NetNews Usenet Archive 1992 #27/NN_1992_27.iso/spool/soc/culture/newzeal/3051

Internet Message Format | 1992-11-22 | 17.0 KB

Path: sparky!uunet!know!cass.ma02.bull.com!think.com!rpi!zaphod.mps.ohio-state.edu!saimiri.primate.wisc.edu!ames!agate!apple!decwrl!waikato.ac.nz!aukuni.ac.nz!kiwi!rabbi
From: [e-mail] (Rabbi Bajzheet)
Newsgroups: soc.culture.new-zealand
Subject: <none>
Message-ID: <[e-mail]>
Date: 22 Nov 92 07:20:48 GMT
Organization: Household UNIX, Auckland, New Zealand
Lines: 378
Subjece: Faq. Again. (Sorry)
X-Newsreader: Tin 1.1 PL4

Here y'are, Marsha.

Bittiw... While I think of it, if any of you lot are *really* keen for an
update, let me know. Cos The Jumping Mollusc is shortly about to embark on one
of his sporadic pilgrimages to his friend's farm in Taranaki, to do whatever it
is you do to sheep at this time of year.

Docking, possibly.

Anyway, due to all the fun he'll be having wallowing in sheep shit, and due to
the fact that I'll still be in Auckland, any updates are probably a long way
off UNLESS we get it done before he leaves. Mid you, we don't yet have the
motivation, do we? No, we don't.

Mind you, I might be going down and joining him on the farm. And I might have
my Sanyo lunchbox working by then, and we could possibly while away the nights
by writing another faq. Hmm... Farming life in Aotearoa... Bad plaes to go
mountain biking in the King Country... Intersting things to do with sheep...

So, yeah, well, you never know your luck. I'm getting a little bit bored
myself. Feeling undercreative. I mean, I've just started mailing some looney
mettlar in Siberia and taken up listening to 808 State too much for my own
good.

You can regrease your bottom bracket only so many times, right?

Anyway. This is rapidly turning into a post. So, before I read in the faq,
here's what happened last night at the place that used to be called The Burning
Giraffe:

Big party. Lots of people, mostly too trendy for their own good. It's all about
dressing in just the right amount of black, snubbing anybody you don't already
know and grooving down to the bands that are playing in the loung even when
they're patently no good.

Some of the original inhabitants live there, in that place now called 9 Bond
St. (No longer it is Te Giraffe. it was briefly called Gerald the Etruscan Road
Pig, but it didn't last because it is no longer the sort of flat that indulges
in happy frivolities as naming the house or painting the letterbox. Yes, life
it far too important to have fun, you must keep up appearances and do acid in
all te right cafes (DKD, for any Aucklanders reading this).

So, basically it sucks.

Anyway. Had the party, some bands played, no idea who they were. Chris Knox
played (an ageing ex-punk with a guitar. Grey Lynn's answer to Bob Dylan. God
knows what the question is), and was damn good. (In case there's any people
with a CD's worth of loose change burning a hole in their pocket, run out and
buy Seizure or Croaker, by Chris Knox. *Somebody* must be importing the stuff
into the States).

Erm, yeah.

It has become traditional of late for the party to attract skinheads reacently,
this time was no exception. Somebody bottled somebody else in the face, the
police & ambulance people turned up, various people were arrested, etc etc.

My point: It is a far cry from The Burning Giraffe spoken of in such glowing
terms as you'll find in the faq.

But take heart - such oases of tranquility and idealism do exist, however
fleetingly. It's never too late for a change of lifestyle. (Says Rabbi, living
in suburbia with his parents. It's all a tragic mistake, I tell you.)

So:

...

In lieu of an actual .plan, I've decided to put this wee gem in. I think it
tells you more about myself, and the country I live in, that your
run-of-the-mill `Hi, I'm <user x> and I'm actually really interesting,
despite mounting evidence to the contrary' sort of thing.

                   Soc.Culture.New-Zealand FAQ file

   by Rabbi Bajzheet and The Jumping Mollusc of The Burning Giraffe

Date: Sort of late December 1991

DISCLAIMER:  These are our views.  These are not the views of our
government, parents, bank managers, giraffe, probation officers or
university and we have no employers.  We don't care.

