I don’t like gay rootin’, I’m Vladimir Putin

I don’t like gay rootin’
I’m Vladimir Putin

Let all the countries boycott
I don’t let boys in my cot

My snowmobile
It ain’t no homobile

I only sex up ladies
Ain’t gonna go to Hades

Boys who try to suck me off
Get a load of my Kalashnikov

Take one look at my derrière
I’ll send you to Siberrière

Your sequinned rainbow flag
A look fantastic in the gulag

Gay pride, go ahead ‘n’ try it
Say hello to Pussy Riot

I’m the boss of Russia, bitch!
Olympic torch you like a witch.

Bradley Manning’s Apology in Court

After what, 1200 days of psychological torture, Bradley Manning, the exposer of war crimes, said this today in court: “How on earth could I, a junior analyst, possibly believe I could change the world for the better over the decisions of those with the proper authority?”
If you spit when you reach the words ‘proper authority’ the sentiment comes out just right.
I can imagine Martin Luther King bellowing ‘proper authority,’ like an ominous drumbeat, the trampling percussion of invasion.
Bradley Manning’s quote should be the opening of one of the great inspirational speeches of our time. Indeed, of any time.
IF ONLY more junior analysts, or minions, or cogs — or soldiers just following orders — had the courage and moral compass to seek to change the world for the better. PARTICULARLY over the decisions of those with the proper authority. The world would be a better place.
History will show Bradley Manning did change the world for the better. Amid the bombs, his quiet example gleams.
His heroism is all the mightier for being performed by a human. Bradley Manning’s flesh and emotions have certainly registered these 1200 days of calculated treatment, hour by waking hour, requisitioned and carried out by the same proper authority. At terrifying personal cost, he exposed war crimes. He is a hero.
Read his quote again. Out loud. Choose between disgust or tears when you reach ‘proper authority.’ His words ought surely be engraved on the gateway to heaven. We can only hope justice sees the light before then.

How To Behave With Waiters, Since That Incident

Etiquette has shifted seismically since the quake that was Aaron Gilmore. We all know the story: a waiter refused to serve more wine, so the sozzled MP threatened to have the waiter fired (by the Prime Minister himself, using laws which probably would have been passed under urgency, before dessert, to achieve the goal).
Is massive douche-baggery a sacking offence? Some would say Gilmore was acting out precisely the job description of an entitled Tory Lord. Maybe before they get chosen, MP candidates should be put under surveillance during service-industry encounters (most likely the reason the GCSB is now allowed to spy on New Zealanders.)
Personally, I’ve noticed some subtle behaviour changes, when I go to a restaurant.
Now, when the waiter approaches with the menu and asks if I’d like to hear the specials, I wave the questions away. I touch the waiter on the elbow.
“You’re the special,” I say, “and don’t ever forget it.”
To the menu, the notebook, the pen, I bid: “Please, put those down.”
These implements are barriers to our interaction.
I shake the waiter’s hand warmly — with both of my hands, Bill Clinton style — and with eyes twinkling with compassion, I say: “Let’s talk about you.”
At that point I briefly break eye contact to scan for a name-badge, and continue:
“Tell me, [insert name badge] how is your family? Are they well?”
“Are you in a settled relationship?”
“Are you happy?”
I ask if the kitchen is far.
The waiter tends to point in the direction of the kitchen.
“That seems quite a long way,” I say, noticing the gradient of the floor. The return trip looks unreasonable.
I scribble on the waiter’s notepad.
“Here’s my number,” I say.
“When the meal is done, call me. Maybe.” (Young hospitality workers enjoy popular music, so this often goes down well.)
But I realise I’m being presumptuous. What if the waiter doesn’t have enough free minutes on his phone to call me? I don’t even know what plan he’s on! (Note to self: ask that question earlier.)
“Take my phone. Leave me yours,” I say. “When the order is ready, use my phone to ring your phone, and I’ll come get it. I’m sure I’ll know how. Some of my best friends employ waiters.”
At about this stage, I discover waiters can be quite rude themselves. I dunno why everyone’s making out that waiters are a bunch of saints.

Comedy Festival Show in May: Wellington and Auckland

Bookings are available for my all-new show Raybon Without A Cause in this year’s Comedy Festival. I’m playing the Foxglove Ballroom in Wellington, on the waterfront, from May 7-11. In Auckland, I’m playing the provocatively-named Vault at Q, on Queen St, from May 15-18.

My show in the Comedy Festival will be festive and comedic. I will leave you wanting more, but hopefully in a good way. (Not in a “Can I speak to the manager?” way.) Tickets are on sale at the Ticketek website.


Big news, I’m filming my first DVD in April. Thank you, thank you. Well, to be honest, it’ll be video not film. And let’s face it, this show will get seen more often as a download than a DVD. (Are there even shops any more that sell DVD’s? You can buy a DVD PLAYER for the old price of a DVD, so the signs are not promising for the future of Digital Versatile Disk.) Never mind, I’ve been meaning to make a special since the days of VHS, so let’s get it done before we all get squashed by an asteroid, and comedy reverts to humorous cave painting.
Welcome to our era. We’ve reached a point in history where artists hope that their files are shared far and wide, because it’s embarrassing to be a little boat that even pirates won’t touch. As the saying goes, sticks and stones may break our bones, but downloads improve live ticket sales.
The DVD special is called Squeeze My Live Album which I enjoy because it contains the letters ‘Squeeze My Bum.’ Yes, this is the level of my first and possibly only Greatest Hits compilation. Wouldn’t you like to be a part of this? Well, you can. The show is in Wellington on Sat April 13 at Meow on Edward St. Laugh good and your noises will make it to the final cut. (No pressure.)
I’ll be doing the show twice that night.
All tickets are $10, which is absolutely cray-cray. So get in fast.
Book your tickets
More details soon.

