Auckland Hospital

BY SARAH HOPKINSON

My first piece of advice to you, if experiencing an allergic reaction that appears to be rapidly advancing, is to call an ambulance. After having a lie down to see if it would pass, I called my mum (who lives in another city). This wasn’t an altogether bad start, as she does suffer from a deadly allergy to most antibiotics, but I foolishly downplayed it on the phone. Having not eaten or touched anything untoward or out of the ordinary, and being a generally healthy person, I didn’t want to seem like a hypochondriac. By this stage my face had swollen and turned a frightful shade of red, as had my hand, arms, feet (all itchy) and, I am sure if I had thought to look, most of my body. Mind you, this was far less disconcerting than the throbbing in my ears and tightening in my chest and throat. Both dithering and unnecessary modesty can be dispensed with - it is very unhelpful in such situations.

After checking the house was locked, I decided to walk down the road to such the local doctors. Again, not a great idea but the cool breeze was nice on my Violet Beauregarde-style skin. Family medical centres are fine, great for colds and immunising babies, but can be also by-passed in emergencies. The nurse who took my blood pressure did her best to hide her panic but I could see she was rattled, the fear was palpable. What followed was a flurry of action, a shot of adrenaline was stuck in my thigh (no magic marker like Pulp Fiction unfortunately) and an ambulance called and told ‘to hurry.’ All most unsettling. It was about this time that I began to wonder if I should call my lawyer (any lawyer) and dictate a will to ensure all of my not-very valuable possessions were looked after in the even of an untimely departure. It was also about this time, as I was being carried out to the ambulance, that the GP asked if I could pop in tomorrow and pay my bill. A bit on the nose I thought.

Adrenaline is fun. As you would imagine, 0.5 ml of it straight into the muscle is an instensification of the rush you get when excited or in danger or after you have an intense argument with someone. It makes you shake uncontrollably, which, when you are not cold, is a quite peculiar sensation. This aside, St Johns Ambulance staff - I can’t say enough good things. So calm and collected! Drips, ECG machine, oxygen: the work of a moment. A strapping tattooed ambulance driver recorded my personal details, completed my ACC form (wishful thinking) and finally, on arrival, hefted my gurney with consummate ease and skill that comes of much practice.

Emergency rooms are pretty bleak as a rule, full of worried people and flustered nurses. Optimised for efficency and practicality, these are not the most relaxing of locales. Not that you really care when you arrive - what you care about is that this place and these people have the ability to make you better, or at least bear witness to your demise. In my case, thankfully, they performed the former task sterlingly and by the time I was moved off the main floor and into an observation ward I was feeling fine, the shakes had receded to mere tremors, and I began to take stock of the surrounds.

Hospitals in general, but Emergency rooms in particular, provide one of those strange situations were all claims to privacy dramtaically fall away - it is no longer of any relevance or consequence. So, despite not being curious in the least, it did not take long for me to realise I was, happily, in far better shape than most of my invalid companions. A few minutes after my arrival a generously proportioned chap was rolled in with both legs in full cast. From the conversation that took place between his family and unfortunate friend who had witnessed the accident, I managed to glean (or actually couldn't avoid learning) that he had jumped of something for fun and broken both his legs: one shin, one ankle. His parents seemed very put-out about this and proceeded, in loud English accents, to tell the lad just how stupid he was. When he went to sleep they referred to him as the ‘silly stoner’ (he was pretty whacked out on Kedamine), and discussed his relegation to their garage for 6 weeks. Perish the thought. I began to empathise with his reckless antics.

This is certainly not a complaint, as it is of course necessary and unavoidable, but the noise in these places is quite remarkable. When recovering from a not-insignificant shock to the system, hearing a nurse loudly explain, over the cacophony of beeps from all manner of machines, to a diabetic chap over-the-way how his cathater and diaper works, is not the most soothing to the ear. Nor is the muffled snoring of said dare-devil neighbour, or the middle-age Remuera lady telling her elderly mother (whom she calls Mummy in a baby-voice) not to worry about ruining the cashmere sweater as they have a MILLION more at home. And I swear I heard a staff member use the expression 'shit the bed-pan'. Maybe I was just hyped up on meds, getting my colloquialisms and contexts twisted.

