Gymn Bunnies

Pic courtesy of Gymn Memb Fees

Gym Bunnies

Six weeks ago I and the voice in my head finally decided to do something about my weight. The first thing I did was change my diet. I decided to have the occasional treat so I wouldn’t have to be totally depressed. Previously if I wandered into a bakery without lawful excuse I would buy a meat pie and a doughnut. Now, I only get the doughnut.

I have cut down on my butter intake by only buttering one of the slices of bread when I make a sandwich. I have cut down on my bread consumption from eight slices a day to four, except for the weekends which are my diet amnesia days.

So how is this life change working? Well not exceptionally well or even moderately well but it is enough to stop my belly from further expansion. My ace in the hole was to join a gym.

Yes I know, there is no sight more depressing or forlorn than a middle aged fat man in a gym but that is the price of gluttony a fat man must pay. I must do my penance. People say as an excuse ‘I am big boned or - I have a lower metabolic rate than normal.’ But it is a lie.

I have grown from 90kg to 118kg over the last 25 years and now I am fat, unpleasantly obese, overweight. I'm a rotund, glutinous balloon of a person.

Doctors and nutritionists say in relation to men, that if you stand naked and look down you should be able to see your general parts or at least parts of your parts in general. Not only had all my general parts vanished from sight, even my size eleven and a half feet had all but disappeared. My doctor warned me I was on the brink of taking blood pressure pills permanently.

So the voice in my head and I joined the gym. While this voice is helpful to me as a writer it is a total pain in the arse in a gymnasium. The voice in my head is an annoying, smart arse, macho bastard! He is the bastard that makes me pose naked in the bathroom mirror and then taunts me pointing out the eyesore my body has become.

The owner of the gym is an attractive middle aged woman with the physique of an athlete twenty years her junior. She wears leotards with athletic singlets that show every detail of her lithe, fat free muscular body. That is fine, as she is a great advertisement for her gym. Her gym is full of similar leotard encased muscular athletic woman. Some are instructors and personal trainers while others are woman of all ages who are heavily into rigorous sporting endeavors.

And they are all so nice to me! They smile at me when I enter and say good morning or afternoon. But the real problem is they are all so damn fit! 

If there is one thing my macho inner voice hates it is women who are athletically stronger and fitter than the lazy blob he lives inside.

Right from the get go he made trouble for me. Everyone joining the gym is assessed by the staff who design a personal fitness program plan of recommended, graduated exercises. I watched as the gym members referred to their plan cards like they were the athletic bible.

My macho inner voice immediately said: “A program plan is not for you sunshine. Whilst you are an embarrassment to the entire male race you do not need some smiling Amazonian, leotard clad, former kitchen dweller to tell you what to do.

A gym is a male domain. It should be full of grunting, sweaty men wearing hoodies with the arms torn out. There should be swearing, poor light and the pong of years of perspiration coated unwashed floors and grimy wall decor.”

“So you want me to do my own exercise regime then?” I asked.

“And why not, look how pleasant the woman instructors are? Where are the tough no-nonsense male instructors eh? You are not here for pleasant talk with attractive women, you fat bastard. You are here to reclaim your maleness. Your job is to show these women that a gym is a place of pain, profuse sweating, suffering and inappropriate farting. You should be instructed in exercise by sadistic retired commandos who believe death by exhaustion is a healthy way to get fit.”

“So where do I start?”

“Let’s start with the rowing machines. I can see two women chatting as they row like girls. I bet they are talking about flower arranging. Go on, strap yourself into the machine next to one of them - now look at the screen on her machine. Don’t let her see you looking, stupid! Out of the corner of your eye, that’s it.

Check her strokes per minute, and how many calories she is burning per hour with each stroke. Whatever she is rowing for her plan you must double it. She is a mere woman.”

I began to row and had to stop gasping with exhaustion and fear of death by the time I had rowed 1000m. 

“Put more effort in you sissy! Get into it fatso.” the macho idiot ordered me.

Eleven minutes later I slumped forward on the rowing machine. My breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat poured down my forehead blinding my eyes.

“Why did you pick the rowing machine you bastard? I am having a stroke.”

“Don’t let the ladies see you like that. Have you no shame? Stand up. Look nonchalant, like it was nothing. Gawd you are a pathetic excuse for a man. Drink some water. Don’t dribble, honestly you look like you are melting. Right, Mr. Blobby, now for some real exercises for your arms and chest. Those man titties and love handles have to go.” I staggered to the weight lifting machines.

“Remember the golden rule, always check what the women are lifting and then double it. If she is one of those cross training, multi sport, or body building freaks at least lift the next weight up.”

I have attended the gym for six weeks now and I still don’t have a plan. Even the men have plans designed by the women. I am plan-less and my wife says brainless as well. The average time a women exercises there is 45 minutes so I exercise an hour and a half.

Below is a breakdown of my current exercise regime.

Row two thousand meters in under 9 min 40secs.

Use six arm, shoulder and chest exercise machines with weights from 80 lbs. to 150 lbs. Do multiple repetitions in lots of ten or twenty depending on the weight.

