anywhere, please don’t look for one), and it was only when someone blew it really ridiculously hard that it went over, as everyone knows all real boats are designed to.

Quickly fishing it out (still none) I handed it back to Tiger and headed off to the toilet to get some tissues to dry-out the instructions cum sail.

In the toilet, I bumped into Andy - a local kiwi guy I know from a rival team. He said something along the lines of:

Kiwi guy: G’day mate, ‘ow’s it goin’, ‘ow’s yer boat mate, ay? Ay? Aaaaaay? (Kiwi-isms toned-down)
Me: Yes, thank you, as a matter of fact it’s all going rather well. In fact, I do believe that we are going to win.
Kiwi guy: Awesome mate, awesome. What modifications have you made, ay?
Me: I’m not telling, I’m afraid that you will just have to look very quickly as we speed past your vessel and through the finishing line.
Kiwi guy: Take me head off and paint me green, mate. We split our hull in two and made a catamaran. Ay? (Ay added gratuitously by me, as I’ve finally figured out what happened to all the A’s that are missing from the locally-produced boxes of “Weet-Bix.”)

This conversation did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm. We had a simple boat with one improvement. None of the over-complicated stuff that would look nice, but ultimately make a yacht top-heavy. Things were looking good. Earlier on I had even gone out to get my camera. Oh, we might not win, but we were darn well not going to come last. At last the secret pain that I had been harbouring (still no puns) for almost 12 months would finally be healed.

Part 5 of 8: Sail Now Off

When I got back to Tiger, I was appalled to find him and Mickala re-attaching the original plastic sail.

Me: (hysterically flapping my arms) What! What do you think you’re doing?! Why have you removed our instruction-sheet sail and replaced it with the smaller plastic one again?!?
Tiger: Oh. Paper too wet. It not dry out before race. We use this sail.
Me: (hysterically flapping arms and jumping up and down) No no no no no! This instruction sheet is our EDGE! It’s what makes our boat better than the others! It’s our EDGE! It catches more wind! It reduces drift from port to starboard! If it’s a bit damp, it’ll still catch the wind and work as a sail! (brief pause) It’s our EDGE!
Tiger: You want to blow?

Clearly the only way of communicating just what a foolish path they were obviously heading down was to wrench the thing off them, break the plastic sail and reattach my paper one. Except that they had beaten me to it. In removing my sail, they had damaged it, and now the plastic one really was the better option.

Mickala offered me the straw. It was time for the first race, but this crewman was jumping overboard. My connection with this boat had gone.

Part 6 of 8: Fight Or Flight?

There were 8 boats, but only 2 tracks, which meant 4 initial heats, 2 semi-finals and 1 final. One member of the team would blow through a straw to get their boat all the way along the track to the end, where the straw would be passed baton-like to a second team-member, who would blow it back for the second half of the race. The HMS 2 Fast 2 Furious was scheduled for the 3rd heat.

I mentally sat on the fence and agonized over whether I was still a member of the team or not. The solution was simple enough. If we won, then I was. If not, then I reiterated my EDGE argument.

My stomach gave me an uneasy feeling. I mentally asked my stomach why it had decided to give me this discomfort, after I had earlier treated it to so much pizza. It replied by referring my attention to the first boat in the first heat. Oh.

For a start it had three sails. A plastic one, a paper one (ingeniously made out of the instructions) and a cardboard one, made from the box it had all come in.

Yes, I recognised this feeling. This was the feeling of watching Dangerous Brian and others singing many brilliantly-written verses, whilst The Dream Team had only 4 unfunny lines. The feeling of fear induced by the subsequent team’s rendition of “We Are The Dancers,” a subtle parody of a well-known Queen number. By the time Ailsa, Felicity and others had begun singing their many witticism-laden verses about Wing-Commander, the 4 of us had realized that everyone had done outstandingly. Everyone but us. In the circumstances, we had done the only mature thing, and run for it.

Now I was faced with that same choice again. I eyed the doorway.

I stayed.