Okay, here it is - the highly unofficial scnz faq file. Comments are most
welcome, mail us at [e-mail] and include lots of yummy food
parcels.

Geography
---------

New Zealand is situated the same distace eastwards from Australia as
London is to Moscow.  So if anybody tells you it's right next to
Australia, tell them to piss off.

It is bigger than Conneticut, but smaller than Canada.

There are two main islands - The North Island and The South Island.
There is also about a zillion other islands dotted around and about,
none of which need concern you.

The South Island is slightly bigger than the North Island, but South
Islanders that refer to themselves as "Mainlanders" are wankers.

The largest city in New Zealand is Auckland, which has a population of
approximately 900,000 people, many of whom own Holdens (qv).

The capital is Wellington, which is really boring and windy and don't
go there.

The fourth largest New Zealand city is called Bondi, a suburb of
Sydney.  It has more New Zealanders in it than Hamilton (qv).

Lake Taupo, situated in the centre of the North Island, is very big,
but smaller than Texas, and has less guns but more trout.

            Why fucking bulls is better than fucking Bulls

The worst place in New Zealand goes by the tantalising and evocative
name of Bulls, population two men and a dog.  It has achieved it's
dubious distinction by having the bones of stranded hitch hikers
scattered along all points of egress.  It is a shithole; if you manage
to escape it within five hours of having entered it, you can count
yourself very lucky indeed.

All you need know when travelling in New Zealand is:

   North Island: beaches
   South Island: mountains

...and don't go to Dannevirke, you'll hate it.

I was recently told about the perfect NZ tourist's map.  It is a world
map produced by an English publisher for use in schools, probably in
the 1940s or 50s.  It has marked on New Zealand three cities -
Auckland, Wellington and Bennydale.

Go to Bennydale, it's choice.  Mollusc's dad got beaten up by a big
Maori woman in the Bennydale pub in 1976.

If you're a Crowded House or Split Enz fan, a pilgrimage to Te Awamutu
is essential.  You will see why Split Enz split, and why Neil Finn now
lives in Melbourne.

Hamilton is a strange place - very foggy in winter, and not in Canada
(or Conneticut).  If you are hitch hiking in the area and somebody
offers you a lift "as far as Hamilton", you can guarantee you will end
up walking from one side of town to the other, which will a) take
about two hours and b) not endear you to any part of the stinky,
boring, flat, green Waikato plains.

History
-------

Many years ago a bloke called Maui went fishing with his brothers,
using his grandmother's jawbone as a fish hook (apparently his
grandmother's jaw fell off through overuse, an object lesson in
verbosity).  He caught a big fish and hauled it to the surface.  It
was a big fish (man).  Like, really really big.  About as big as the
North Island.  In fact, if the truth be told, it *was* the North
Island.  But that's okay, because Maui's canoe was pretty large as
well, as big as The South Island (get the picture?)

Maui's brothers, seeing the size of the fish, became jealous and laid
into it with their meres and axes and shit, thus conveniently
terraforming it into a fairly rugged bit of heavily forested fish (or
land, as geologists prefer to call it).

A bit after that, in a huge migration from Hawaiiki (probably no
relation), the Maori people arrived in this new land of Aotearoa, The
Land of The Long White Cloud.

After spending about 1000 years not inventing the internal combustion
engine, nuclear weapons, those horrible guttering systems which get
clogged up with leaves and twigs and dead sparrows and need to be
cleaned out every six months, or Unix, the country was colonised
(invaded) by Europeans, bringing blankets, muskets, whaling ships,
God, syphilis, tuberculosis and guttering systems.

The Maoris, overwhelmed by the European's staggering generosity,
occasionally went berko and killed some settlers, but to no avail.  By
1840, the Treaty of Waitangi - popularly advertised as New Zealand's
founding document - was signed by the Governor of New Zealand
(representing Queen Vicky of England) and various Maori cheifs,
representing each tribe.

After another thirty years of bloodshed, things began to settle down a
little bit and the real business of farming sheep and building towns
like Bulls (qv) could begin in earnest.