150lbs? That seems excessive. Well there is a reason for that. You see the teenagers from the local high school also attend the gym. The macho swine inside me insists that I also compete with the males as they are technically still young adults and no self respecting adult macho man should lift less than them either. Back to my list.

I do a hundred and fifty stomach crunches on one machine and a floor mat. I do as many in a row as I can without crying out when the cramps hit. Then complete the rest in sets of twenty.

I get on the bicycle and pedal for 4 and a half kilometers. I must pedal faster than the women on either side of me but not less than 100 rpm and sprint for the last minute.

How I got to the 100 rpm limit was because one day there was one of those Amazonian super fit multi-sport type athletes on a bike next to me forcing me to compete with her. OH I know she never looked at me but she knew I was killing myself to keep up with her, she knew.

We completed ten minutes; she strolled off to chat with one of her friends. She hadn’t even sweated through her makeup. I stood hanging onto the bike because my legs had turned to shuddering dog roll. My forehead had sprung a permanent leak and my heart couldn’t seem to decide whether to explode out through my chest or my spine. 

The macho scumbag inside my head was saying things like, “You’re the man. That was awesome for a fat bastard. I bet she is on steroids.’

After the bike ride I walk to the other end of the gym for another 150 stomach crunches. On that day the walk was very slow as I needed to support myself on several of the large pieces of gym equipment to stop from crumbling to the ground in a quivering mess.

After another 150 stomach crunches I finish with another 2000 meter row, which the macho idiot informs me is the Olympic distance for rowing events but I have to do it twice. This ensures that I am totally exhausted every day.

“You must be mad!” cried my wife when I explained my approach to fitness and losing weight. I must confess she is probably right. 

But what are the results six weeks down the track? I still have muscle soreness and stiffness in my thighs, arms and stomach but it is slowly decreasing. I have lost 5 kilos in weight.

I have frequent unrealistic fantasies about Iron Man events involving climbing mountains, swimming oceans and intercontinental bicycle rides.

Two days ago after I finished my four days a week gym session I realized my recovery from near death elapsed time was getting shorter. It is working!

Oh and when I stand naked with my arms at my side and look down, my general parts have reappeared. Is it possible my stomach has shrunk that much? Or has all that exercise increased the size of…?

All I can say is its back to the gym on Monday.

The Dumbest Thing I've ever done - so far

The Dumbest Thing I Have Ever Done

by A J BURTON

Would you volunteer to be water boarded? Or listen to all the works of Shakespeare in Swahili? Probably not, only an idiot would want to do that, right?

Well say hello to an idiot. The man afflicted with the 'mostly' suppressed macho gene.

A few months ago I had an appointment with the medical super clinic in Manukau City. Manukau City is part of Auckland City in the North Island of New Zealand. Yes a city within a city. Don’t ask me why, it’s the bureaucrats’ idea.

I was scheduled to have a gastroscopy to check that my reflux wasn’t caused by anything sinister. In case you don’t know gastroscopy is a procedure where a long tube with a camera at the end (endoscope – image above) is slid down your throat and finally into your stomach.

The clinic told me to arrive early and not to have eaten anything the night before, or that morning. The super clinic performs minor operations where I don’t have to stay overnight after I come out of the operating theatre. I would receive some aftercare to make sure there are no complications from the anesthesia drugs. I also needed a driver as you are not allowed to drive for 12 hours after the gastroscopy.

After giving my appointment letter to the receptionist I sat waiting my turn amongst dozens of other patients. I was struck by the amount of older persons awaiting operations. It was like staring through a looking glass to the future. I tried to tell myself, you are still relatively young but a small voice in my head kept reminding me I was now sixty. Old age and senility is just a few twists and turns away.

By the time my name was called I was somewhat depressed. I took my form to a consulting room where the operation was to take place. There I met the doctor, a middle aged man with expensive shoes and an attractive brunette nurse looking smart in her uniform.

The doctor explained I wouldn’t be completely unconscious but would receive enough drugs to keep me in a semi state of consciousness. Then for a reason I can still to this day never explain, the not very repressed macho gene insisted I ask this question.

“So doctor, do you have to be put under to have this procedure?”

His face lit up. In retrospect his mind must have been calculating how much extra time he was going to get on the golf course that afternoon.

“Why yes, some people have been known to be able to endure this procedure without any anesthesia at all. Plus they can be released straight after the procedure. You can drive yourself home.” The macho gene which had now morphed into the idiot gene informed me that I was one of those braver than brave heroes who don't need any sedation to have a long tube rammed down their throat.

“We can try it if you like. You can always change your mind. Nurse let’s get ready. Sign here Mr. Burton. Sit in the chair. It is a very safe operation, I have done hundreds.” He was probably thinking 'This will make a good story on the 19^th hole this afternoon.'

Before you could say Geneva Convention I was in the chair. The smiling nurse or was she laughing? Placed a mouthpiece in my mouth.