Part 7 of 8: Two Heats


The 3-sailed vessel had quite a close first heat with its competitor, another magnificent tribute to ingenuity. I can’t remember who won. Then came the 2nd heat, and 2 more finely-crafted tributes to maritime. And they really looked like boats. Surely they couldn’t all be this spectacular? Surely someone else would have just made the model as it had come in the box? And then it hit me.

This was Auckland. They proudly call themselves “The City Of Sails.” They’re all into boats.

There was the odd moment of encouragement. One of the 2nd heat teams had beaten me to the Guinness Book Of Records’ title of World’s Most Defeatest Team Name by guffawingly calling themselves “The Wet Dream Team.” Their boat obviously lost. With a name like that, they really should have got out earlier.

So this was it. Heat 3, and the HMS 2 Fast 2 Furious (Mark 2) was up against a very small vessel with “only” two half-size sails. Clearly whoever had made it was avoiding any risk of it toppling over. It looked decided nippy, and I wasn’t thinking about the water.

The race began.

Part 8 of 8: They're Off!

Blowing through the straw, Mickala got the HMS 2 Fast 2 Furious off to a brilliant flying stop.

Straight into the port side of the water-track, poor Mickala had obviously had too much to drink and no longer had much puff left in her. At the far end of the track, Kazu watched helpless as he wondered if the boat would reach him before his indefinite visa expired.

Meanwhile the competitor’s boat was surging ahead like a dynamo. It fact, it probably had a dynamo. Let’s be honest, these guys had probably made one by shearing the wax off the box and turning it into a solar panel or something.

My conscience pricked me. I don’t drink, and I like to think that I have a pretty healthy set of lungs. If I had taken the straw off of Mickala when she’d offered it to me, then we probably could have made it to half-way by now. But did it matter? The prize was a bar tab, and I don’t drink. Sure, the orange juice would have been nice, but wasn’t this a matter of pride?

I glanced down at my camera. No, I didn’t want a picture of any of this. It was a picture of failure. And it wasn’t even my boat, since they’d de-rigged my sail. They were losing. THEY were.

Then suddenly, the competitor got into trouble on the side too, just as Mickala got her breath back! Unthinkably, the HMS 2 Fast 2 Furious was actually taking the lead!

Mickala got to the end, gave Kazu the straw, and he began the 2nd half…while the other boat was still stuck! We were SOARING along! There was no stopping us! Hang on a second…”We”?

Darn it, if we were going to win just one race, and with the other boat almost a length behind our speeding one in a 2-length course, then yes, I darn well was a part of the team. But this was it. If I committed myself now, there was no going back. Everyone would know that I was responsible if any unimaginable embarrassment unexpectedly befell us.

“GO KAZU!” I yelled at the top of my voice. “GO KAZ! GO KAZ! GGGGOOOOO!!!!!!”

Suddenly our boat sank.


The whole room seemed to slow-down. Everyone was moving in slow-motion, their eyes slowly closing and opening as they blinked, their cheering several octaves lower than immediately before. And I could hear my heart beating really really loudly.

I looked around me. There was Kaz, desperately attempting to coax our boat back up again. Way behind him was the competitor’s boat, just reaching the end of their first half. They handed over their straw, and their second “blower” expertly took over. And there was the Bali Star Hotel in Crete, and those steps outside, and that blasted walkie-talkie I’d left behind to avoid being contacted.

And there were other memories from my life too. Entering a school fancy-dress competition as Long John Silver and falling over, to be laughed at by the entire school and all of their parents. Feeling really shy when meeting Father Christmas. Cutting my own hair and stabbing myself in the eye because I forgot that mirrors work backwards. Actually I think that must have been someone else’s memory, but whoever they were, their pain was very real.

And sailing through them all was this little boat with 2 small sails, which won hands-down while we were still dead in the water.

I had quite literally gone down with another sinking ship.

Someone once said that the true test of any choice in life was having to make it twice.

If I ever find myself in a home-made yacht-building contest ever again, I’m stuffing well going to win it this time!

Street Fighting

Amy and I went 'street fighting' today.

It sounds exciting, but it was just a fancy term for giving-out leaflets.


Afterwards I got given a free ticket to Paihia in the Bay of Islands to say thanks.

Ironically, I had to walk a long way home afterwards, although that did give me the chance to tour, on foot, a bit more of Auckland city...


