Worzel
As a long time prophet of doom, most of my predictions have already come to pass (except for the catastrophic financial collapse), That is still a work in progress coming to pass as I write.
However the Zombie apocalypse is now a reality. There was once a time when I enjoyed being right in my analysis of things global. Now in the time of their fulfilment, I truly wish I had been wrong and being right affords me no pleasure. I haven’t contributed for a while because what is there left to say ? What was once prediction must now be commentary.
It is the end of a very frustrating week. To summarise: infrastructure and supply chains have broken down, inflation and price gauging is rampant and nobody seems to give a damn.
The following is a chronicle of a single unresolved event. It is emblematic of most of the interactions I have had with parties both public and private this year.
Yesterday, I was unable to obtain phone ‘network coverage’ in Maungaturoto, even though I tried four places usually thick with transmitted EMF.
There were two messages I needed to send: one to convey information; another to solicit information. In desperation I drove about the district until I found a spot where two bars were indicated on my phone. I composed and sent the texts, my phone responded with a ‘message sent’ notification. Foolishly, I believed it.
When later in the day I met in person one of the individual text recipients I enquired why he had not responded to my text. He had not received it and proved it by showing me his phone. He had also tried to text me and I had not received his text either. (And 24 hours later, I still haven’t.)
I drove back to where I had previously obtained reception and called Vodafone (sorry One, although one-what I am not sure). After some time navigating through the robot and the incredibly obnoxious piped ‘music’, I was able to communicate with a human being. Sadly, though, this human was in another country and had an accent I found difficult to understand. After verifying myself to death she was unable to help and passed me on to a technician. We were verging on a mutual understanding of the problem when reception disappeared and the call dropped off.
Later the same day, determined and frustrated, I drove approximately 20km to Kaiwaka where I parked in direct line of sight to the inappropriately placed cell tower. I went through the robot, the noise that passes for music, another Indian and yet more verification BS and once again got through to a technician named Marlon. He sounded young and American, not an encouraging combination in my experience, but he was at least in New Zealand.
He was located at the transmission centre at Airdale St, Auckland. A place with which I am familiar. As a ‘once was’ radio technician, myself, I have spent many hours/days there servicing VHF channels. However that was 40 years ago when systems worked. There have obviously been many changes since.
Marlon didn’t know where either Kaiwaka or Maungaturoto were. He was unable to pronounce Maungaturoto. He asked for a post code. I have no idea what Maungaturoto’s post code is so I gave him my post code hoping that would suffice. He sent me a text and asked me to text back if I received it. I humoured him and did so and then proceeded to explain for at least the fourth time that day that the problem concerned a lack of reception in Maungaturoto, not Kaiwaka. And that I was calling from Kaiwaka because there was no reception in Mungaturoto. He finally seemed to understand. The penny had dropped, or the nickel as the case may be.
He asked if he could put me on hold. I said that would be fine as long as he didn’t play any of their horrible music. The phone fell silent. I used the opportunity to pick up the medium butter chicken I had ordered 15 minutes earlier in our protracted conversation from yet another Indian situated adjacent to where I was parked.
In Kaiwaka it is possible to buy food from Indians or Asians. Sadly, Dalmatian, Māori and Pākehā have long been absent from the game.
Indeed in my early 20s I ran an evening kitchen at a sports complex in Royal Oak. Alongside Matties (Balmoral Rd), Bilbos (Dom Rd) and The Orange Grove (K Rd), I did the best burgers in Auckland. (Recipe below).
By the time I had managed to mix rice and curry together with minimal spillage, Marlon got back to me.
‘Everything seems to be good from here,’ he informed me.
I sighed deeply.
I have previously delivered scripts on radio, film, television and, for several years, hosted a radio show. As such I am confident I can speak reasonably clearly in English. I confess though that I have never attempted any of those jobs with a mouth full of butter chicken.
‘Sorry for taking up your time Marlon. I merely wanted to inform you that your system is not operating as it should in Maungaturoto. But I’m sick of this shit.’ A couple of turmeric-stained grains of basmati rice flew toward the phone. ‘I’m going to hang up now. If your company wishes to compensate me for all the time I have apparently wasted trying to inform you of this and also for them failing to provide me with the service that I pay them for, I will not refuse it. Goodnight Marlon.