Under the circumstances I had a pretty good time, a little unsettling, kind of novel, mostly just boring. I was treated efficently, kept informed of my condition and discharged promptly (after the 6 hour observation period). I mean, I don't really need to sell the Emergency Room - it is not like you have a choice - if you are going there, you need to be there and that is where you will stay until the threat to your person recedes. Noone feels 'at home' here and the percentage of the population that enjoy their visits must be slim. Strange warped-floral curtains and uncomfortable beds aside, who wants to be confronted with the fragility and inevitable mortality of the human race on a regular basis? The ugliness and despair of the sick - not so fun.

And of course in this context details that one might usually fuss over, or discuss in a 'review' seem awfully insignifcant - I mean, I can mention the shy-making size of my gown (which did nothing to conceal any of my underclothing until Debi helped me wrap it around twice), or the fact that the food was gross, or even that the printed label on the brown paper bag that carried my belongings should've had an apostrophe (it read 'patients property' - which would've usually got me very worked up). But who cares? Emergency Wards aren't supposed to be appealing - they provide the minimum comfort to ensure your recovery, and recover I did. Constantly bombarded with new lives to save they hardly want people hanging out, taking up room and distracting their already over-worked staff. So, sure I will try and steer clear, but until the time they discover what substance actually caused my anaphylactic shock (and eating stops being like a game of Russian Roulette) I will continue to feel confident that in case of an emergency, with the help of St Johns and Auckland Hospital Emergency staff - I will be in capable hands.



***

Three Liam Finn Shows and a Baby

BY SALLY CONOR

Before I begin, let me get one thing straight: I am not stalking Liam Finn. The fact that I went to all three of his Auckland shows recently is not testament to any slavish fandom, unlike the fact that I attended both Ryan Adams shows in August, which sprang from my abiding obsession with and slightly scary infatuation with said musician. Don’t get me wrong. I like Liam’s music a lot and I really enjoy his gigs. But I don’t want any of you getting the wrong idea. Having said that, I found myself showing up to all three shows. Mostly coz my friends did. But it turned out to be a very interesting exercise in how live music can be transformed by surroundings, audience and the relative drunkenness of the performers and punters alike.

Thursday 8th November, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Newton
The only dry show of the three, and boy was the lack noticeable. The audience were all weirdly respectful and quiet. Almost too quiet because in between songs where there is usually the din of conversation and bar-fights and shouting, there fell an expectant silence. As the applause died from the previous song, the audience seemed to collectively say “That was nice, now what are you going to play next? Huh? HUH??!” Enjoyably for us, the result was BANTER. With the musicians also stone-cold sober, the on-stage banter was of varying quality, but most of it was very funny. The best call of the night was when Liam’s tour partner EJ Barnes told him his face “looks like a vagina”. We all cheered and clapped whilst wondering, are you allowed to say ‘vagina’ in church?
The show itself was awesome. The acoustics of the church really did the music justice and when things got noisy and experimental, our enjoyment was enhanced by feelings of delicious guilt brought on by listening to crazy rock ‘n’ roll music in a house of God. When our eyes wandered from the antics of our hosts, the church provided gorgeous architectural eye-candy of jewel-bright stained glass, warm polished wood and pleasing proportions and shapes. And down the front, the cutest baby in the world was running riot clad in little yellow headphones. It was really funny. And all of this was made possible as a result of the gig being held at a church. The family-friendly atmos, lack of mood-altering beverages and beauty of the room really made the music the focus of the night and I left feeling as if I had just worshipped at the altar of sweet riffs and loop-pedals.
(NB Me and my companion for the night enjoyed the evening so much that we resolved to attend an actual service at the church the following Sunday. We showed up but pathetically wussed out in favour of worshipping the divine Coffee and Croissant at Benediction. At least the café had a religious name.)

Thursday 15th November, The King’s Arms Tavern
I think most people have experienced a night at the King’s Arms when it is sold out - shoulder-to-shoulder packed, hot, smelly and often unpleasant. Feeling unwilling to tackle the mosh, my friend and I stayed down the back most of the night which I later regretted as it was probably the finest show of the tour. Liam was in fine voice and at his daring best in terms of pushing the boat out with experimentation. He played an incredibly gnarly drum-fill at one point. EJ was wearing a really beautiful velvet mermaid dress and was forced to sing one of her own songs by Liam which actually provided a really nice change of pace. Everyone sang along to the big numbers, especially ‘Gather To The Chapel’. Are these things possibly due to the fact that everyone was lubricated by alcohol? Probably. I think it is no accident that drugs and alcohol are so indelibly associated with music. They really do seem to facilitate risk-taking and freedom of expression and awesome drum fills. The crowd was a lot noisier than at the church but then the response to the music was also a lot more enthusiastic.
The King’s Arms isn’t the most inspiring of venues but the way it compresses people into a narrow space seems to create a special kind of atmosphere and focus of collective energy which may have something to do with its longevity as a venue. I wish I’d been right up the front in the thick of it.

