Please bear with me ...

My Father and I duly arrived in Invercargill . It'd been raining which is as unusual as finding something not made in China .

Dad drove steadfastly to an address now long forgotten .

There on the side of the street was an image I'll never forget . A car , more a small , grey , automotive mistake parked and looking fore lorn on that cold dreary day and as the rain gladly fell from it and sped off along already full gutters to the safety of the sea , my new car sat and quietly rusted . What the fuck was it ? It looked like a mutated Volkswagen Beetle only uglier ! I remember moving around it , squinting , trying to get some sort of attachment to it as I felt the disappointment of the damned creep into my soul . I was a teenager remember , thats what teenagers feel . That's what I felt , and as I moved closer up on that abhorrent , metal , social death machine , I felt my dreams of owning that Dodge evaporate into oblivion .

It was a Renault ! ? A Renault 750 ! ? One of about two in the whole world . The other one got clubbed to death for being uglier than Hitler and slower than a cheque in the mail . It was banned from the roads for making other drivers fall into convolutions of hysteria because the very sight of it caused people to have accidents while doubled over their steering wheels in gales and fits of laughter ! It was just too French , even for the French !

Alarmingly , the front doors opened backwards , The front seats could tip forward , at any time whether you wanted them to or not , the steering wheel was made from a white plastic that , when your palms were sweaty , like when you hit 50 mph , the plastic reacted and gave me fiendishly itchy palms and that's how I learned to drive with my knees . I had to scratch that which itched , what else was I to do ?

At least it was slow ! Good God it was so slow ! I was passed my babies in prams , grandmothers going to the toilet in walking frames . I remember going flat out and being passed by the tide once . No matter what I did . Drilling holes in the muffler made it sound faster but made it go slower still . To aid in the illusion of speed , I put a pair of little plastic wings on the windscreen wipers but that just made then flit one way , air born and without any affect what so ever on the perpetual rain on the windscreen then crawl back at a snails pace and I actually nearly died in a head on collision because the 'Flit / Crawl ' effect mesmerized me into a stupor . That and the four large bottles of beer on all but for a few potato chips on an empty stomach , reluctantly given to me by a now nameless friend and co pilot . Best of all was it's handling . It didn't . The best you could hope for was that God wasn't ready for you yet and just hang on for dear life .

Being French , they put the engine at the rear most part of the car , then the gearbox , then the diff and axles , then three white faced , terrified passengers , then finally me clamped to the steering wheel as if hanging from a cliff and pretending that that last 360 degree spin was intentional and to show my driving prowess . I subsequently learned that Dad had decided to buy that car to keep me safe while I learned how to drive . It worked ! It was so unsafe at all but pushing speeds that I learned virtually every trick in the book . Under-steer , over-steer , drifting , sliding , spinning uncontrollably , screaming , wailing , shitting bricks and shedding all but the bravest and laziest friends too tired to walk and prepared to take a risk . If Ralph Nader had heard of the Renault 750 , he'd have invaded France and bombed the Renault factory flat !

Ahh ... Those were the days . In a crash , cars could grate you into pieces on cruel metal dash boards like a soft tomato . They would rarely stop in a hurry yet go like a rocket . No soft , plush, plastic padding to gently ease you through a collision . The cars dad and I owned had no seat belts and no arm rests , you needed your arms to wrestle with the non assisted steering wheel . Power brakes ? Ha ! Just push harder and aim for a soft spot in a paddock and if you hit a fence all the better . It might slow you down and stop you going over a cliff into a river and what with all that Southland rain , rivers were everywhere , sneaking around , waiting ...

That was during the late 1960's . Kids in cars ! Round and round . Drinking , driving , chasing girls , or Ho's if you prefer .

My father's generation , rode bicycles or , if you were lucky , a fast motorcycle . The Vincent , also known as the Widow Maker , was popular . You might have had a horse ! Today , most only know of the horse they feed to their cat out of a can . I wonder how fast you could get a horse to go on P ? Quite fast but no for long I bet .

My little Renault and I eventually did become good friends . Once I understood the importance of cool versus moron , I began to feel ever more comfortable with my strange little frisson causing automobile .

As the late sixties gave way to the early seventies , a strange social metamorphosis occurred out of the fading pious nature of God , Queen and Country . And that was flares . Flared jeans were IN baby and so was Flower Power , Make Love Not War , and Hair . Gleaming , flaxen , waxen ! Hair ! And I had some and it was all on my head ! So while some of my friends were going the way their parents had gone before them . Into the freezing works to hack at dead flesh and sporting a short back and sides , a beer pot by the end of the week and more bigotry than a hall full of American Bible Bashers , I became one of Gores first hippies . I bought a pair of floral flares , a fancy purple shirt with ruffled sleeves and the highest platform shoes money and bravery would allow and I painted my Renault burnt orange with huge flowers all over it . I was IN !