Nearby I found a tranquil place called "The Railway Station." It's actually a completely disused station that now spends its days and nights as a hall of residence for Auckland Uni.

Entering it was beautiful. So, big, echoey, and airy. Somewhere in the distance I could hear Brooke Fraser's Arithmetic bouncing off of the hard surfaced walls around me. It was a cool oasis in the middle of an otherwise noisy day.

Goble vs Krustofski: International Uno, Simulcast Live From NZ and the UK

Found a way of playing Uno over email with my klown friend Herschel in the UK...

-----Original Message-----
From: Steve Goble
Sent: 06 September 2004 11:46
To: Herschel Krustofski
Subject: Uno

... As for playing Uno, I have bought a pack and dealt myself 7 cards from it. I figure that you can deal yourself 7 cards and we can still play over email. I'm sure we can trust each other to be honest.

By the way, the 8th card I dealt told you to pick up 4.

Herschel Krustofski wrote:

Okay, so I've now got 11 cards in my hand and it's your go. (please put down a yellow... please put down a yellow) "Misssssster Goble..."

I brushed passed a member of "The 5, 6, 7, 8s" - the all girl Japanese pop group from Kill Bill vol 1 - on Friday. She looked lost. I appreciate this may mean nothing to you but tell people and they will be impressed.

-----Original Message-----
From: Steve Goble
Sent: 06 September 2004 11:55
To: Herschel
Subject: Uno

Pick up another 4.

Herschel wrote:

Man alive! That's my passenger, you putz.
So, I now have 15 cards in my hand to your six. Sigh.

Herschel wrote:

PS - do you have plans to return to UK? Any idea when?

-----Original Message-----
From: Steve Goble
Sent: 06 September 2004 11:58
To: Herschel
Subject: Uno

I have to be back in October sometime. Of course, that might not happen, so I'm not advertising my return too much at the moment.

PICK 'EM AAAAAAAPP.

Herschel wrote:

Pick up more??? That's 19 cards I'm holding. I'm not an octopus, you know!

Well, it'll be nice to see you. And, where are the postcards, huh?

Actually, have you been up to anything nice over there? Seems a while since you said much.

-----Original Message-----
From: Steve Goble
Sent: 06 September 2004 12:07
To: Herschel
Subject: Uno

There's nothing really to report. I've applied for several jobs, made promising progress on 2 of them, and have just received a standard rejection for one and seen the other being re-advertised. And I have a cold.

Pick up another 4.

Herschel wrote:

Pick up another four? That's just an exceptional start. So, I now have 23 cards to your four, right? Wow! I can't help feeling I AM playing with a full deck here, as the saying almost goes.

Sorry to hear about the cold.

Sorry to hear the job search is a struggle too.

-----Original Message-----
From: Steve Goble
Sent: 06 September 2004 12:16
To: Herschel
Subject: Uno

(long pause, goes to pick card up, stops at last moment and says) Pick up 4.

Herschel wrote:

Cheat, I say. Cheat! That's FIVE pick-up four cards. Impossible!

-----Original Message-----
From: Steve Goble
Sent: 06 September 2004 12:21
To: Herschel
Subject: Uno

Oh I'm sorry, I was confused because here in New Zealand we have different denominations. Pick up another 4.

Herschel wrote:

This is crazy! I have ALL THE CARDS now! And no marbles.

-----Original Message-----
From: Steve Goble
Sent: 06 September 2004 12:22
To: Hercshel
Subject: Uno

UNO!

Herschel wrote:

Have 'em!

-----Original Message-----
From: Steve Goble
Sent: 06 September 2004 12:25
To: Herschel
Subject: Uno

I win, and you're picking up another 4. How many are we going up to?

Well I'm off to bed now, and I'm certainly not staying here for a million "just one more game"s.

Goodnight.

Herschel wrote:

Eurghh, tough crowd.

Learning Japanese I Think I'm Learning Japanese I Really Think So

Helped my Japanese friend Kazu to write a letter tonight. In return he taught me some words of Japanese!