Saturday 17th November, The Leigh Sawmill Cafe
On arriving, the first thing we heard was that the musicians had all gotten completely wasted in Wellington the night before and hadn’t been to sleep. Support act Dictaphone Blues appeared wearing a scarf around his head which he said was “holding my brains in”. Our expectations for the show dropped a bit. Then we found out that we weren’t allowed to order food so started drinking on empty stomachs which raised our expectations again (hurrah!). I found scotch and soda to be a very agreeable alternative to dinner. One of my favourite things about the Leigh Sawmill is the way people seated upstairs can peer down at the stage from behind the musicians. With the stage surrounded by expectant punters, the room starts to feel a bit like a coliseum (Which way will it go?? Thumbs up?? Or thumbs down??!!). Watching how performers react to scrutiny is always sadistically fun. Tonight, they responded with alacrity. Liam and EJ were definitely a bit quiet on the banter front (which was a shame as they’re so good at it) but otherwise showed no signs of party fatigue on stage, playing a blistering set that included a tremendous Neil Young cover. You know a musician is good when every time he starts a new song, you say to the person beside you ‘oh THIS is my favourite’ which is more or less what I did. But the highlight was the final song, ‘Wide Awake On The Voyage Home’. A beautiful, elegiac sprawling thing that was the perfect send-off and the enthusiastic country crowd sang along and provided thunderous applause.

Three different nights, three different venues, three different levels of inebriation all made for three incredibly varied but similarly awesome musical experiences. I think the church gig was my favourite for the sheer beauty of the building and the way the unusual circumstances produced a really enjoyable variant of the normal rock ‘n’ roll show, what with vagina talk and cute rampant babies and all. When musicians get creative with venues like this it really pays off for everyone involved and with our already dire number of venues for gigs and the rumoured imminent demise of several other key sites, experimentation like this ought to be encouraged, nay, ought to become the norm. Now if only we can find a way to convince the Church that whiskey and soda promotes holiness in heathens…



***

Standard Jeans Theory

BY TAHI MOORE

DRESSMART

CARPARKS

I went to Dessmart in Onehunga to find the real Levi's. The parking's really busy in the weekends here so I just took a ten minute car park just outside on the street. This has got the advantage of not being able to spend long enough in Dressmart to get run down, which usually takes me about twenty minutes. There are so many promises of bargains and things that are almost okay but not quite, that it can get epic in the search for something, anything, which must be around somewhere.

STRAIGHT TO THE SHOP
LEVIS--> FRENCH STYLE 00 JAPANESE STYLE 90 AMERICAN STYLE 80

The outlet store is at the northwest corner of the enclosed area. Okay it is a shop full of Levi's, BUT. I saw these things that are plain, but they're copying french jeans. They've got the same kind overdone back arseband labels as August 77 jeans, except in a slightly more everyman style, you know, goes to the gym or something.

Nearly everything else was a copy of japanese jeans. I've been told that Uniqlo is the Japanese version of Hallensteins. They sell japan made selvedge denim with exactly the right thread and no bum pocket art for real cheap. You can buy them online from their site if you live in Japan or certain parts of the UK. If you happen to be in NY, you can pick up a pair for 40 dollars rrp. Anyway the online shop only sold them in size 30 and 38.

Levis have that nice number code but you can't wear numbers no matter how hard you try.

STONEWASH

In the far corner was the closest thing to actual Levi's. They had been through a process called stone wash that gives the material this flecked feature feature. You can't wear jeans and this is true because everyone buys style everyone who goes into a shop wants style because style is all there is if you want plain denim well you won't buy it not because you want it you secretly know that style is the only things to be to get, jeans is not the thing and in this knowledge the special jeans people only provide special jeans because nobody buys normal jeans you can't find them in shops anyway and no one makes them so that proves it.