Bulls was built.  It still exists today.  Aaaaaargh.

The capital was moved from Russell to Auckland to Wellington to London
to Washington.  There was speculation during the 1940s that the new
capital might be Berlin or Tokyo, but such rumours were unfounded in
the cold impartial light of military sueriority and nuclear weapons.

World War One came, and with it came the battle of Gallipoli, in which
heaps of Kiwis and Aussies got dropped on the wrong beach by a Pommie
Bastard who was probably marinating his brain in gin at the time.  A
battle that should have lasted about twelve hours lasted six months,
and cost Gunner Spinley (Mollusc's grandad) his face, which stopped a
Turkish bullet.

World War Two rolled around, and thousands more Kiwis died displaying
the refreshing lack of self-preservation that Allied High Command was
so enarmoured with.

The score stands at New Zealand two, Germany nil.

Nuclear ships stopped coming in 1984 with the election of The First
Labour Government in a Very Long Time.  America loves us slightly less
than it did before.

The French blew up a Greenpeace ship, The Rainbow Warrior, in Auckland
in 1985.  We like the French slightly less than we did before.
However, due to the fact that we export dairy products and beef and
lamb to France, we don't dislike them enough to really do anything
about it.

We won the Rugby World Cup in 1987 and nobody really gives a shit,
except Westies (qv) and their fathers.

We had a sesquicentenial in 1990 (150th anniversary - we note with
interest that the word did not exist prior to 1990).  It was crap and
lost lots of money.

Politics
--------

There are three main political parties in New Zealand:  National,
Labour and McGillicuddy Serious.

National:  Currently the government.  A bunch of right wing dickheads,
intent of reducing inflation to 0-2% per annum by taking away
everybody's money until nobody can afford anything, so prices don't go
up.  Simple?  Rumour has it, so too is the Minister of Finance.

Labour:  The Opposition.  A bunch of right wing dickheads, who used to
be a bunch of left wing dickheads until 1984 when, rumour has it,
their souls were all sold to the Business Round Table (Mafia).  We
don't believe this, no no no, not at all.  But it's worth repeating.

McGilicuddy Serious:  Scottish Monarchist Regressionists, intent in
re-establishing the Jacobite line to supreme executive office, then
disassembling all the trappings of modern technology (internal
combustion engines, guttering systems, Unix, etc) and living a life of
pastoral, clan-oriented bliss.  Due to growing popular disillusionment
with both National and Labour, an outside favourite to win the 1993
general election.

It is interesting to note that New Zealand has no formal constitution
and only one house of Parliament.  So, if The McGillicuddy Serious
Party is elected, it can do all this quite legally.

Culture
-------

Buzzy Bees:  A quintissential piece of Kiwiana.  It is a small wooden
bee that toddlers can drag around on a piece of string.  It has wings
that rotate (backwards) and it makes a wierd clicking sound.  They are
no longer made, much to the author's remorse.

The Edmond's Cook Book:  More copies of this book have been sold in
New Zealand than any other book (ever).  Produced by Edmonds, makers
of fine Baking Powder, Cake Mix and Bournville Cocoa.  There are
hundreds of recipies, many incorporating Edmond's "Sure to Rise"
Baking Powder, Edmond's Cake Mix, and Bournville Cocoa.

Holdens:  Holden is an Australian car manufacturer, a subsidiary of
General Motors.  Most Australiasians either don't know this, or don't
care.  The classic New Zealand car is a very old grey Holden station
wagon, with shot suspension and dodgy brakes.  It is driven by Westies
(qv).  They are popular because they are cheap (because they are crap)
and have big engines, which may or may not be V8s.  We don't know, nor
care.  We are cyclists, who dislike most cars and hate Holdens.

Swannies:  Woolen bush shirts and jackets made by Swanndri NZ Ltd.
Very waterproof, scratchy, rugged, warm and make you look like a mass
murderer when hitch hiking.