Detour 180 - Live In Aotea Square

This evening Life fm - the radio station I keep talking to more than any other about getting some work from - were running a toga race for presenters'n'others down and then back up Queen Street, concluding in Aotea Square, where there was then free food. As dusk fell Luke picked up the mike and protested on air how cold it was, the Christian rock band Detour 180 came on to belt out a few numbers live, and people of all ages danced while the rest of us ate (I had 4 sausages in buns!) and simply relaxed. It was a curious feeling walking freely among possible future friends, but not yet knowing who anyone was.

Hungry For Nothing

The youth hostel that I'm staying at is very well organized, and very big!


It occupies most of a multi-storey office-block, 10 stories high! As well as rooms for 1, 2, 4 or 8 people to sleep in, there's a laundry room, 2 TV rooms, a large kitchen (that closes at midnight), a job centre, a travel agency… and even an internet café!


The view from my room.

The rooms all have lockers under the beds, although I initially seemed to be the only one in my (8-person) room really using it. The lockers require a padlock to secure. I brought two padlocks with me, plus several others which I got free with my new rucksack! This is handy, as so much of my time has been spent out and about.

The hostel's “free barbeques” (for which you have to buy a $2 drink) happen quite often, although they are really only good for sausage sandwiches. Wednesday evening is Free Pizza Night at the nightclub downstairs, due to some sponsorship deal with Pizza Hut.

There is also a Free Food shelf in the kitchen where people leave food that they are not taking with them. Otherwise I have to get something from McDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s, Subway or the New World supermarket up in Ponsonby.

The food is variable, depending upon where I get it.

Thanks to new friend Steve on reception, after three weeks I moved out of 8-person room 610 overlooking Queen Street, and into the 4-person windowless room 704.

This is because I am now voluntarily helping the hostel out for 15 hours a week, so they've kindly stopped charging me for staying here, so long as I take one of their worst rooms.

Really, it's a cupboard. Big enough for 2 bunks, but an absolute squeeze with 4, and nigh on impossible when you also factor in 4 travellers' luggage and a fridge.

Anyway, the upside is that this has absolutely slashed my living costs, helped along by the fact that I seem to be living almost entirely off of free food as well lately! People keep leaving what they don't eat behind when they move on - you know, half a loaf of perfectly good bread, three quarters of a packet of breakfast cereal, entire sealed 3 litre bottles of orange juice, that sort of thing. When you're the one cleaning out their rooms after they've gone, you find all sorts of stuff. (of course, you also find discarded condoms, plastic genitalia and books like Buddhism For Dummies, but that's not worth going into here)

Anyway, the housekeeping gig has not turned out to be that taxing so far – on my first day all I had to do was keep feeding the single washing machine and single tumble-dryer linen from 500 beds for 3 hours, and make two new friends – Leanne in the office, and a Korean guy called Tiger.

That was two weeks ago, and as I've found myself increasingly hanging-out with a group of Chileans, Koreans and others, I've had to wonder how my life has turned around so much in the past year that I'm now roughing it with a bunch of foreign immigrants. Oh yeah, because despite my legal visa, I sort of am one too now...

There are a lot of people here at the hostel who don't speak very good English. As a result, a lot of my day now seems to be getting spent teaching them. One of them wants to start paying me. I pointed out that I couldn't because on my visitors visa this would technically be illegal, but I reckon I could cheekily ask him to do my laundry or something instead... :)

Million-To-One-Dance

This afternoon, I was going out to buy a phone-card, however as I left the youth hostel, a truly amazing thing happened.

The exact second that I stepped through the doorway and onto the pavement, my friends Bill, Karen and Melanie were exiting the doors of their parked car onto the same pavement.

This was a lovely surprise – my friends from Matamata, with whom I had stayed for over a fortnight recently, had driven three whole hours up the motorway to come and pay me a surprise visit! That was really lovely of them.

And rather than having to get reception to page me, (there are ten floors in this building) what were the chances of us bumping into each other at the exact same second on my doorstep like that? I guess it happens.

Except, and here's the thing, they hadn't come to see me at all.