Tried on close to normal stone wash darkish blue denim jeans. They came in size 30 and size 31. They were stretch denim. Since I am size 32 it was a lost cause. The lower leg was too wide anyway.

I also went to Just Jeans. They had some similar jeans in sizes 35 to 38.

Outlet store usually mens there's good chance that if you find what you want, then they won't quite have it in your size. I'd have to say it's a trawling mission on a similar scale to op shopping for something in particular. Ten minutes is up.

OP SHOP

One pair of NZ made pre worn jeans that need a resew. I think they were faded buy actual use, but fades are fades are fades. The only thing you could fit through the belt loops would be piece of string, not rope. Nice job though.

ST LUKES

ANOTHER MALL MORE SIZES

I tried K-Mart, which has Bonds t-shirts, possibly the poor cousin of American Apparel. They say made in Australia and come in all the colours. white black grey navy. There were jeans, which all had the advantage of being able to double as marquee tents. I got a grey Bonds t-shirt.

Hallensteins had jeans, just, no I can't remember.

FRUIT SALAD

Just jeans had a whole wall of Levi's, honestly. More like a whole wall of fruit. Tried the closest to normal pair, the only ones with plain yellow thread. One size too small on the waist and twentythree sizes to big on the legs, honestly. I should have bought them because I could have made three pairs and a dinner suit out of one pair of too small 607's I think they were. So I didn't try on my size.

Farmers had a whole bunch of 607's and some maybe fitting jeans, but by this time the stone wash effect that covered everything was starting to make me feel too ill to continue.

THESIS

Standard jeans don't exist, they're all playing off the idea of jeans
When standard jeans did exist they were just bad
In the end you just have to give up on the idea of it and shop around for something wrong that just works anyway.

MORE

I think people wear what they do because that's what's in the shops when it comes to shopping time.

SOMETHING LIKE THE REAL DEAL

After the short search for Uniqlo jeans and a discovery that the online Levi's shop only ships to the bay area, except when Paul is sick or his scooter breaks down. maybe they assume that everyone will just go to Amazon by default.

Apparently Levi's used to make shrink to fit jeans that came in 3 sizes. Levi's claim to make originals 501's shrink to fit no fades etc. These things are meant to shrink ten per cent and you have to jump in a creek or a water hole. Next week I'll be reviewing a water hole and the difficulties of swimming in wet jeans.




***

Raw Power

BY DAVID LEVINSON

Raw Power is a food café located on Vulcan Street, and which specialises in salads and other vegetarian dishes (such as falafel,tofu sandwiches, etc.). Each Saturday a friend and I would meet there for lunch, and did so for a total of about 4 months earlier this year.
Now while these lunches began as relatively innocuous affairs, consisting of not much more than polite conversation and maybe an occasional browsing of the newspaper (the entertainment section, mainly), one day something switched. When, exactly, it would be hard to say. What was engendered was more a gradual shift in feeling that, maybe due our mutual tendency to become uncertain around those who express affection towards us – in this case, said person being the café proprietor who had taken a great and obvious liking to both of us – on some subconscious level caused us to sabotage the blissful idyll we had discovered.
Our chosen accessory for what would eventual result in us no longer being welcome at the Raw Power food establishment became the bowl of mints they kept beside the cash register – well not the bowl itself, really, but what was inside it, i.e. the mints. So, while the second person was paying for their order, the first would move round the side of the counter and, in some pantomime of searching through magazines, grab as many as several handfuls of mints and place these in their pocket, before we would both convene at our usual table by the window. Then we would place the mints in a small mound on the window sill and cover it with a newspaper, while we politely waited for our orders.
Once the waiter was clearly out of sight, and counter person happily occupied, we would proceed to flick mints out of the window at passersby. Now, three times as a result of this we received verbal threats, but more often than not people would stop momentarily to try and ascertain the source of the threat, before awkwardly moving on. Sometimes when there was a surfeit of mints, we would flick as many as three as a time over the sill. Overall, I would argue that this was not a very productive but overall very pleasurable time in my life.
I can't recall anything being out of the ordinary the day our little pastime finally met its demise - only that there was a deep mixture of sadness and disappointment in the waiter's eyes when he informed us that people had been complaining about us. Since then, all my mint-throwing has been put to a halt but I can't promise that this will remain indefinite.