“This will protect your teeth.” With the other hand she produced a long black tube with a tiny bulb arrangement in the end.

I had this dreadful feeling they were going to hammer the camera tube down my throat. I had some sort of numbing liquid sprayed into my throat. Now was the time the Doctor should have said.

“Ha-ha of course we are now going to give you a sedative to help you through this. Only an imbecile would want to endure this without one.” Or even. “Now you are absolutely sure about this Mr. Burton? There is still time to put the drip in your arm.”

But instead the nurse leaned over and whispered. “Here it comes, you will experience a gagging reflex. Try and work your way through it.”

I can’t remember which one of them started stuffing what felt like a garden hose down my throat. I had the mother of all gagging reflexes. I went from hero to zero in a heartbeat. I tried to tell them.

“This is a mistake. I am choking to death. Let’s start over again and I'll have a shed full of sedative please.” But all that came out was. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!” I remember telling whoever would listen “Take this f*&^%king thing out of my throat I want drugs!” But again all that came out was. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarghhh.”

“You are doing well Mr. Burton. Only another meter and we will be there. Look! You can see the camera pictures now. How do you feel?”

“How the hell do you think I feel? You stupid woman. I’m choking to death here.” But in reality all she got was another “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh” In fact my entire conversation consisted of “Aaaaaaaaaaarh,” and similar such gagging noises because you cannot talk with a huge tube in your throat.

“Nearly there, Mr Burton. Just going into the stomach now. Look at the screen.” The doctor somehow expected me to want a guided tour?

“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrghhh, uuuuuuuuurgh aaaaaghh.” Translation: You look at the bloody screen you evil bastard. I just want that thing out, right now!”

“You are doing marvelously Mr. Burton,” joined in the nurse “You still ok?”

“Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrggh.” - “No, I am not you brainless woman. I am choking to death; I can’t seem to breathe and my heart's going like the clappers.”

“Good.” she said sweetly, “Hang in there. Not long to go.”

“Hello here’s something?” The doctor announced cheerfully. “I'll just rotate the camera a minute. A bit of discomfort coming.”

“AUuuuuuuuUUUUUAHOOOuuuuuuurgh.” A bit of discomfort? You have to be joking - it feels like you have a front end loader excavating my interior.

“All good, nothing to worry about. Pulling out in a second.” He peered at the screen manipulating the controls. The second seemed to last minutes as I gagged, sweated and gripped the chair, hoping I might faint.

“Coming out now.”

“Aaaaaaaaagh.” Thank God for that - I thought you were going to want a retake.

“There now. You are really brave to do that without a sedative Mr Burton. How do you feel?” The nurse patted me on the shoulder.

I should have said. “I feel like a fool, if I had even the faintest idea how bad that was going to be without a sedative I would have demanded seven of them.” Instead the idiot macho gene kicked in again and in a raspy voice I croaked.

“Thanks, can I leave now?” I almost ran out of the building in case they wanted a re-shoot.

The moral of this story if there is one, is that when you are offered a sedative for even what seems like a minor procedure there is probably a very good reason why one is offered.

For men only: If you are having a minor operation and the attending nurse is attractive, she may activate the idiot, macho gene. I suggest closing your eyes and imagining that she has a row of black rotting teeth. Her breath smells like the inside of a bachelor's fridge and she has a mole the size of a horse’s eyeball on her chin with three long black hairs growing out of it.

I drove home with only a sore throat. When my wife arrived home later that day (she is the practice manager for a medical centre) I told her what I had done.

She didn’t think I was brave at all, like the nurse did, but she did say.

“You bloody idiot. Next time I’ll send you with a note.”

It’s so hard to be a hero sometimes.

Forecasting weather - 2022 Politically Correct Broadcast from New Zealand

Hello, I am Amanda Dread and this is your 24 hour weather channel, saving you from Biblical Catastrophic Global Warming. It’s 8.30 a.m the 15th October 2022 and this is weather alarm 360.

A well-known climate deny-er Hamish Fisher owner of banned website ‘It’s all Bollocks dot com’ appeared in court yesterday charged with an offence under the Climate Deniers Act. He was remanded in custody for a psychiatric report. His court appointed lawyer asked Judge Judas for leniency as it was obvious his client was quite mad.

A Hastings school was closed at lunchtime yesterday as named cold front 'Drizzly Adams' caused several children to slip over on the wet grass. The Hasting weather trauma intervention squad has been called in to counsel the pupils. Two nearby roads have been closed after it was discovered their condition had deteriorated from damp to slick.

Meanwhile in the Marlborough district this morning named fog, ‘Lorna Doom’ smothered several vineyards. There have been unconfirmed reports of hundreds of grapevines wilting under what may be the fog of the century.

Two busloads of carbon emitting Japanese tourists have been partly blamed for the incident. Neither bus had paid the carbon toll and both had expired carbon emission certificates.

In Auckland city the local council has rescinded a stand down alert status to its entire road sweeping staff after named wind ‘Mariah’ was downgraded from windy to a gentle breeze.