It transpired that they genuinely hadn't even been told that I was back in the country again. Bill and Karen had come up to the smoke to watch Melanie's dance exam over in New Lynn. Now they were here in the city shopping for shoes. In a parking bay that was, absolutely literally, right on my doorstep. And out of the entire day, they had exited their car at - again literally - the same second that I had been stepping out of the building.

And all by what the non-Christian world rationalises as "coincidence".

Really, there was just no way we could possibly have missed each other without hiding our faces. I asked Bill, "So what made you park here exactly?" and he could only manage "I don't know."

So it was big smiles all round, news of Anna-Lisa, Glen and James, and I recounted how I'd recently returned to Matt's old flat, looking for my electric razor that I had lost there in March! (it's still lost)

Finally we went our separate ways, agreeing that I should of course drop-in next time I'm in Matamata again.

In the euphoria of the moment, there's always something that you forget to say on these occasions. So after I'd left them I realised that I was actually wearing the socks they had given me as a gift, (the most comfortable socks I have) and I should have gone inside to fetch the chockies that I'd brought for them from the UK.

But I can't blame myself for only thinking of those things afterwards. Seeing those three again was the absolute highlight of my week.

God is good.

Flex, Eyes and Audiotape

I want a job in radio.

One of the first things I did here was to go for a long walk up to Ponsonby, listening to my walkman to get a feel for Auckland's many different stations.

Some of them have quite bizarre names, such as Easy-Listening Eye, or i, eye don't know which from just listening. Another seemed even harder to pronounce, as twice the presenter sounded as though he was tripping-over saying his own station's name. That, I later discovered, was the unexpectedly short BFM.

In order to make job applications though, I really need to wow their programme-directors with a good demo-tape.

I brought a bunch of cassettes of my old UK radio shows with me, but what I've really needed since getting here is a cassette-to-cassette copier to run some copies off on regularly.

There is one in the hostel's kitchen, but it doesn't work properly, although it did amuse me to hear myself on West London Radio blaring out of it for a moment! (it made a surreal change from Classic Hits Auckland)

So I prayed for God to get me a tape-to-tape machine.

And, within minutes, I actually found a second-hand one on sale at the market in Aotea Square! Whoa!

It was almost perfect, because as I examined it at the stall, I could see that it was missing a mains lead. I opened-up the battery-compartment on the rear to check the contacts were okay to use instead, and hiding inside I found the mains lead!

Clearly this was God's perfect provision, in answer to my prayer. Wowzers. Prayer works!

And then the woman behind the stall saw me with it and took it off me, saying that it wasn't for sale.

Whu...?

I wanted to stand there and protest that it was. I wanted to stammer "N-no... y-you're wrong... this is my answer from God..." but obviously I didn't. I just went away thoroughly disappointed.

At the Christian college I visited recently, they were kind enough to let me borrow the tape-to-tape of a guy who wasn't even around at the time. I spent much of the second half of the afternoon going into his bedroom, setting my tapes running, and then returning 25 minutes later to reset another one going. When the owner himself eventually showed-up, he was completely cool with finding a complete stranger in his bedroom using his stuff.

Recently, at the back of church, (which I'm regularly arriving at 45-minutes late to avoid the worship) I made a new friend. He's an ice-cream salesman called Trev, and like me he's into a bit of low-budget film-making from time-to-time. Trev gave me a lift back to the hostel, after which we sat for an hour in his car just chatting about stuff.

Last week I told him of my need for a tape-to-tape copier, and he immediately produced one. From inside his car.

That's it – he simply had one on him. God bless Trev. No wait, it was God's doing. Trev bless God.

This morning the hostel's tannoy announced that there was a call for me to take at reception. I leapt out of bed, dressed very quickly, and raced down in the lift.

After a telephone interview, I found I was through to the last 8 for a job as Breakfast Presenter on community radio in Greymouth! (I'm guessing the town was named after a local talking corpse or something) There are 2 positions going, so that means I actually have a 1 in 4 chance.

Meanwhile a Christian TV/radio network within walking-distance up the road is interested in my HR experience too. In the never-in-a-million-years event that I actually get offered both, I think I'd have to take the HR job, as although I wouldn't get on air, I would be working for a Christian company.