***

The jeans from before time began and from before the eighties as well

BY TAHI MOORE

I've been looking at Levi's, because they were quoted on a number of occasions as being the best jeans. I haven't been looking in shops, just at what people wear. Now except for a cuople of times, every pair of Levi's that I saw were absolutely not what I would wear. Not that they were bad, but most of the time, they were mid-blue, that's like baby blue, stones washed, eggshell blue, sky blue. Essentially I'm talking about an eighties technique for prefading that is from the time of drum machines as a geniune attempt to replicate an actual drummer.

Okay, so these jeans were eggshell sky baby blue, flecked with white and shapeless, which is fine, it's a particular type that's endured for a while, I suspect because when you want to buy the basic no-nonsense jeans that don't cost an extra ten or five hundred dollars, that's what you get. When I went to Farmers, this was the basic model, NOT plain dark blue actually kind of fits but isn't skin tight.

Other Levi's I saw had silver dots on the back pockets, not being satisfied with having the back pocket art that nearly all other jeans replicate, these Levi's replicate Levi's. Okay so a lot of people obviously buy them, but this detail highlights the idea that the original can only be brought into existence through look alikes, and when you become aware of having the original product, it probably is simply copying itself, or something quiffy about how jeans are jeans and names are names. But what I really wanted to get to was that there are so many kinds of Levi's that there has to be a kind that's right in there somewhere. So I'm no longer saying Levi's are the best jeans. The best jeans are now the ones that work for you, and watch out for the back pocket art. You might be able to live with it, but it is evil, and can turn on you at any moment.

So where do you go to get Levi's? I have been told that there is a Levi's shop in Dressmart at Onehunga that might stock the mythical plain jeans. Due to warrant of fitness circumstances, this pilgramage to these jeans before time will have to wait till next week.



***

Chess

BY KATE NEWBY

Chess.

Depends on how you feel and what you’ve got available to work with.

Somehow it seems to work best for me in the mornings. As much as I like getting on with errands in the a.m. (it is my ‘peak time’ of the day) it is also when I focus on the game a lot more. I think about 8.30 would be my pick if I had to name a particular time. It gives me enough time to make breakfast before leaving the house and then I can also coincide it with my morning coffee.
I seem to always go to Alleluia for it. This is a convenience thing but I also like the space up there because you can sit at a table, be in the daylight and also have lots of room around you from the other patrons.
Also, the staff are friendly and not bothered by the fact that I will sometimes sit there for long periods of time only ordering one or two coffees.
Recently I have being thinking that there are 3 kinds of chess in my life. There is a ‘Normal game’ when you met your opponent and have a game. Then there is ‘Speed chess’ which is also when you met your opponent and play but you end up playing several games with ‘Speed chess’ because depending on what time you set your chess clock; the game never lasts more then 10 minutes. That’s five minutes each to put someone in check.
Then there is ‘Internet chess’ when the game lasts sometimes up to several weeks. A good place to play this is on Facebook or another one I like a bit better is www.realchess.com. ‘Internet chess’ is funny because you can take days to make a move. For instance in my current game of ‘realchess’ I have not moved since Saturday as my opponent just put me in a tricky check-fork position and took my rook and so I have exploited the fact that I can sulk and prolong the inevitable. Playing chess on the Internet is good but it can drag out. You headspace can vary so much from the morning to the evening and then from day to day that I sometimes find this irritating and not a benefit. I also get a bit lost with it in the way that it can also feel like an unwanted text-message that you feel obliged to answer, if you are playing in person you have made a commitment for that game and you just get on and play.



***

There is Nothing Good on T.V. (I'll Love You Forever)

BY HENRY OLIVER

From: Viewer Correspondence
To: henryoliver@gmail.com,
Date: Aug 23, 2007 2:11 PM
Subject: RE: Complaint - A Programme - Seinfeld

mailed-by tvnz.co.nz

Aug 23


Reply


Hi there,

Sorry for the delay getting back to you.

Thank you for your feedback, we love to hear from our viewers what they enjoy watching on TV2. We will most certainly take your views into consideration for future programming decisions around this time slot. Many New Zealanders enjoy watching Friends and the ratings on this run are higher than the previous run. 6pm on TV2 must always have broad appeal for non-news watchers and must also be G rated so it limits us for the programmes that are available to be screened in this slot. Unfortunately Seinfeld was proving problematic in that many of the themes were too adult and so we were unable to screen future seasons of this in this early slot. It will screen in a more suitable slot

Thanks for your email.

