Public Address - Cracker (Home)

Discretion, Valour etc | May 30, 2006 08:40

4am, Saturday morning. I was heading home from a night out drinking. It'd been a long evening, starting with after work drinks and continuing into town. Even though I'd put away quite a few over the course of the night, I felt pretty good about driving. I'd slowed down over the last couple of hours, and had capped off the night with a nutritious meal at Burger King.

Still, when I saw the flashing lights on Hobson Street, I wasn't exactly filled with confidence. I was about to unwittingly become part of the police's weekend drink-drive blitz.

Thinking surprisingly quickly given the late hour, I immediately pulled over in front of the entrance to a parking building. Better to be towed I thought, than to risk losing my license. I got out, locked my car, and wandered towards the checkpoint. I spied a young policeman standing on the footpath.

"Excuse me officer, I was thinking about driving [okay, a small lie] but I've had a few drinks. Is it possible to breath-test me to see whether I'm okay to drive or not?"

"No, sorry we can't do that."

"What do you mean? Of course you can"

"No, the only way I can test you is if you drive through the checkpoint."

"And if I fail there, you'll arrest me."

"That's right."

"But you can't tell me now, before I break the law?"

"No, sorry."

I don't know about you, but I found this pretty ridiculous. Surely somewhere within the phrase "safer communities together" lies the ability to help someone determine whether they are breaking the law and putting the general public at risk. I kept arguing. The young officer agreed it didn't make a whole lot of sense, but said his hands were tied; he had no discretion in this matter.

Until, that is, the friend I was dropping home mentioned we were journalists.

Out came the bag, in went my breath, and I passed with the slightly misleading "Fail Youth" result. I returned to my car, waited 15 minutes just to be sure, then drove towards the checkpoint. Ironically my car was simply waved through– they were obviously only stopping every third or fourth car.

Relating this to my pals as we squinted through the fog of Saturday night's game, it turned out an acquaintance had also been stopped that night. Fearing the worst (she'd been drinking), as she sat in the queue to be tested, she decided to relax… by having a quick toke in her car. Yeah, I know.

When her time came to be tested, she didn't even register on the most basic test (the one where you say your name and address, and any alcohol on your breath is supposed to produce a fail). The policeman had slightly better honed senses however, smelt the 'erb, and cautioned her under the Misuse of Drugs Act.

"Is there anything in the car you'd like to show me before I search it?"

Helpfully, she rifled through the glovebox and handed over an E with the rest of the joint.

Helpfully, he threw them both on the ground, stomped them into the road, and told her to drive carefully.

Now that's discretion.

[Disclaimer: Drinking and Driving is NEVER COOL. You will note both drivers in this story were under the limit. Whether the acquaintance should've been driving after finishing off a joint is another argument for another day.]

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Tossers I Have Met (pt 2) | May 19, 2006 09:26

Generally I have a lot of sympathy for bus drivers, and it's awful to hear stories like this one from Christchurch, of bus drivers being assaulted for no good reason.

But by Christ I could've throttled the bus driver this morning who thought it appropriate to whistle – loudly and tunelessly – an unending number of irritating ditties. I'm fairly amenable, even before my morning coffee. But "I'm a yankee doodle dandy" in a key alternating note by note from b sharp to c flat? There wouldn't be a jury in the land, I tells ya.

I went out drinking last night. Today, a friend I was with said she thinks her drink was spiked, because she was all over the place. I agreed, and suggested if someone had slipped something in her drink, it must've been in her 18th drink, because she was okay until that point. I also suspect someone spiked my 23rd drink, because I can't remember much after that. Bloody spikers.

Yes I know, it's not what we drink, it's how we drink. But don't you find that the drunk people on those ads are soooo much more interesting than their sober selves?

Outside the bar two people were trying to get in. One uttered the immortal line "don't you know who I am?"

If you have to ask, surely you already know the answer. What are you expecting to happen?:

"Oh sorry sir, I didn't recognise you for a second. It's Brett, right? Brett Stevens? From Telecom customer support? I do apologise. Go right in. Tell the bartender I said your drinks will be on the house tonight."

A few weeks ago I saw an even more embarrassingly inept approach:

"Sorry sir, we're only taking people with members' cards."

"Well, I don't have a member's card. But I do have this. Do you know what this is?"

"No sir."

"It's an American Express Platinum Card. Do you know what this means?"

"It means I'm still not letting you in."

(Perhaps his retort wasn't quite that sharp, but the net effect was the same…)

On last post's taxi driver issue, I've had quite a few responses. Many were sharing their own stories, a couple (one from a taxi driver himself) helpfully pointed out that it wasn't only the taxi driver industry which has racists among its ranks. I thought this was obvious enough not to say at the time, but for the sake of clarity:

There are many, many taxi drivers who aren't racist, and who are in fact hard-working, honest, reliable decent people. I've just had my share of those who aren't. And the difference between a racist taxi driver and a racist shopkeeper, is that you're not in a confined space with a shopkeeper for half an hour while they expound their worldview. I've never walked into a video store, handed over my money and had the clerk say "So what about those bloody Maoris eh?"

