Super shot, that

Today's spam subject heading: 'Parking lot cowards behind 57'

Lunchtime on the first day of the third test and NZ are going OK. Here's hoping it can continue. Time to start a blog while flicking channels. Not much on telly at night these, er, days, although 'Eating Media Lunch' did just seemingly show a cat being decapitated by an automatic sunroof, perhaps explaining a few of the complaints they received. Meanwhile, as demonstrated every second ad break, the 'X Idol' phenomenon rolls on, with seemingly no-end in sight. I can't help but look on helpless, like I was a French citizen in 1940, as the Nazis, or the 'Idol' people anyway, roll on unendingly across vast tracts of arable television real estate; the completion of 'N.Z Idol' merely leading on the next series of 'American Idol', which just when the whole thing seems to be running short of momentum, gives way only to be immediately replaced in its timeslot by 'Estonian Idol', which is then followed by 'Disputed Territory Idol', or something similar...apparently this week I can 'be the first to see Simon speechless'. It's nice to know that reality television has reduced us to the point where tuning in to watch somebody not saying anything can be considered a highlight. Meanwhile, this in the most recent issue of the Listener from the winner of New Zealand Idol, Ben Lummis, in an article about the rise of the nasty social disease that is young male conservatism (is anyone else occasionally struck by the thought that so many right-wing ideas just seem, you know, wrong? I think Arc's theory of a while back about left leaning academic institiutions and the correlation implied may be a sound one)

But God has yet to shape his political views. "I've never thought about politics" says Lummis. Civil union, prostitution, 18-year-old drinking? "I haven't given any thought to them, although I think 18 years old and being able to drink is a bit too young." Foreshore and seabed? "I'm not actually sure what that is." The Iraq war? "You know what? I don't even know what you're talking about."

Oh dear. I mean, providing he isn't being somehow ironic, or taking the piss, oh dear. Still, er, at least he can sing? And I'm sure he'll have a chart-topping career that lasts decades, reflecting the public's long term interest in these manufactured pop stars. Just look at, you know, the winner of the first series of American Idol, Thingummy Whatsherface. Or was it Thingummy Whatshisface? I think they were in Milli Vanilli. Probably.

Anyway, televised cricket has returned, thank God, and Geoffery Boycott and Richie Benaud are unlikely to be interrupted by plugs for glorified karaoke. Somehow it would be undignified. It's strange enough to hear Richie, the voice of cricket since the late Paleolithic (who has worn the same beige jacket since 1863, and is surely wheeled away on a sackbarrow into cryogenic storage between games) doing things like telling viewers about the interactive cricket coverage available on the Channel 4 website. He might well be up with the play technologically of course, but the image of the man is such that it seems he would be more like my Dad, to whom I have had to explain that a computer virus is not actually any kind of microbial living organism. So when Richie says "All those marvellous graphs, film clips, and facts and figures all there at the touch of the button", I tend to imagine him thinking: "...Which is all very well and good if you hold with all that newfangled wizardry, but I prefer to fall back on my leather bound bumper collection of old school score books, in which I have recorded every ball of every single test match played since the Crimean War." It just wouldn't be right for such a living historical institution of a man to be plugging the loathsome pop culture ephemera that is 'American Idol' between overs. Indeed, such is the mana of Richie Benaud that these days he seldom bothers to actually commentate, probably preferring to conserve his energy for the more vital task of willing on the continued function of his internal organs. It's although the implication of his mere presence is enough to describe the action. A good shot or wicket will be followed by a few seconds silence, and then the voice of Richie Benaud will come on, and simply say: "Well then", or sometimes, just "Well". Then there will be a few more seconds silence, and then his junior commentary partner, usually someone who bowed out of top level of the game perhaps a paltry 10 or 15 years ago, feels the need to say something to break the silence, and leaps on to the mike gibbering something that (when compared to the gravitas of Richie) makes him sound like an eagerly babbling 10 year old. Richie does not feel the need to bother with the minutiae of such overexcited description. He is like the master artist who makes 3 or 4 pencil strokes on the page, and then leaves one of his student underlings to complete the piddling and unimportant details of the actual oil painting.

It was thus very distressing to watch coverage of the last Australian summer and see Richie forced to incongruously break into his smooth flow of non-commentary to let everybody know when that Australian house rennovation show 'The Block' was on. ("A reminder to all our Nine sport viewers about 'The Block', the marvellous new Channel 9 programme series, with of course a lot of marvellous drama, and entertainment. Been a terrifically popular addition to the 9 summer line-up...marvellous") You could hear the disgust in his voice. The fact that Richie Benaud, cricketing and commentary legend, was forced (almost certainly at gunpoint) to belittle his own status in this demeaning fashion (which is well beneath him) is reason enough for us to shoot everyone involved in any way in the production of all reality television programmes. Shoot them all DEAD, I say.

160-0. Fleming has taken to pie-chucker Ashley Giles and is within sight of the 100 (even though he should have been out LBW twice; oh well, never mind), touch wood.

In local news, the job 'hunt' continues. So far the method of sitting on my arse and waiting for the jobs to come to me has led to a puzzling lack of results. I can't really see where I've gone wrong. Currently for example, the television tells me that some kind of national search is being mounted for the future leaders of the New Zealand Navy. Possibly I was out when they came looking at my house, but nonetheless their search does not seem very extensive, as I haven't been straying that far away from it. And if I'm not the potential commander of New Zealand's surely soon to be acquired wolf-pack of nuclear attack submarines, then I don't know who is. But possibly the talent scouts came calling last night, when I was at Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind out at Readings with Karen (everyone clear on who she is now?). It was a very good film, I suggest that those that haven't already gone to see it do so. I thought a particularly cool aspect were the sets and props in which Jim Carrey's memories were being destroyed or blending into each other, and the little touches like the covers of books being wiped clean as he talked to Kate Winslet (who had a series of strange hair colours). The director who I believe is some bloke straight from music videos did a good job, although I think if I was handed a Charlie Kaufman script then I might do a reasonable job...it's certainly better anyway to come out of music videos a la this guy and Spike Jonze and make a Charlie Kaufman film than it is to come out of music videos and make two Charlie's Angels films...but then I suppose that's about the sort of level of cultural achievement you can expect from someone that calls themselves 'McG'. Anyway a good film, Jim Carrey is good, and Elijah Wood re-demonstrates his ability to play really annoying people.

Also good are girlfriends. I recommend one of those as well. Including for all the girls. Girlfriends for everyone. And take two of these and call me in the morning. But no swimming after eating, or reading in that light.

208-1 now. Fleming got to his hundred, and is continuing. Good job. And as I don't really have any recent stories to tell, and any further attempts to add to the length of this post will merely consist of the kind of linkless, meaningless waffle that I am almost academically qualified to tell you is filling up the internet, and which we have already seen up until this point in proceedings anyway, I may well post the thing and go to bed.

So there.