Kind regards



Christine Wilton
Communications Executive


-----Original Message-----
From: henryoliver@gmail.com [mailto:henryoliver@gmail.com]
Sent: Wednesday, 22 August 2007 11:47 p.m.
To: ViewerCorrespondence
Subject: Complaint - A Programme - Seinfeld


Name: Mr. Henry Oliver

Email: henryoliver@gmail.com

Age: 25-29

Gender: Male

Location: Auckland

Subject: Complaint Regarding A Programme

Programme Name: Seinfeld

Comments:
Hey TV2,

What happened to Seinfeld?

Put it back on and I'll love you forever.

Yours,

Henry.

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***

Good Radio

BY FIONA CONNOR

It is Sunday and this morning I was lucky enough to listen to the radio in bed, The National Program and it was awesome.

I am living above my parent's garage at the moment which is great (at the moment). I hear them arrive home daily, sit in their cars and wait to catch the end of the show they are listening to. I think this means it is good radio.



The other day I too found myself outside a friend's house sitting in the car listening to the National Program waiting for the segment to end. I think it was an interview with the New Zealand pop sensations Garageland who have decided to reform, the interviewer was challenging: when Mr. Garageland compared himself to the driver of Pavement she said "can you really make that comparison" and he answered intelligently talking honestly about the funny situation that it is being in a band and touring extensively.



This morning I lay in bed trying to rationalize missing out on the peak nesting season of gannets at Muriwai because I was glued to the radio. There was a panel of ministers talking about what it is actually like working in parliament- a kind of day in the life of a cabinet member- they were all actively engaging with the story and each other and it really felt like it was coming from behind closed doors. After this piece of illuminating journalism they played this totally exotic sounding a cappella song that nicely put the whole thing in perspective.



I used to listen to it a lot. Like a lot a lot, but like any radio station you do this to it went from being completely transparent to completely opaque, I went off it. Now after a break I once again set the dial in my errand wagon to 101.4 FM and am treated sporadically to funny music and broad national reporting, a cup of tea for the ears and I'm back on it.



***

Savour and Devour - 478 Richmond Rd, Grey Lynn

BY AMBER EASBY

Admittedly, I was in a bad mood when I arrived - deathly hung over after two bottles of vino and a marathon Scrabble sesh the night before. I was hoping for a quiet brunch, ideally at an outdoor table. I wanted food that would heal me. I guess it was the wrong morning to try somewhere new.

First sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

They were playing Massive Attack. The last time I enjoyed Massive Attack was in 1994 and I was on magic mushrooms.

Second sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

The outdoor ‘garden’ was completely covered. It was a beautiful day and it was fucking freezing out there. I opted to sit inside.

Third sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

They use swivel chairs. It felt like Monday morning and I was eating breakfast at my desk.

Fourth sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

The café was full of parents ignoring their screaming children. One eight year-old boy was talking on his cell phone while his folks sat at ANOTHER TABLE!

Fifth sign that I was not going to enjoy my brunch

The menu was a little too ‘funky’. Normally, I am a fan of the twist-on-an-old-favourite but not this morning. I ordered Baked Eggs with bacon and creamed spinach ($14.50). The meal was nicely presented – a small fry pan, containing the said ingredients, and two slices of toast. Unfortunately, the spinach ‘creamed’ the rest of the dish. It was like eating a bowl of chunky Carbonara sauce. Gross.

The one redeeming element: counter service. As soon as I was done with my meal, I was able to leave. Not even the selection of baked goods could tempt me to return.



***

An Open Letter to the Men of Auckland

BY SALLY CONOR

Dear Auckland Guys,
I’ve known you for a while now and one thing has become clear: you need help. In so, so many ways… but mostly in the way you dress.
It’s just not that hard. It’s actually pretty easy to look okay and get girls to like you. We are base and mostly quite shallow and we talk about your butts at least as often as you talk about ours. Probably more. Seriously. Here are some foolproof tips just in case you’re finding it all a teensy bit confusing.