 There have been many named winds already this year. 7 more than last year, a trend which although it cannot be accredited to climate change is almost with a 97% degree of accuracy caused by climate change. 

This catastrophic trend has nothing to do with lowering named winds from 15 knots to 12 knots. The wind research arm of the council says 12 knots of wind causes the same leaf disturbance as 15 knots so should be regarded as just as dangerous.

The Wellington City council has decided to name dangerous winds with numbers as they are already up to wind Zeus and its only October.

On the political front the minister of Carbon Defense the right Honorable C. Hunt announced the retirement of the last carbon emitting vehicle in the armed forces yesterday. The latest addition to the army is an electric armored car from the ethical armament company ‘Green Warfare Systems’. The armored car is part of the new Firm but Fair range and has a range of 15 kilometers. Questioned in parliament about the short operating range of the vehicle the minister replied that the range will be doubled once the armor and the guns are removed.

The minister is also reviewing the new bicycle for the army initiative for an instant response force formerly known as the Be Careful Out There Regiment. The big debate is - Should it have been a tricycle?

Where do your carbon dollars go? New Zealander's have paid 20 billion in carbon taxes and have helped to lower the world’s temperature by a whopping .000003% N.B. this figure has a variation factor of 1-2 degrees. 

The UN has announced that at this rate the world’s temperature may well be normalised by 3075. Well done New Zealand.

Now for today’s weather.

Cold front ‘Armageddon’ has stalled in the Tasman Sea. 

The current high pressure system ‘Apocalypse Now’ will bring sunshine and light breezes over the whole of the country for the next twenty four hours. 

A burn time of 20 minutes has been issued. Remember it is now an offence not to cover your upper torso under the Irresponsible Sunburn Act during an alert.

This message has been brought to you by UV 5000 the complete UV protection. Remember use responsibly, overuse may cause skin cancer. 

Buy those Carbon Bonds, the new way to buy better weather.

The Hoodle Coming Soon

The Hoodle

Here is a sneak peek into the paranormal comedy novel AJ Burton has been writing for the past 18 months.

We hope you enjoy reading it half as much as we have enjoyed writing and editing it.

NB this work is sprinkled with malapropisms and is in NZ English. If the body of the text appears in caps it is a glitch in blogger, as it was not posted in caps.

The Hoodle:- 

Sometime after midnight tonight, I need to grow a pair. I must become a Gladiator, a Jedi Knight and Batman, all rolled into one. The Lycanthrope we face is immortal or even older and he is cunning, immensely strong and so, so deadly.

My name is Jake Fangle and I’m twenty three years old. Somewhere inside me there lurks a hero. Maybe he could cease lurking for just one night. This night!

The only glimmer of hope is that I too am a lycanthrope, of sorts. Sounds like some sort of parasitic tapeworm, doesn’t it? According to folklore, it is the correct terminology for a werewolf.

I swear upon my mother’s gin soaked corpse this story is completely true. Sorry mum, I didn’t really mean that. Guess there are some residual feelings which I haven’t dealt with yet.

This brief account is a confession of my failings, so you will understand what I have gone through and won’t judge me too harshly whatever the outcome. So here we go; I’ll try to be honest. There is no point in lying about where this all took place, except about the country, the town and the people in it. Remember this is the whole truth and nothing but the truth, except for the parts which are a complete and utter fabrication.

I’m no writer, I’ll get things in the wrong order sometimes; say the wrong word, put it in the wrong context. This syndrome is real and is referred to as a malapropism or bushism so it’s not all my fault. If you are a grammar nazi now is the time to put down your marker pen, take off your jackboots and learn that even those of us with the grammar retard gene have a right to tell our stories.

My mother didn’t trust the New Zealand Education Department so she home schooled her only child. No blackboard and chalk for me, instead she put her faith in a bottle of gin and a carpet slipper. Sometimes mum rang the school bell for assembly at three in the morning. Try to remember your fourteen times tables then, I dare you! Many a lesson ended in a thump as mum hit the floor after a few lunch break gins. So I’m afraid my education is somewhat lacking.

Mum left me the house when she died, so I do okay. I’m single so I don’t need to earn much to make ends meet. I never knew my father. According to my mother he was a lazy, thick-headed arsehole; hopeless with money and he didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. I wonder under what circumstances they managed to conceive me.

But to get back to the present, the last 28 days have dictated that tonight my friends and I stand and fight. My survival depends on confronting and vanquishing a beast who intends to devour me. The werewolf will never give up until I am deceased or even dead.

Thank goodness I won’t have to face The Dog No One Ever Speaks About alone. But what chance do two cowardly dogs, a brave but clumsy idiot, the WWWC, and a Hu-oodle have to destroy a real Lycanthrope?

 Unless we can kill this hideous beast there is no hope for us. One by one he will track us down, each of our deaths too horrible to contemplate. My friends are precious to me and I don’t want any of them to die. Sometimes to my shame, I thought if the idiot got it, I could live with that. But even after all his screw-ups and systematic destruction of my home I wouldn’t wish that on him.