Round Ireland With A Fridge by Tony Hawks

I'm reading Tony Hawks' autobiographical book Round Ireland With A Fridge on my days off at the moment. It's very good.

It's the true story of how Tony took on a bet to hitchhike around the circumference of said country, with a fridge in tow, within one calendar month.

There is much that appeals to me about this.

1. It's silly, and Tony 'gets' the value in that.

2. Tony Hawks knows how to find all the other the silliness in his adventures, and turn it into polished comedy. I've just read the part in which he disembarks a guest-house to take the fridge scuba-diving, which is just marvellous.

3. It's very encouraging. Tony's on a quest to achieve something impossible, and I feel just like that, building a new life against the odds here down under.

And I need all the encouragement I can get.

Super Size Us

Tiger and I had as much free pizza as we could eat today, just for answering a survey. I was absolutely stuffed.

Super Size Me

I heard Morgan Spurlock being interviewed by Luke Weston on life fm, so I determined to go and see his film.


Spurlock's doco is all about the world's obesity problem, but its hook is his determination to frame it by eating only McDonald's food for an entire month.

It's all a bit jokey at the outset, and Spurlock seems such a jovial character, that it's easy to buy-into his journey and get on his side. The shortcomings in the film's production values actually enhance this, and give the whole thing a raw authenticity and credibility that shooting with a more clinical production team might have sterilised.

And you have to wonder just what his game-plan actually was. With all the medical observations of his state-of-health, just what would he have done if he'd completed the month showing no ill effects at all? At the outset, even his doctor reckons there'll be barely any measurable change before the month is up.

It's a bit of a shock, then, when half-way through the same doctor takes it all back and realises that his patient is on the brink of a complete medical disaster.

In other words, death.

So, does Spurlock continue with the hook his film needs?

We see him talking to camera in the middle of the night, having got up feeling awful, and now he's clearly pretty freaked at his stupid reckless behaviour.

Super Size Me is that precious mixture of fun and education in equal measures, that leaves you vowing to eat a bit more carefully in future, even if you don't completely rule the clown's burgers out.

Prophecy

Some bits of Christianity can feel a bit awkward.

You want to believe in them, but you can't help also feeling a bit guarded and cynical.

Yesterday, as we pulled away from the Christian college in the car, I felt great about my New Zealand odyssey. That day God had provided me with free food, a chance to dub-off my much-needed radio demo-tapes, and now here I was getting a free lift all the way back to Auckland Central, thanks to a prophesy conference there that several of the students were going to. It seemed like my NZ adventure had been preplanned-out by God, and all I had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride.

In the car, the discussion was about how the Bible says that the Israelites' clothes didn't wear-out during their 40-year odyssey in the desert. One lady was supposing that, as they all grew older and got bigger, particularly the kids, then their clothes must have also miraculously stretched.

I contributed that they might have just swapped their clothes with each other. I found that this idea wasn't initially popular though, robbing the miracle as it did of some of its potential miraculousness. However one guy did concede that "sometimes the most obvious answer is the right one."

As we arrived in Auckland, I was invited to attend the prophesy conference with them. As I got out of the car, I was ambivalent. I wouldn't mind attending – it was something to do – but I was running a very tight budget. But then the guy declared that God had just told him that I should attend.

Boy, now I felt really bad. Was I going to spend the rest of my life letting others decide how I should spend my money? Letting others dictate my faith? Seriously – what was the right thing to do? I guess I wanted to believe in God, but I sure didn't want to believe in him, nice guy as he was.

I met one prophet last year, and with respect, I couldn't ignore how her statements would consistently agree with however her friend felt on the subject, even when her friend would later change her mind. I don't wish to belittle or misrepresent her – that's just what I observed on the occasions when I was present. Despite this paradox, she really seemed to believe in predestination.

Anyway, a moment later the guy returned to me and apologised. I think he could see how unhappy I was with the financial responsibility he'd just placed on my shoulders, and he emphasized that he sometimes thought things were from God, but they might not be.

Using my ANZ card for the first time, I decided to go in.

There was a fairly funny and motivational speaker at the front, who was joined by another guy who committed the unforgivable sin of implying that he was in Australia. Then he tried to dig himself out by drawing attention to it. Snigger.