I bought Stepponwolf , T Rex and Led Zeppilin records from the World Record Club and played them on a valve powered Radiogram , in mono ! This was before television was common and before I discovered the wondrous affects of pot .

Those were halcyon days so I thought . Imagine my surprise when my days just kept getting better . There's a lot to be said for refusing to grow up and instead compromise by growing out . Years later , when I discovered writers like Oscar Wilde and Truman Capote , I learned to saviour their hard won wisdom . Oscar Wilde once said ' Life is far too important to take seriously ' . One of mine is ' The more I know , I know , I don't want to know it ! '

[ As New Zealand life , it's life style , it's energy , it's soul and spirit was to change , I have learned that one had best keep ones self safe and pragmatic to remain ' involved ' and ' connected 'without seeking refuge in denial and , as is the way of some , to emigrate .

As I write , to in some way lay a pathway into where my writings will take you and I , I feel obligated to reveal my history in such a way as to highlight what we've come to lose by steadfastly remaining ignorant and living in denial of some awful truths . ]

By early 1970 we , my Aunt , my mother , my father and I were sucombing to huge pressures being put upon the farming ' industry ' . Even the weather seemed to change to herald what was to become the induction of the Neo Conservative regime into our evolving , eglartarian society .

As we bade farewell to our beautiful farm , our friends and my place of birth for a new future , in at least the better weather of Canterbury , none of us could have realized what was to unfold . Both for us and for our country ...

The Dodge and Mr Fuck !

Hello my first follower ! Welcome to my missives . Now , I have this lovely garden path , let me lead the way .

It's been established that I was born . I was born on the land , to the land and I am that which the land is comprised of . I am the sum total , or the holistic construction of the nutrients which I consumed from my birth place ... Gore , Southland , New Zealand .

Gore was , in the late 1960's , a rich and comfortable place to live so I believed . It's a town built along the Mataura river and typically of a town founded by Presbyterians , the town planners turned their backs to that beautiful stream by allowing the construction of the towns industrial infrastructure to flourish along it's banks thus obscuring any beauty or romance that might be gleaned from it's rippling , twinkling , fish laden waters . It also afforded those industries the opportunity to be able to dump their toxic waste and rubbish in to it .

Gores main street became a mating ground , sports field and race track for the local kids with little else to do but drive aimlessly about , fighting , 'rooting ' and generally creating mayhem . One of which was me .

' In those days ' , kids had cars that would , at best , run long enough to get one to a dance , or a party . Fords , Holdens and Zephyrs were popular and above all else , cool . Snarling along of an evening , you could hear the dulcet tones of a Mk3 Ford Zodiac rattling polite tea cups , in cupboards , in musty houses from miles away and that was the objective . To jangle the nerves of the conservative , church goer types who must have prayed for engine failure as they checked that their daughters were safely tucked up in bed .

Thus began my life long love affair , more an infatuation or obsession , with girls and cars .

Cars were freedom , status , a place to hang out , a bar , a drug den , a boudoir , a brothel , ones lounge and place to tell tall stories and where friends made new friends and sometimes though rarely, new enemies .

Also and often , those , now old cars produced a surge of fright . The French have a word for it . A frisson ! Try hurtling along a winding country road at 90 mph in a Mark 4 Zephyr , more a four door coffin with the areo dynamics of a house brick and your drunk mate driving thinks that sticking his leg out the door and putting his foot on the road in a defiant act of lunacy is a great idea ! It wasn't ! He discovered that by doing so , that within a nano second , he'd ground the heel off his late 1960's platform soled boot to an acute 45 d angle and until he could afford a new pair , he hobbled around like a polio victim . Myself and the other seven kids in the car thought it hilarious at the time and to this day , I still think it was a great idea ! Well done Byron ( Not his real name ) . Byron went on into life, as one does and became a grandfather by the age of thirty , a drug importer and user , a brawler and once causing a riot at an Agricultural and Pastoral Society show by cutting down the tents belong to the carnies for ripping him off then getting his mates to back him up as he waged war on a biblical level amid a crowd of farmers and their wives , children and animals . That 'minor incident' saw him do his first lag in prison . However , Byron was , despite his best efforts and intentions , a good person .