Should I fail, I shall be torn apart, ripped to pieces, eaten and once you are dead brother, life ain’t worth living. In the unlikely event I should be the victor I’ll become the local werewolf, so I must keep the real location of where this is all happening a secret. My home town could be a sleepy village in Hertfordshire, England, or an out the way town in the mid-west of the America’s or in the village of Sanyo in Japan. Or maybe it’s a country town called Wekawaka in the Wairarapa district of New Zealand.

Wekawaka is situated off State Highway Two but it also could be off Route 66 in California or the M1 motorway in England, or even the Hitachi yellow brick road in Japan.

It is a sleepy town with street lighting and shady trees lining the sidewalks. Generally everyone knows everyone else and their business. Think of Wekawaka as your everyday imaginary country town.

Wekawaka’s only distinction is that with alarming regularity tourists and trampers disappear in the rugged bush covered hills beyond the town. The rumour was that there was a sort of Bermuda Triangle effect going on and the local constable always seemed to be looking for someone. It didn’t bother us locals much; if the dopey tourists were too stupid to use a local guide that was their problem.

 One out of towner, an Australian no less, once said.

“If New Zealand was a constipated person you would insert the enema hose up the main street of Wekawaka to give him relief.” It’s a pity he never went missing.

We have a post office, a main street with hardware store, supermarket, garages, assorted small shops, cafes and two burger bars, one at either end of the town. There is one police constable, or sheriff, or ninja, or whatever they call cops in Japan but I shall refer to him as Constable Knowsley.

Knowsley considers himself a talented super-cop with a one hundred percent clearance of burglaries. Knowsley’s crime busting abilities must be taken with a grain of salt. We only had two burglaries in town last year, and criminal offender turned out to be the constable’s twelve year old son Sheldon.

Whenever our policeman spoke to you it was usually to ask “Have you seen this person?” and you would be shown a picture of a tourist standing smiling beside a hired camper van. Funny thing was he never seemed to find any of the missing persons, not that we heard about anyway. Once you disappear in the Wekawaka triangle you never return.

Ken Wilson my neighbour across the street was a keen tramper. He was middle aged and owned a miniature poodle. Yancy-boy was his name, I used to tease him and called him Nancy-boy, but he never got the joke. Why Ken would want a tramping companion who was no bigger than an obese albino rat, totally escapes me. He certainly wouldn’t have been much use as a hunting dog and was about as scary as a brightly coloured tea-cosy.

Suppose he was kind of cute, he’d see you coming and yap around your heels like a wind up squeaky toy. Yancy-boy must have done something real bad last month on that fateful full moon night. 

Sex in the City - A Pacific Island Tale

Sex in the City - A Pacific Island Tale

A satire based loosely on recent events in New Zealand's largest Pacific Island City. 

By A J Burton.

Characters:

Mayor Marvin Paisley

His girlfriend: Wang Chung: (absent)

Paisley’s Lawyer: Mr Jonas Bent

PR Assistant to the Mayor: Ms Alofa Oi-no-lie

The Mayor walked into the plush rooms of the firm of Bent, Swindle and Contrivance.

“Ah Marvin, come in and take a seat.  You don’t mind me calling you Marvin, do you your Honour?” Jonas Bent guided Marvin into a spacious office.

“Well – ah - I prefer Mayor Paisley for formal occasions, Mr Bent. But as this conversation is off the record, Marvin will do fine. This is Alofa Oi-no-lie my Public Relations assistant.”

“Pleased to meet you Mr Oi-no-lie, I like your Lava-lava.”

“Talofa darling. It’s not a Lava-lava, Mr Bent - it’s a frock.”

“I must explain, Jonas. Ms Alofa Oi-no-lie is a Fa’afafine; a transgendered Samoan. When it comes to equal employment opportunities we of the Super City are totally committed to multicultural inclusion.”

“So, was having it off with a Chinese staff member also working to your equal opportunity employment policies, then Marvin?” Jonas eased his thousand dollar suit into the leather chair behind his ornate desk. Behind him there was a panoramic view of the sprawling city and harbour.

“Everyone sit down,” he intoned. “Remember everything you say in this meeting here in my office is sacrosanct.”

“Wait a minute - I thought you were the Mayor’s lawyer Mr Bent, are you a priest as well?” Alofa raised her plump hands in the air. “Praise the Lord we have God on our side.”

“No! Sacrosanct means nothing said at this meeting will ever leave this room. Everything we say today will not be recorded - in fact it will have never happened.”

“Oh, I see, so we not really here then.’ She sighed dramatically. “And I wore my special frock too. This is a strange palagi way to resolve Mayor Paisley’s problem.”

“It’s alright Alofa, it means we don’t want anyone else to hear and discuss what happened.” Marvin flashed a vote winning smile at Alofa.

“But it’s in all the newspapers. How you been caught giving your Chinese girlfriend a good fucking on your desk, in the council chambers. Even my auntie in Samoa knows about it.”

“She does? How did she know so quickly? The story only broke last night.” Jonas demanded as Marvin looked panicked. 