After all the singing etc. was over, they would invite people to the front to be prophesied over by small groups of 3 prophets.

At some point in the weekend, I went forward and met a 20-ish boy, a 20-ish girl, and a friendly-looking retired woman who resembled my mum. I told them how I'd come over from the UK, and they told me that I wasn't actually supposed to tell them anything, they were supposed to prophesy over me anonymously.

And they said a ton of things, nearly all of which were positive, non-specific, and generic. With respect, they could have said all of those things to everyone they saw that night. I don't mean to belittle them at all, I believe they believed what they were saying, and have no wish to subtract from them, but the few things I can remember are as follows:

"I see you and God building a wall together."

"You are going to hold your head up high."

The retired lady told me that everything would work out for me so unexpectedly naturally. She said I'd go "Oh! That's so natural."

Anyway, that was all yesterday.

Today I was back at day two of the conference, lounging about in the foyer, when something completely unexpected happened – a complete stranger came up and greeted me by name.

But this was not divine knowledge speaking, it transpired that I had met her briefly yesterday back at the college. She was there to be one of the prophets in the latter half of the conference.

And this was the highlight of the weekend for me – that I got to sit down and just chat with someone who I 'knew.' I realised that such an ordinary chance-meeting just doesn't happen when your home is on the opposite side of the globe.

I said to her "I wish I could just get an email from God every day, that I could print-out and carry about with me as I did everything on the list."

She was full of encouragement, and said that she wasn't allowed to prophesy over anyone outside of the designated times in the meetings, yet towards the end of our conversation, it was very clear that she was.

Like the three people I'd met earlier, she was slipping into telling me several bite-sized statements, that could really apply to many people. One thing she said was "You've got to stop striving." Well, I could certainly buy-into that. Then she said,

"You are going to hold your head up high."

And two other things that were the same as what the three others had said to me.

As I headed back into real life again afterwards, I decided to take the encouraging words that had been spoken to me and dwell on them, whether they were from God or not.

After all, I needed the encouragement.

Revelation

Today I had a great day hanging-out at a remote Christian college, where they discipline young Christians in becoming effective for God.

They seem to see themselves as something of an army camp, as the students do all the physical fitness as well, and sometimes get sent off on manoeuvres.

For example, they drop groups of them off in the middle of another nowhere, with only a paperclip and their faith to sustain them. The idea is that they then swap the paperclip for something of greater value, then swap that etc. until they return with something big like a microwave, or a car, or Africa or something.

Chatting to some of them in the canteen inevitably led them to asking me what I was doing in New Zealand. So I told them that I had reckoned that God wanted me here, but didn't really know what exactly to do once here. I'm not really used to talking about myself, being more of a listener, so I had to break eye-contact to concentrate. When I looked back I realised that they had all lost interest and were now looking at someone behind me who had stolen their attention.

I thought that was rude, but normal for me. Somehow I have that effect on people, of suddenly becoming invisible mid-sentence as soon as anyone else comes into peripheral vision.

So I sighed inwardly, and turned to politely listen to the newcomer behind me who had so snappily seduced my audience.

And here's the thing – there was no-one there.

I swear I did a double-take. Who were they talking to? One guy was gazing in awestruck wonder, and enunciating "Whoa. Dude. What faith!"

At this point I realised with shock that they were actually still talking to me, but I was so un-used to the attention, that I had just assumed that they were looking with such interest at someone else.

I started to protest, "No, no, really, I haven't got much faith..." Didn't they realise that I hadn't even been properly attending a church in the UK for years? Then I genuinely let slip that I had never left home before, and, well, that was that.

So anyway, from that moment on, they were full of encouragement and determined to look after me, swapping phone numbers by the end of the day, and promising to meet up back in Auckland to hear my testimony. Quite an inspiring day, not least because I was kindly given two free meals, three free pieces of cake, three free sachets of Milo and a free lift home, saving me $17 on the coach. Oh, and they made me tea, too. I even got to run off some radio demo tapes for job applications while I was there.

I accept their faith in God, but am bewildered at their faith in me.

