Right. Fast approaching The End now...or Phase 4, as i like to think of it. Residing in New Plymouth as i write (a bit like old Plymouth really but nicer in case you were curious) and trying to figure out what to do here. I was going to check out a rather smashing sounding observatory with a planet-arium but believe that only opens to the public on tuesdays, by which time a shall be in the ether. Flying that is, not dead. But i suppose you never know.

The past week has been spent in Christchurch and with Nick and his very hospitable folks in Paraparaumu, just outside Wellington. I decided to do some of the things i didn't get to do last time in Christchurch, namely have a wander around the Botanic Gardens (catching a couple of youths smoking something behind a bush), visit the former academic stomping ground of Nobel Laureate and chemist Ernest Rutherford (he wasn't there - he's dead apparently) and taking a brief wander around the art gallery. The latter featured a show by some kiwi conceptual artist (for conceptual artist read self-agrandising egomaniac bastard) and one of her "works" was a coathanger dangling from the ceiling with a pair of stilletto heals below them and a spotlight on the whole lot. I could write for quite a long time about how i find this an egregious offence against art and my intellect but i'll save that for when i have one of you cornered and i'm a bit pissed.
From Christchurch i took the Tranz Coastal train and Interislander ferry over to Wellington, where i met up with Nick again. After a lot of activity it was a relief to spend a couple of days reading/lounging around watching TV and stuff, and eating quality meals! On the second night we took part in a pub quiz with one of Nick's friends and associates and managed a respectable 2nd place, although we could have scooped the main prize were it not for one or two amended answers. Not many questions on New Zealand affairs/sport either, which was good for us Brits.
On friday morning i left Para bound for New Plymouth and arrived just before 5pm, checking into Sunshine Lodge (as recommended) with a single room complete with TV and en suite shower! Went out for a beer in the evening and read the paper.
And that brings me to today, which i absolutely must mention. Started with a satisfactory all-day breakfast then headed to the Govett-Brewster art gallery. What happened in there will forever be engrained on my fragile psyche. It turned out that there was some performance art scheduled to begin shortly after i arrived, and the whole gallery was temporarily closed down while this happened. The audience were invited to sort of take part this fiasco and i, being English, found it impossible to be rude and refuse. I will rue the day 'til my last breath. I spent a good 40 mins of my life listening to a bloke curled in a corner with a black bag over his head describing, and i quote the pamphlet here, "an idea that is an alternative to metaphysical and religious structural perceptions of existence". This, it seems, is artist speak for "bullshit". We (the audience) were invited to write or draw our own interpretations of this idea - something to do with "sideways gravity" and layers in the Sun. It seems this "sideways gravity" was not stopping these people's egos from expanding into the Universe. This whole charade in the name of art, you must understand, MADE MY FUCKING BLOOD BOIL. NEVER IN MY LIFE HAVE I BEEN SUBJECTED TO SUCH A LOAD OF SPURIOUS TRIPE. On top of that they were taking photographs and filming the audience (something for which i never gave permission), so i glared back at the camera operators. At the end of this load of fucking horse manure the guy in the mask ran to the end of the gallery, tripping over one audience member and falling into another poor woman sitting down (he was still wearing the black hood over his head). This was adjudged to have been some finale it seems. In the face of moderate applause i however, contemplated asking for that portion of my life back and BEATING THE LIVING SHIT out of the lot of them for crimes against art. I was absolutely incandescent with rage at this point. So vexed was i, in fact, that i almost cried with anger. But writing this down has proved somewhat cathartic, as i suspected it may.
After this debacle i walked to the information centre in a daze, booked my coach to Auckand and had a pot of tea in the cafe, where i got paranoid that people were laughing at me and had a mild anxiety attack. For this i blame that bunch of charlatans that masquerade for artists. I fear they have irreparably scarred my psychological landscape. BASTARDS. SELF ABSORBED FUCKWITS. There, all better.