"I rang her up on da phone and told her.” Alofa leaned forward and patted Marvin’s hand. “Don’t worry boss, I told her it was a secret and not to tell too many peoples.” Bent and Marvin rolled their eyes and face palmed in unison. Bent came up smiling thinking, this is going to cost more than I first thought, what a wonderful ca-ching moment.

“You better start at the beginning Marvin, now is the time to be honest. Leave nothing out. I need all the details.” Bent’s smile resembled a Great White homing in on a lone fur seal.

“Awesome!” Alofa rifled through her handbag and pulled out a tapa decorated notebook and pencil. “Auntie wants more details as well.” She sat expectantly, the notebook on her knee. Bent and Marvin looked at each other for a moment then they looked at Alofa who had already started to write.

“Alofa, you must not take any notes. You must never repeat what you hear today.” Bent took off his glasses. “This is a secret meeting to discuss how we are going to defuse the situation and get things back to normal here at city hall.”

“Ok, good idea.” Alofa grinned. “You can go back to fucking your wife then, your Honour.”

“Please, Alofa. No notes. Let me get this off my chest. I have a heart condition and high blood pressure, this situation with Ms Wang Chung is not helping.”

“Ok boss, you get everything off your chest. I can keep secrets.” Alofa crossed her arms and knees revealing enormous green painted toenails bulging out of tight orange plastic sandals under her colourful frock.

“It all started at a function for a high ranking airline executive from China. Ms Wang Chung was part of the official greeting party. We chatted and I found myself attracted to her feminine pulchritude.”

“Is that a palagi word for pussy Mr Mayor?”

“No, it means I thought she was beautiful. Now if you don’t mind, I shall continue. I sent her some texts and the long and the short of it was she agreed to meet me for lunch.”

“She is a slut Mayor, you only ask her for lunch and she wanted to fuck you?” Alofa smiled.

“Well … yes she did flash her eyes at me but I am just as guilty as she is, Alofa. She is young and I am middle aged. I was flattered that she desired me, things went on from there.”

“Can you remember when you first had sexual intercourse?” Bent leaned forward his voice barely audible. Alofa threw her hands in the air.

“You want to go that many years back Mr Bent? We might be here all night.”

“No! I meant with Ms Chung. Carry on Marvin.”

“We first had coital relations in my office about five or six days later.”

“Oh, that is a big mistake Mayor. Even in Samoa we never bring the relations along to things like that! People talk you know.” Alofa was staring at Marvin reprovingly.

“Oh what’s the point? I am trying to be diplomatic. I can see it’s no good sugar coating everything. Alofa, I meant I had sex with her, I fucked her, gave her one, screwed the pants off her, and did the deed. All of those things OK?”

“Oiiieeee that many times eh? No wonder your heart is on the blink.”

Marvin and Bent face-palmed again. Bent’s sides began to heave. He took out a pack of tissues, usually used for comforting his clients after they heard his hourly rate, and began to wipe his eyes.

“I am sorry Marvin, I know it’s not funny but, look at this from my point of view. Now where did you find Ms Oi-no-lie?”

“Following national policy, council staff decided we needed to hire someone who was from an ethnic minority and also from the gay community. It is part of our multicultural policy; we must show we represent every community in our city, no matter how diverse. My PA Reginald told me he personally selected Ms Oi-no-lie after a vigorous recruitment program.

“Yes, Reginald and I held many vigorous interviews before I got the job.” Alofa volunteered.

This time only Bent face-palmed. He took a deep breath and said “Alright Marvin, so you had sex with Ms. Chung in your office. Now I need to know about the time you were caught by a security guard having sex in the Ngati Whatua Room.”

“It was late at night, my office was being cleaned. I didn’t mean to offend anyone by having sex in the Ngati Whatua room. It was just there, a big quiet room out of the way of the cleaners. I didn’t think...”

“It’s alright boss. Me and Reginald have had two interviews in the Ngati Whatua room. We used all the furniture but-” she giggled, “I fixed the broken chair up with duct tape.”

“O My God! Having sex is becoming endemic amongst your council’s employees.” Bent stood up, turning to look out the window. He felt left out, none of the employees at Bent, Swindle and Contrivance appealed to him.

“Oh, no chance of an epidemic Mr Bent. Reginald is a real gentleman; he brings his own condoms. We clean up after ourselves and I made sure I put the Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes in the rubbish bin. We like it like that.” Mr Bent tried unsuccessfully to relax into his seat once more. He was breathing heavily.

“Thank you for that insight Alofa.” Said Marvin firmly. ‘To get back to my story. In the Ngati Whatua room Wang and I were naked, having sex on the boardroom table, when I heard someone open the door. I froze; I just couldn’t move. I couldn't breathe and thought I was going to have a heart attack. Ms Chung told me to do something. I don’t remember what, but I couldn't move. I just stood there and the security guard walked in. It was my fault, I should have done something.”