Pavlova: 3 egg whites               1 teaspoon vinegar
         3 tablespoons cold water   1 teaspoon vanilla essence
         1 cup castor sugar         3 teaspoons cornflour

Beat egg whites until stiff, add cold water and beat again.  Add
castor sugar gradually while still beating.  Slow beater and add
vinegar, vanilla and cornflour.  Place of greased paper on greased
tray and bake at 150 degrees C (300 F) for 45 minutes, then leave to
cool in the oven.

(Courtesy of The Edmond's Cookbook (naturally)).

This recipie never works, nor does any other recipie for pav, except
this one:

         $15                        Bicycle
         Carrier bag

Ride bicycle down to supermarket, purchase pavlova with $15, place in
carrier bag.  Ride home.  Remove pavlova from carrier bag, place in
cold oven.  When guests arrive, remove from oven and say "Look at this
pav I just made!"

Any Australians, South Africans, Yugoslavians or Tibetans who tell you
that the pav was invented in their country are full of shit and are
not to be believed.

Pies:  North Americans may be unfamiliar with this phenomenon.  A pie
is a savoury hors d'ouvres pastry thing, but three times the size,
filled with meat (from whence we can only guess) and with a lid on.

The worst pies in New Zealand can be had for NZ$1.60 a piece at a
grimy, smelly, cockroach-infested petrol staion by Lake Karapiro.
Coming a close second are the infamous Putrid Pies of Panmure (a
suburb of Auckland).  They seem to be available from all the bakeries
- do not touch them, they are the source of all evil.

There are some quite nice pies in Queenstown, but we really hate
Queenstown, and this ruins the whole pie eating experience for us.
There are also some quite nice pies in Onehunga (south Auckland).
However, it should be noted that pies can never be rated at anything
above "good".  Also, pie criticism is one of the most subjective
things imaginable.

Westies:  Westies are youths who wear black jeans, basketball boots,
black jerseys and black tee shirts.  They have long hair at the back,
short hair at the front.  They listen to far too much AC/DC, Midnight
Oil and U2 for their own good.  They drive Holdens, and are typically
called Wayne or Trev.  They can be distinguished from Goths in that
they usually have axle grease all over their hands, jerseys, etc and
don't like The Sisters of Mercy and haven't heard of Bauhaus.  Also,
they usually have suntans and have no unwarranted suicidal tendencies.
They play rugby league and drink Rheineck (beer coloured piss-water).
The are singularly stupid, but are common all over New Zealand,
especially in the small towns.  The original Westies are from, as far
as we can work out, West Auckland - Henderson, Te Atatu, etc.  The
American equivalent would be Bruce Springsteen the Panelbeater.

Sticky Filth:  A band from New Plymouth.  On the surface they appear
to be three Westies who make a nasty noise.  This is a fair statement,
except that the singer/bassist has no hair, and they wear Doc Martens
instead of basketball boots.  They play a kind of fast, speed metal
noise - a kind of cross between Dinosaur Jr, Napalm Death and a
revving chainsaw.

His Majesty's Carpark, Auckland:  Used to be His Majesty's Theatre,
now a carpark.  Used to be a cultural icon, now a carpark.  Cars park
there.  Not bicycles, or theatregoers (obviously).  Some Holdens may
be found there.

The North Western Motorway:  A fun thing to run across while on acid.

The Burning Giraffe:  The name of our flat.  Home of all that is good
and righteous in the world, and venue for some pretty Goddamn demon
parties, like last night, for example - a few more holes in the walls,
some of the fence got burnt (it swore at Mollusc, apparently, so it
had to die), furniture and barbequeue got burnt too.  C'est la mort.
It was the final break-up party - we seven (plus assorted girlfriends,
cat, dog etc) are going our more-or-less seperate ways after 15 odd
months of sex, squalour, starvation and psychoactive substances.
We'll be sorry to see the place go, but perhaps it was time - the back
yard is full of beer bottles and charred aerosol cans, the front door
won't close and the toilet has developed an alarming list to starboard
(we're not kidding - eventually it's going to fall through the floor).

Finally, a joke:

Why did the chicken recieve the Victoria Cross?

For valour.

Yours at 4am;

Rabbi and Mollusc, fuckabouts at large.

P.S. Careful readers will note there are no questions in this FAQ file.

Bugger.