I should also add I wasn't suggesting Corporate Cabs was any better or any worse in this regard. Almost without exception its drivers are excellent, polite, punctual and so forth. Which is why I was so taken back by this individual. But rather than make an example and report him, I'd rather Corporate dealt with the situation by way of a general reminder to all drivers as to what's acceptable behaviour.

Danyl writes with his almost unbelievably shocking tale of a cab ride (not Corporate) in Wellington :

'Gidday Mate. Where are you going?'

'Just to Aro Valley thanks.'

No problem. Right - what do you get if you cross a Maori with an Asian?'

'Errr . . . what?'

'A rapist who can't drive.'

'That's um . . . isn't that offensive?'

'Oh fuck me! You're not one of those politically correct poofters are you?'

'I . . . guess so . . . I mean, I'm not gay, but . . .'

'Fucking sounds like you are. Nah - I'm just kidding mate.'

'Oh. Ha ha.'

Haha indeed. Happy weekend all

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Tossers I Have Met (pt 1) | May 11, 2006 08:10

I've discussed the phenomenon of racist taxi drivers before, but it never fails to surprise me when middle-aged men decide it's okay to share their vitriol with me. I know I'm ostensibly white, and if my infinitesimal Ngati Whatua heritage doesn't stop me from burning in the Auckland sun, I guess it doesn't warn off taxi drivers either.

Not that white people shouldn't be offended by racism, but I'm sure our differently-pigmented brothers and sisters don't have to act the confidante to some "White is Right" wannabe. (And yes, I realise that they probably put up with active, rather than passive racism…)

So I was in a cab (*cough* Corporate *cough*) the other day, listening to the driver recounting a story about an accident he'd been in. "Did the bus stop after it clipped you?" I enquired sympathetically. "No, but I caught up with him and told him he was a Black C***."

From the Corporate Cabs website:

Expect something special when you travel with Corporate Cabs. Your courteous uniformed driver will welcome you, open and close your door and ensure you arrive promptly and safely to your destination. Your driver is committed to going that extra mile for your comfort and satisfaction…

…whether you're a coon, spick, wop, dago or kike.

I don't care whether someone opens the door for me to be honest, and I'd even let the C-word slide (I'm hardly a delicate wee flower stricken with Consumption). But can I just jump in a cab and not be subject to overt racism? Anyone?

On the other hand, I wouldn't have a problem if Peter Jackson decided not to change the dog's name in a remake of the classic war flick Dambusters. Having a dog called "Nigger" in a movie set in WW2 is not racist, it's historically accurate. It was a popular name for black dogs back then. My great aunt and uncle had a black lab so named. And I'm sure they had Heaps of Maori Friends.

As David Brent says on this exact topic (the dog in Dambusters) "That's not offensive. That's the dog's name. It was the forties as well - before racism was bad". Jackson could change the name of the dog to "Trigger" though, like the original did for the US market.

Of course, all this speculation is academic. Jackson has said he's not making the remake. Pity, I'd love to see it.

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Homeward Bound | May 05, 2006 12:09

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Okay, so then I got on a plane, spent a few marvellous days in Hong Kong, sharing fits of laughter and more Good Times™ with erstwhile Asian Correspondent Charlotte Glennie. Turns out she's not even Asian. Talk about misleading. Cute though.

But as SE Hinton once penned, that was then and this is now. I've been back a fortnight or so, and it seems increasingly odd to be writing about memories that are fading as quickly as my generation x attention span. One final travel photo I really like:

On the other hand, being back is as surreal as being there, if only because it feels so immediately comfortable. It's like someone's been saving your seat at the bar while you were going for a piss; the cushion is still warm and your half-finished beer is getting flat. And every day the feeling that I couldn't imagine living anywhere else than London subsides even further.

We've got it so easy here.

I drive home on the Western motorway in rush-hour traffic (in a car, by myself, like everyone else in this city) and it takes me a mere 25 minutes. I'm sure there are far worse examples of commuting in Auckland, but in Oxford the congestion heading to London – at least an hour and a half away – would start almost as soon as you left the city limits. It would be like leaving Hamilton and suddenly being stuck in Auckland traffic. (I'm assuming that doesn't happen yet, feel free to correct me if I'm wrong).

The parks aren't just bits of overcrowded muddy grass that everyone flocks to as soon as there's a break in the weather.

It's easy to stay out drinking until 6am and get home cheaply and safely. (Okay, maybe that's not entirely a good thing…)

Aside from the occasional torrential downpour, the weather has been unseasonably fantastic since I've been back. Hotter than my time in Hong Kong even.

I start a new job at work on Monday, which means you'll be seeing more of this New Zealander on Air. More details in due course, suffice to say I'm very excited and you should (continue to) watch Close Up.

I've got the next two days off work and plan to do little else than muck around in the garden, tending to my neglected ferns.

It's good to be home.

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