When I was fifteen , my dad bought me my first car ! He didn't tell me what model it was but it was A CAR ... ! Oh My GHOD ! I was so excited ! We lived on our 650 acre farm about 12 miles from Gore , or Gomorra if you prefer , and I now I was about to have the freedom to roam like a lone wolf . I imagined a Ford v8 , perhaps a Holden Special or a Vauxhall Cresta 2.6 and it that Model had fins ! But most of all , I wanted the most amazing car I'd ever seen . It was for sale at a car yard and wreckers on the outskirts of southern Gore and operated by a man called Mr Foot . ( Years later , I was with my father in Christchurch . I was there and then , when my dad introduced Mr Foot to another man , an engineer and factory owner , a Mr Heel . ) Mr Foot was known also as the man who said that great word , 'Fuck ! ' a lot . I truly mean he said ' fuck ' sandwiched between every other word he used no matter how out of place it might have been . ' Great fuckin' day ? Fuckin' might fuckin' rain fuckin' later fuckin' though . What fuckin' do ' fuckin' you fuckin' think ? I learned , if you answered ' Fuck knows ' he'd slink off looking hurt and offended . He was a lovely man and was kind and generous with plenty of time for broke , spotty , teenagers with car madness coursing through their veins .

That car was a 1959 Dodge Kingsway ! Ohhh ... I remember it well ! It was white with red blazes along it's glorious flanks , it had chrome trim and twin headlights but best of all , it had massive fins ! Huge , incongruous fins ! It had a clear resin steering wheel with flecks of different coloured alloy metal that glittered in the sun . It had an instrument pod like something George Jetson would have been envious of and it had a massive , wide and plush, back seat . Perfect for hugging , kissing , fondling and if I were lucky , for fucking on ! It was quintessentially magnificent and I was well and truly in love with it .

But to convince my father to spend the money , that was the tricky bit . I thought of being devious , tricky , sneaky , lying , stealing , even murdering . I imagined a quick and decisive bank job . I sought help , guidance and advice from my most deviant and criminally minded friends who all withered at the thought or getting caught out trying to pull the wool over my fathers eyes .

Finally , I decided to just front up and ask . Which I did . And do you know what ? Dad said yes ! He'd consider it , take it under advisement and if I could convince Mr Foot to drop the price from $700.00 to $500.00 , all the better which I did during a particularly fruity exchange of foul language , just to put Mr Foot at ease .

I informed my father who seemed happy and ready to make the purchase and I was already speeding and shagging and parking up , my elbow nonchalantly drooping from the door window .

Finally , after days that seemed like years , my father and I headed off in his Mark Ten Jaguar to pick up MY CAR ! . We drove down through a pine plantation and through lush green farm land to where the road flattened out to a straight stretch know locally as Suicide Straight for it's down hill run then abrupt T intersection with State Highway One . There was many a horror story of lucky , near misses and some not so lucky . ( To this day ,that intersection sprouts little white crosses in remembrance to those less fortunate , a disturbing and unsettling trend that I particularly loath but more of that later . )

We slowed down . We stopped . We turned right ! ? We needed to turn left. ! I nervously asked ' Pop ! Pop ? Don't we need to go to Gore to pick up my Dodge ? ' He said ' What Dodge ? ' I said ' Ah... the one you promised me ... You said if I could broker a deal with Mr 'Fuck' Foot , which I did , you'd buy me that Dodge ! ' All my father said was ' Ahhh haaa ... I see ... ' and kept driving south . As I watched the road fold under the long , aristocratic snout of the Jaguar , I felt dread and wondered what it was that my father had bought instead ... The fact that my father was eccentric was never lost on me and I suspected the worst ...

( My feet are cold . My old dog's snoring . I must go and pee . Until next time . Peace and love y'all . )

My virgin Blog . Terrified then delighted !

Hello Everybody !

How exciting ! I've never said hello to millions of people before . I rarely say hello to the one or two I know should they be unlucky enough to bump into me and usually never to strangers unless I'm sure the moment I say hello , I know I'll be saying goodbye in the same breath .

It's not that I don't like people . I just find most humans , frightening , cunning , dangerous and frankly inhuman . I keep a keen eye on bipeds , with the exception of chickens , for good reason . Bipedal humans are scary , untrustworthy bastards and I'm one of them and God only knows , I barely trust myself .

As for chickens ? If I ever meet a six foot six chicken with tattoos and a twisted beak , I doubt I'd trust it also . Especially if I were wearing my worm costume . Or being caught behaving in a worm like manner , which I've been known to do . Usually , when I've been sprung for some indiscretion .

So ... Where was I ?

Oh yes ... Me !

I was conceived feverishly , born gladly and was nearly adopted out but for my mother who had been gifted with a love for all things small , helpless and fluffy . My humble beginnings ( And as I cast my eye into my future , I see even more humble endings ! ) began as a farmers son . A child of the land , a little bastard , in the literal sense , and the one and only one ... The dreaded bastard , only child !

Imagine the family surprise when my father conceived a son to his wife's sister ! No ! I don't live in Arkansas , have never lived in a house with a porch and can't play the banjo .

Despite the odds , here I am .

Welcome to my Blog and very likely ... Goodbye ...