“I agree,” said Bent. “We must do some damage control. This action was very disrespectful of our local Maori Iwi. Do you remember who the security guard was?” Marvin hung his head and shook it slowly.

“There, there Mr Marvin, don’t feel bad. Ms. Chung is a lying slut. She told the press that you can only fuck for two minutes and that she thinks you are only a four out of ten in the sack. Even the cleaning staff say youse are at least a five.”

Bent staggered to the window. “Stop, stop, I am sorry Marvin, I am not laughing, believe me.” He said leaning against the window frame gasping.

“You look like you laughing Mr. Bent.” Said Alofa sternly. “It’s not funny. The palagi press have made our Mayor look like a fool; making jokes about his little laititi and him cumming so quickly. Even my auntie say he is just like a boiled egg - finished in two minutes. Sorry Mayor, auntie Palamo has no class.”

“We need solutions,” Marvin stood up and began to pace the room. “Ideas. What are we going to do about the security guard for instance, how do we keep him quiet?”

“Pay him off of course,” Bent smiled. “It’s not rocket science. If he works for the council perhaps a small promotion, if he is on contract maybe a lengthy renewal clause?”

“What about the press? Most of them owe me a favor here and there but the others want their pound of flesh.”

“You are newly elected and you need an overseas trip Marvin. I hear the Los Angles’ city council is installing a new sewerage system. Maybe you could take the wife for a few weeks until this blows over.”

“How apt, I am so deep in the shit now I have to hold my nose to stop breathing it in.” Marvin flopped back into his chair.

“Good. Then that leaves Ms Wang Chung. Let me set up a meeting. Everyone wants something in these matters I find. Recognition, employment, a new reputation. Once she has been out in the cold for a while she will come round to our way of thinking. However, we will have to spend a little more than what it cost for black lingerie from the two dollar shop.” Marvin hung his head.

“I know I’m a cheap skate. But I feel better already.” Marvin took a deep breath. “Thank you, Jonas, I know I am in capable hands.” The Mayor held out his hand and shook Bent’s vigorously.

“The firm of Bent, Swindle and Contrivance is here to help you in every way possible. Naturally there will be considerable expenses, but I am sure the city ratepayers will be more than happy to pay to protect the good name of their Mayor from slurs.”

“Of course, the public have their uses.” Mayor Marvin stood. “Come Alofa, we have another meeting. Remember this meeting never took place. It never happened. Alofa? Where has she gone?

Alofa was already halfway down the stairs speaking into her cellphone.

“Hello Auntie, I have just finished a palagi meeting that never happened. I have heard of such things - you wouldn't believe that these palagi are so devious. Now I have to ring my cousin Sione, you know the one who walked in on the mayor screwing his Chinese girlfriend? I can tell him now that he is going to get a big pay rise. You know that 55 inch color TV you wanted? Well it’s coming auntie, almost as quick as the mayor.”

The Whitsunday’s and beyond.

The drive to Airlie Beach and the Whitsunday Islands was long and we passed numerous kangaroos dead on the side of the roadway hit the previous night as they sought the sweet grass by the side of the roads. It is sad but in a country this big, fencing the side of the roads would just be impracticable. Remember if you are thinking of coming to Australia and driving from city to city distances are huge! Even our GPS we named Doris seemed to have a sense of humor as she stated in her posh English voice. “Drive straight for 378 kilometers then make a right turn.”

On the way to Airlie beach we drove through Rockhampton and headed for Yeppoon. Due to lack of available accommodation we stayed for one night in an overpriced apartment tower called Bay-view Towers. We renamed them Faulty Towers. At $160 a night you would expect good facilities. Things like plates, knives and spoons; if you wanted these you were charged an additional $5. There were no cooking facilities except a microwave. The ranch slider to the balcony refused to open and there were so few plug outlets they had extension cords running around the room.

Determined to get some value for money we went looking for the spa and swimming pool complex advertised in the in-room information brochure. Mysteriously they had vanished. Maybe it was another add on? How a large apartment complex can advertise a facility that doesn’t exist leaves me speechless.

I passed a radio billboard on the way out of town advertising ‘NAG’ Radio not a very compelling call sign I thought.

While Hervey Bay seemed to be semi tropical, Airlie Beach seemed like a resort you would find in places like Fiji, complete with coconut trees. Tourism must be booming this far up the coast everything is bigger and brighter here. We found a nice motel apartment just a few hundred yards from the beach.

Up north they get those stinging jellyfish here from October to May so at Airlie beach they have a man made lagoon for swimming all year round. What a great idea!

On our last day at Airlie Beach we went on an island tour known as ‘the three island’ tour on a big wave piercing catamaran. Seeing skyscrapers on Hamilton Island kind of spoiled the view from the sea while the rest of the villas genuinely tried to blend in with the tropical forests. We never stopped at Hamilton Island which is a resort island for the rich and famous as well as the moderately well heeled.