Isn’t globalism marvellous? Communication is difficult, comprehension nigh on impossible, everything is difficult; little is achieved and it doesn’t work but it sure is wonderfully diverse.
I have not heard back.
It was dark by then and I wended my weary way homeward.
The following day I went to Whangārei. No coverage problems there. However the traffic was thick and I was driving so text messages were out of the question. But rebel that I am, I flew in the face of the edicts they call law and made a phone call while waiting at the lights.
All was well. I arrived home at 3.45pm. I was expecting a call at around 4.15. There is never any reception at home, so I rode the bike to a spot where there has traditionally been reception. There was none. I continued to where my car was parked. Usually adequate there too. Today nothing. The time was 4.08. I started the car and headed towards the highway. Surely there would be reception somewhere out there? It was like one of those Mission Impossible flicks where the timer is counting down. I parked in direct line of sight of the megalithic Brynderwyn microwave towers. Had I possessed a long-range high-calibre rifle I could have shot them. (There’s an idea.)
I reversed a bit, turned a bit to the right and two bars appeared on the phone 4.12. I had managed to get reception. I treated myself to a Curiously Strong peppermint from a stash I keep in the car and settled down to wait. At 4.14 the bars on my phone suddenly disappeared. I groaned out load. I got out and walked around searching for the elusive bars. Nothing. The phone, though, was still reading the time. At 4.30 I gave up in disgust, resisted the urge to cast my phone into the tall grass by the road and went home to write this as a form of therapy.
One of the lines I was once paid to recite in front of a camera when still a contractor to the smoke and mirrors industry was, ‘It’s a wonderful thing technology, eh.’
Well maybe: it’s just a shame it doesn’t work, though, eh.
It is now a week later and still the issues persist.
Recipe for the Great Kiwi Burger (of yesteryear)
Heat grill to medium high. Place one large raw beef patty on grill.
Cut large burger bun in half, butter liberally and place butter side down on grill until light toasty brown.
Flip patty.
Take a handful of grated cheddar cheese and place on grill next to sizzling patty.
Place 2 broad lettuce leaves on bottom bun forming a sort of cup.
Place three or four onion rings on cupped leaves.
Place three slices from a medium tomato on top of onion rings.
Put a light dusting of salt and pepper on tomato and add grated carrot.
Cheese should now be light brown on the bottom and a sticky, high viscosity, goo on top.
Warning: overcooking the cheese is a trap for young players. The bottom burns and the top turns to messy runny liquid which runs onto the grill giving a poor result, wasting cheese and diminishing the profit margin. It also makes the end of night clean up harder than it needs to be.
Place cheese, crispy side down, on patty and flip sticky side down onto previously prepared bun. (It tends to glue it all together.)
Add tomato sauce to taste on top of patty followed by a broad slice of beetroot.
For an additional 40 cents I would add an egg to the stack, runny or firm as instructed.
Warning no 2: The runny egg version should, as a rule, be eaten in private while wearing an apron. I preferred the runny egg version myself, but in order to avoid scaring the children and incurring needless laundry expenses it would be the last burger of the night. (Too busy earlier anyway.) That way I could use up some of the leftover bits and pieces prior to cleaning up.
For in-house patrons I would serve on industrial strength Crown Lynn plates. However, as the burgers gained a reputation, people would come in off the street to get one. These takeaway customers presented the most difficult part of the process. Compress the beasts sufficiently to get them into a standard burger bag: there’s a bit of a knack to it but it comes with practice.
I didn’t use the conventional tools but did the job with two sharp broad-bladed putty knives (probably non-OSH compliant these days). Although you run the risk of burning a knuckle or two on the hot plate, they do a better job of managing eggs and cheese from grill to burger.
Warning no 3: Although I regard these burgers as the perfectly balanced meal, they have never been endorsed by the Heart Foundation or received a healthy food award. They are burgers that once contributed to making champions, provided, of course, that they are consumed after, rather than prior to or during competition.
In closing I would just like to thumb my nose to the McDonald’s Corporation with their pathetic tiny buns, their plastic processed cheese squares and their gratuitous slice of pickled gherkin.