WEAR MORE CORDUROY
I was in the queue at the Grey Lynn Woolworth’s with a friend recently and we were distracted mid-sentence by a particularly fine pair of green corduroy trousers. “Look,” my friend whispered urgently, “Hot Dad in cords!” The fact that he was a Dad didn’t have much impact on his hotness but the corduroy sure offset his nice butt.
Corduroy is good for a number of reasons. Firstly, it isn’t denim. Jeans are cool and generally look good but they’re the lazy option. We all wear jeans when we can’t quite be bothered. Like jeans, corduroy looks better the more you wear it, BUT it comes in more than one colour and feels nicer.
Which brings me to reason number two: corduroy is pretty much velvet, but in stripes. Chicks like things that feel nice on their lady fingers. Just watch a man who is wearing a velvet jacket and see how girls like to run their hands all over it. Corduroy achieves this soft effect but without the risk of making you look like a pimp.
The third thing in favour of corduroy is its associations. Cords evoke images of wooden shacks, forests, fireplaces, pinecones, bears, whittling, pipes, etc. They are worn by nice homely guys who are good with their hands, have perfect stubble and smell of sawdust. The Diet Coke guys probably wear them when they’re not lowering themselves into elevator shafts or cleaning office windows. Even if you like computer games, smell of cheese and have trouble squeezing out a few weak pubes on your upper lip, you will benefit from corduroy’s inherent earthy manliness.

WEAR A SUIT
Seriously. I cannot overstate the effect of a good suit on a susceptible girl. She will be putty in your well-tailored hands. I have a collective crush on everyone that works at Crane Brothers because they always look so goddam amazing. Structured clothes do everyone immeasurable favours and whatever imperfections you have or are in denial about will be compensated for by a sharp dart and a well-proportioned lapel. Guys, it’s official: it’s okay to wear suits again! We don’t mind! Really! We like it! And I haven’t even gotten started on the three-piece yet. Ohmigosh.

CHOOSE YOUR SHOES CAREFULLY
Ask any girl: shoes are key. You can tell EVERYTHING about a man from his shoes. Your shoes are probably the first thing we check out, after hair, eyes, teeth and butt, all of which you can’t do much about (more on hair later). In general, sneakers are good. It’s pretty difficult to get this wrong. And yet, so many seem to. It doesn’t matter how state-of-the-art the little see-through gel bit is in the sole, running shoes are bad bad bad! Any sneaker that looks like you might actually use it to exercise, does not belong on your foot in public, unless that public is the gym. They always look ugly and stupid. Don’t argue with me on this. I have done surveys. It’s The Truth. Even better than a well-chosen sneaker is a good lace-up leather shoe. The laces are important – slip-ons are almost always a terrible idea. Particularly if they are shiny and black and good for wearing to The Viaduct. Slip-ons make you look like you are wearing something huge and oblong on your foot, like a toaster.
You can’t beat a cool brown leather lace-up brogue for top marks in the footwear department. Or a nice boot with a bit of a heel. It makes a cool noise and you will look a bit like Wyatt Earp. Which brings me to:

WEAR A GUN-BELT
Has anyone seen The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford? Holy Moses, there’s something about those gun-belts. The way they slant across the hips and stuff… I don’t know what it is. It’s primal. Primally HOT.

WASH YOUR HAIR
It’s hygiene dudes! No one will think you are gay if your hair isn’t caked with a week’s worth of sweat, dirt and laziness. If you run your hair through it and your hand feels defiled, it’s already WAY past the moment to wash it. Now go out there and work out which Herbal Essences product is best for you, and use it! Regularly! Rinse and repeat! This should be your new mantra.

FACIAL HAIR
Is a tricky one, but it basically goes like this:
- Little beards look ridiculous. Like a giant hairy mole under your lip. Be assured, people ARE laughing at you.
- Beards without moustaches are also out, unless you happen to idolise Abraham Lincoln, in which case it’s intellectual and sexy.
- Stubble is good so long as you keep it tame and don’t allow it to blend into your chest rug. See Queer Eye for the Straight Guy for more on this.

IT’S NEVER OKAY TO WEAR ‘LYNX’
Would you spray mustard gas on yourself? Or roll in skunk roadkill that’s been left to rot in a puddle of petrol? Of course you wouldn’t. Take note: as you walk past we aren’t losing control and ripping our clothes off while miaowing, we’re dry retching into our handbags.

I could go on. But I think these few helpful tips are enough to keep you going. If we work together, things are going to be okay. I believe in you.

Yours truly,

Sally



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