Olympic Memories: Seeking Closure – Part One

“That’s not an Olympic sport!!!”

That’s my voice. Over the past two weeks, out loud — to the TV screen. Even I’m surprised. The TV remains impassive.

The outbursts sharpen — more of them, more sudden, but not for as long.

“Not a sport!”

Eventually the attacks get so close, crests of waves merge. “NOLYMPIC!”

And now — good grief — I’m blogging about it. (You know someone feels strongly about something, when they blog about it.) It embarrasses me to have emotions this strong, about something I’m not participating in. That’s what religious people do.

Anyway, emergency purge: Trampoline, out. Rhythmic gymnastics, out. Beach volleyball, out. Men’s football. Mixed doubles tennis, so out. Doubles tennis. Singles tennis. Out, out, out. Was that enough outs? Sailing. Shooting. Archery. Equestrian. Heptathlon. Decathlon. Race walking. Most swimming. Mountain biking. All of the above. OUT. Have I left anything out? I fear I’ve left too much in.

Let’s start with an easy one. Race walking. Competitors walking 50 km, or even 20 km, is not a sport. It’s a symptom of poor public transport. Somebody complain to the Mayor.

Race walking is an oxymoron. You either race or you walk. (“Are we training now, or walking to training?”) It’s as if an earlier breed of humans haven’t quite twigged to running, and we the spectators are hoping that during the race, one of them will discover how to run, and then evolve. The problem is, once one does, they get disqualified. It’s like watching the Tall Poppy Syndrome at work, with little red flags.

A sport done well, done at its best, is beautiful. Here’s what you always hear about sport: They make it look so easy. Not so with walking. Done at its Olympic finest, walking is an abomination. It looks like something that needs a cure. It’s the terms-and-conditions version of poetry. It’s a flash mob who’ve been punked. In the history of pedestrian achievement, from swagger to sashay to pilgrimages to exodi to hikoi to goose-stepping — including chickens crossing the road inexplicably — race walking is an affront to every step of it. John Cleese couldn’t save race walking.

Next to go: Equestrian. Let’s be honest: a fancy name for Horse Tricks. If you can compete in a top hat, it’s not a sport. If you can compete in a top hat til you’re 56, it’s clearly not a sport. It’s a form of middle management. Mark Todd is able to win because it’s not his body doing the work. (May I suggest that the human body doing work is the minimum definition of sport.) Every 4 years, Mark Todd gets a fresh set of bionic equine legs. He’s like a rich guy who’s had his brain frozen in a jar — and every 4 years, medical and veterinary scientists bring him to the Olympics inside a better, stronger, faster jar. But it’s the jar that deserves the medal. And the jar should be at a separate competition for jars only.

Sailing. Sailing’s not a sport. The wind does the work. All the sailors do is guess which way the wind is blowing. Imagine if that’s what the sport was called. “And welcome to Eton Dorney for this morning’s heats in the Men’s Guess Which Way The Wind Is Blowing. Not so impressive now, is it? Clearly sailing is a complex manual activity. But so is knitting. So is cooking. So is glassblowing, playing the bagpipes, and building a garage. It’s tempting to think of sailing as a sport — mainly because we win medals at it — but at best, sailing is a healthy activity. Sailing is ‘being outdoors’. But does that make it a sport? No more than putting up a tent. I don’t think people look back on Columbus and say: “What a great athlete!” History books don’t describe Captain Cook and Abel Tasman as the Federer and Nadal of their day. Nobody looks at Dennis Conner and says: “What is your secret to core strength?”

Napier: August 25, 2012

Yes, this is my diary entry for August 25. THE FUTURE. Yes, it’s a form of time-travel.

I predict I will be doing my show in Napier on August 25. I’ve just returned from the future, and I can report, the GIG GOES REALLY WELL. So book tickets. You’re going to anyway. (Or will you?) OK, maybe don’t think too much about the time-travel aspect.

Just book tickets. The Future-You will thank Now-You for it.

Click HERE to book tickets for NAPIER via Eventfinder.


DUD! I’m packing my mittens to perform at Ironic, August 17 and 18. I wonder, is this a bar with 10,000 spoons, when all you need is a knife? (Jokes will be better on the night.)

Click HERE to book tickets for Dunedin via Eventfinder.

Looking forward to this immensely. No irony there.

So, wrap up warm, light the couch and let’s jointly enjoy the warmth of chattering teeth. It will be ha-ha-ha-pothermic.

See you soon.

Hamilton! Tauranga! Rotorua!

Excited to announce some dates at the end of July. I’m playing Hamilton’s Gravity Bar on Thursday 19 July, then the Za Bar in Tauranga on Friday 20 July, followed by Rotorua on Sat 21 July at the Pheasant Plucker.

Online bookings via eventfinder.

Click HERE to book for Hamilton.

Click HERE to book for Tauranga.

Click HERE to book for Rotorua.

More dates will be announced soon!

Comedy Festival: Wellington, Here I Come!

The show opens this week at Downstage.

Played two nights last week in the Concert Chamber of Auckland Town Hall. Auckland Scene reviewed the show: “Must-see, nerve-wrenching, white-knuckle comedy.”

(The reviewer also perceptively described me as “the thinking woman’s comedian.”) If you’re not a woman, or you don’t think, or you don’t think you’re a woman, that is still OK. The show works across many cogito-gender-identities. I like to think I put the Titties into Cogito-Gender-Identitties. Boom.

To read the full review, go to AUCKLAND SCENE.

The Downstage season runs May 15-19, 8.30pm. Pre-book your own personal comfy duration-of-show chair-furnishings at DOWNSTAGE.