Right. Fast approaching The End now...or Phase 4, as i like to think of it. Residing in New Plymouth as i write (a bit like old Plymouth really but nicer in case you were curious) and trying to figure out what to do here. I was going to check out a rather smashing sounding observatory with a planet-arium but believe that only opens to the public on tuesdays, by which time a shall be in the ether. Flying that is, not dead. But i suppose you never know.

The past week has been spent in Christchurch and with Nick and his very hospitable folks in Paraparaumu, just outside Wellington. I decided to do some of the things i didn't get to do last time in Christchurch, namely have a wander around the Botanic Gardens (catching a couple of youths smoking something behind a bush), visit the former academic stomping ground of Nobel Laureate and chemist Ernest Rutherford (he wasn't there - he's dead apparently) and taking a brief wander around the art gallery. The latter featured a show by some kiwi conceptual artist (for conceptual artist read self-agrandising egomaniac bastard) and one of her "works" was a coathanger dangling from the ceiling with a pair of stilletto heals below them and a spotlight on the whole lot. I could write for quite a long time about how i find this an egregious offence against art and my intellect but i'll save that for when i have one of you cornered and i'm a bit pissed.
From Christchurch i took the Tranz Coastal train and Interislander ferry over to Wellington, where i met up with Nick again. After a lot of activity it was a relief to spend a couple of days reading/lounging around watching TV and stuff, and eating quality meals! On the second night we took part in a pub quiz with one of Nick's friends and associates and managed a respectable 2nd place, although we could have scooped the main prize were it not for one or two amended answers. Not many questions on New Zealand affairs/sport either, which was good for us Brits.
On friday morning i left Para bound for New Plymouth and arrived just before 5pm, checking into Sunshine Lodge (as recommended) with a single room complete with TV and en suite shower! Went out for a beer in the evening and read the paper.
And that brings me to today, which i absolutely must mention. Started with a satisfactory all-day breakfast then headed to the Govett-Brewster art gallery. What happened in there will forever be engrained on my fragile psyche. It turned out that there was some performance art scheduled to begin shortly after i arrived, and the whole gallery was temporarily closed down while this happened. The audience were invited to sort of take part this fiasco and i, being English, found it impossible to be rude and refuse. I will rue the day 'til my last breath. I spent a good 40 mins of my life listening to a bloke curled in a corner with a black bag over his head describing, and i quote the pamphlet here, "an idea that is an alternative to metaphysical and religious structural perceptions of existence". This, it seems, is artist speak for "bullshit". We (the audience) were invited to write or draw our own interpretations of this idea - something to do with "sideways gravity" and layers in the Sun. It seems this "sideways gravity" was not stopping these people's egos from expanding into the Universe. This whole charade in the name of art, you must understand, MADE MY FUCKING BLOOD BOIL. NEVER IN MY LIFE HAVE I BEEN SUBJECTED TO SUCH A LOAD OF SPURIOUS TRIPE. On top of that they were taking photographs and filming the audience (something for which i never gave permission), so i glared back at the camera operators. At the end of this load of fucking horse manure the guy in the mask ran to the end of the gallery, tripping over one audience member and falling into another poor woman sitting down (he was still wearing the black hood over his head). This was adjudged to have been some finale it seems. In the face of moderate applause i however, contemplated asking for that portion of my life back and BEATING THE LIVING SHIT out of the lot of them for crimes against art. I was absolutely incandescent with rage at this point. So vexed was i, in fact, that i almost cried with anger. But writing this down has proved somewhat cathartic, as i suspected it may.
After this debacle i walked to the information centre in a daze, booked my coach to Auckand and had a pot of tea in the cafe, where i got paranoid that people were laughing at me and had a mild anxiety attack. For this i blame that bunch of charlatans that masquerade for artists. I fear they have irreparably scarred my psychological landscape. BASTARDS. SELF ABSORBED FUCKWITS. There, all better.