One of my sillier goals this year was at least once shake the multi million dollar mitt of the adonis that is Sonny Bill Williams. Little did I realise how significant the handshake would turn out to be today.
Have you seen inside Chiefs HQ at Ruakura? Try to imagine the inside of a seventies, formica walled office building without heating that smells of linament and you're there.
We went along to the press conference where SBW was widely tipped to announce that he was going to leave the Chiefs, head to the Panasonic club in Japan, then on to league. There he announced that he was going to leave the Chiefs, head to the Panasonic club in Japan, then on to league. For some reporters, the goal was to get the unique soundbite, for the photographers it was to get a picture of SBW's face for a change, the rugby union it was about looking in control of the situation, but for me it was about getting a handshake.
After the press conference I gingerly approached him and achieved my silly little goal.
It's been a great day, and I am genuinely thankful for the experience.
Just 12 hours ago, our radio show was awarded the New Zealand radio award.
This year the awards were again online, so our station all huddled around a laptop tucking into a generous supply of chips and nuts and watched as award after award was read out.
As usual, the 'best breakfast show' was one of the last, by the time our finalists were read out, I'd travelled through every emotional extreme. My mind was racing....
Hamilton is a great spot for comedy shows, it would seem. We've hosted the comedic greats here - Billy Connolly, Tom Lehrer, Danny Bhoy, Dai Henwood, Roger Hall and the latest one just this week, the Hamilton City Council meeting.
Obviously spurred on Mayor Hardaker's latest waxings over the Hamilton arts scene, the Hamilton City Councillors wrote, produced and performed one of the most staggering comedies ever just this very week. I missed the opening credits, but I think it was called 'How to commit political suicide as publicly as possible'.
Imagine my delight when I could watch this one from the comfort of my own computer!
The show started normally enough with some good, impassioned debate from councillors Forsyth, O'Leary and Macpherson. (I'm actually becoming quite worried that I'm agreeing with Dave MacPherson moreand more these days.) Gordon Chesterman argued passionately against me having the right to know his wealth and I thought Mayor Hardaker directed a pretty tight show with a firm hand on the procedural tiller and an endless supply of icy glares at the ready.
Then the show took an absurd turn.
If I could afford it, I would shout every Hamilton citizen a fortnight at my mate Murray’s house.
This summer I took my Kharyn and the kids on the great southern trek.
You know THOSE holidays where Dad bores you silly with stories from his highly magnified childhood?. Stories about days spent at 50 foot deep river holes and 17 room castles built in the highest mountains at the hands of a 12 year old boy that (when you finally get there) turn out to be brown stagnant puddles and a few rocks propped up against a vague ditch on a small hill. Yep, I was Dad on a mission to stamp my memories into my kids’ lives. Predictably, and despite my best efforts, the kids would come away with their own memories of the wonderful south. Penny would fall in love with the shops and landscape, Daisy discovered that skinny dipping in fresh cold rivers is a great way to win dare money from Dad, and Max loved the fact that every playground in the South island seems to have a disused tractor in it.
I was able to influence one memory however. My family got to experience my mate Murray. Murray is a great mate, and an even greater bloke. I wanted my kids to see the kind of person their Dad wants to be.
Ah well, it's a vote for comedy.
Don't the election results feel like NZ's waking up after a work do?
We've still got our sensible clothes on but the taste of Winston in our mouths.
Winston is back, and 7 of his friends are there for the ride, commanding a combined salary of one million 78 thousand 400 dollars per annum. Ah well, at least Winston will once again be earning enough to pay the money back.
It's 6. 30am, the morning after the election as I write this blog, and as soon as it's properly light I'm going to ring my mother and give her a stern talking to about voting.
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