Today I had cereal for breakfast, sweet and sour pork from the supermarket at lunchtime (with a banana), chicken and vegetable soup (from the supermarket) with 4 slices of bread (from the hostel's free food shelf) this evening, and a white-chocolate Twix (from the Kwikimart). And a few glasses of fruit juice. Shortly I should have a hot chocolate.

I have a driving lesson booked tomorrow for 1:30.

Driving Me Crazy

Driving in New Zealand is a bit uphill.

Last week the AA refused to recognise my provisional driving licence, on the basis that I hadn't passed any tests to get it. (it's from 1993, before the UK required a theory test for it) They said they'd backdate a new Learner's Licence to a month ago, when I'd passed the UK's new theory test, after which I can't take a test for a Restricted (half) Licence in NZ until 6 months (now 5) have passed (i.e. until January 2005).

So I rang a number, and they told me that as I'm over 25, it'd actually be only 3 (now 2) months before I could take the Restricted (half) Licence. (i.e.October)

So I went back in this week, and they said they'd backdate my new Learners Licence to 1993 after all, but that I'd have to re-take the Theory Test all over again today.

All this and I had to postpone a trip around a TV station today in order to take it.

If you actually followed all that, thankyou for sharing my pain. I'm afraid there's more to come.

So, fully expecting them to change the rules yet again, today I went in and successfully passed the NZ driving theory test anyway, but it was still nail-biting stuff.

They gave me a scratch card of 35 multi-choice questions, of which I had to score 32. Having got two that I was certain of wrong, I left the two most difficult questions until the end, and realised, on 31, that I therefore had to get at least one of them right. It was a bit like being on The Weakest Millionaire.

One question was about the legal number of millimetres in a tyre's tread, and the other was how often a vehicle over six years old needs a Warrant Of Fitness here.

Anyway I prayed and scraped through with 32 (again), so they gave me the Learner's Licence, but they didn't backdate it, promising that it would be okay. I don't believe a word of it.

I've taken several lessons in the UK, but want to have another one before taking the practical test here anyway.

Fahrenheit 9/11

Tuesday nights at the cinema are cheap, so I've decided to make Tuesday night movie night.

I think there are two types of conspiracy theory:

1. Ones driven by the evidence.

2. Ones driven by holes in the evidence.

Although there are some thought-provoking theories out there about the awful September 11th attacks, I'm afraid that Fahrenheit 9/11 falls more into the latter camp.

And, fairly, I guess the film is less of a conspiracy theory, and more of a flat outright character assassination.


Documentary-maker Michael Moore has some circumstantial evidence against Bush, but he has to work so hard to mould it into a case that you get the impression he might have been better off abandoning this angle and finding a new one.

It's certainly a quite entertaining piece of propaganda. The editors take quotes out of context and mock Bush with such cunning accuracy, that it's hardly journalism, more satire.

For example, at one point we're shown a clip of Bush making a serious statement about terrorism, at the end of which he declares "now watch this drive," and we discover he's actually enjoying a round of golf.

That's funny – showing him talking about such a serious topic, before revealing such a comparatively trivial context.

But what if the context had come first? What if we'd first been shown that he was on a golf course, and then seen him breaking off to address such a serious matter?

Not really funny. Dare I say it, he might even have come across as responsible. Perhaps the press should have really let him play golf for an hour.

At another point Moore declares "I couldn't believe that virtually no member of Congress had read the Patriot Act before voting on it. So I decided that the only patriotic thing to do, was for me to read it to them."

I can see his argument, (regardless of whether I agree with it) but he then decides to read the Act to the congresspeople... via the loudspeaker of an ice-cream van.

One has to wonder whether he actually did read out the entire Act that way. Personally, I doubt it. I suspect that, like John Conyers had implied a moment earlier, he just didn't have the time to.

For all that, there's stark, unpleasant footage in here too, that has an almost Zapruder-like voyeurism about it. The footage of George W Bush during the opening minutes of the 9/11 attack, sitting silently in a classroom, trying to act normally. The harrowing street confrontation at the end between a protestor and a woman whose son had died.

Ultimately though, these sequences sit a little awkwardly in a film that succeeds more at comedy than commentary.