The boat did stop and anchor on what surely must be one of the most pristine and unspoiled beaches on the planet. Whitehaven beach is miles of pure white silica sand and clear turquoise blue water. This beach has not been developed and is all the better for it. The water was a little cool but compared to New Zealand waters at this time of year it was. The longer you stayed in, the warmer it felt. There was a large sea turtle swimming about but he was just a little too far offshore for me as I didn’t have any swim fins.

After a dive on the reef at Hook Island and being surrounded by hundreds of reef fish we ended up with an hour and a half on Day Dream Island which is a resort destination. Another swim and a hot spa rounded off the day in facilities which were first class.

The next morning we left for Mission Beach with a stopover in Townsville to stretch or legs. It was a long drive but an easy drive on a good road clearly signed with plenty of places for a rest or refreshment break.

Mission Beach had taken a hammering in a cyclone earlier this year and reminded us that in the summer tropical storms can spring up at any time. Still it is a beautiful spot and is quickly recovering from the damage.

The next morning it was an easy drive to Cairns, mission accomplished!

Whales and Dingoes

I was keen to see if the hype about observing a humpback whale close up was worth it. Well it was! Seeing these magnificent creatures in the wild and being almost close enough to touch them is, infinitely better than seeing them on television. The first thing that strikes you is their size. They are huge, yet they have a serene majesty that makes them a true wonder of the animal kingdom. They pop their heads out of the water and simply observe you in the same way us curious humans observe them.

At no time are they frightening, or in any way threatening. The whales in Hervey bay are on holiday pausing before their long swim back to the Antarctic. I watched as a young calf breached the surface as it swum beside it mother. The mother feeds its calf by expressing milk straight into the water and its calf strains out the milk the same way as the older whales feed on the plankton and krill. Seems wasteful but a calf can put on over 80 kilos a day!

Whale watching is a relatively new phenomenon but I can understand why it has become so popular. These are not trained animals, or circus acts this is just how they are. The boat captain cuts the motors and you slip quietly beside them. The whales will either totally ignore you or they will decide to interact with you. Either way seems fine somehow.

New Zealand and Australia banned whaling in the early sixties. What took them so long! But that being said the whales in our waters are making a comeback. Numbers have gone from the hundreds to the thousands and long may their revival continue. So if you think whale watching might be an experience worth having, go for it!  In my humble opinion you will not be disappointed.

The next day it was time for some off-roading aussie style. Fraser Island is the world’s biggest sand dune island, 123 kilometers long and over 22 kilometers wide at its widest point. Covered in bush and tropical rain forest it was once a major logging site. Now it is a world heritage park and the bush has reverted back to its original state.

This trip is a true off road adventure. Nothing but a four wheel drive will cope with the rugged terrain and the deep rutted sandy tracks. You have seat belts in the bus and you need them on. Many times the driver shifted into the low box and with the engine screaming we crawled our way upward, branches and ferns scrapping the windows on both sides.

I swam in Lake McKenzie high in the sand dunes that is feed purely by rainwater. The water is crystal clear and covers about 130 hectares. It is surrounded by fine white silica sand. It was a highlight of the trip and if you go there take a swim; the water will get your heart pumping!

Back in the 4x4 bus and we ground our way back down the lower slopes to the rain forest.  What is truly remarkable is that the trees and the vegetation look so healthy and yet the whole island consists of just white sand.

After a bush walk we were herded back into the bus and we headed for lunch at a local resort. A quick lunch and we were off again down the beach. A wild dingo was digging up the remains of a fisherman’s catch and took no notice of the bus. Then it was off down the beach at what seemed to be about a 100 km an hour to an old shipwreck that washed ashore in 1937. You can’t swim at the beach because of the tiger sharks which patrol just out from the surf line. It seems a shame as the shoreline is nothing but miles of white sand and the water is crystal clear.

Six of us volunteered to go for a quick flight over the island on a 7 seat single engine aircraft that operated off the beach. We were told it was a 15 minute scenic flight over the coast to observe the whales and then a flight over the island.

The seven seat  was more of a five seat with two extra seats thrown in where the passengers legs should have been. I couldn't get the seat belt on and had to swap seats which involved some laughter due to the lack of room to maneuver. After breaking my sunglasses I managed to get the seat belt on but my legs needed to be in the isle for this to happen.

After the pilot was convinced none of the 4x4’s on the beach were headed our way, he gunned the engine and we were airborne in seconds and banking towards the ocean.

“Look two whales!” His voice crackled over the intercom and he did a hard left turn so we could all get a view of a mother and calf and our recently consumed lunch which was trying to come up from our stomachs.

“Look dolphin’s, a whole pod!”

Another quick bank and a shallow dive and we had two seconds to take pictures.

“Now for the island tour!” and we banked steeply then climbed through some turbulence for another turning and diving tour of the lakes, sand dunes and forest. Another quick turn and we dived down landing on the beach a few seconds later.

That was quickest 15 minutes of my life!

Later that afternoon we slogged back through the sand tracks to the ferry. If you have a bad back I suggest you miss this tour but if you like some adventure in your day then the tour will reinvigorate your adrenaline glands.

Well that’s all for now, next stop Airlie beach and the Whitsunday Islands.