Wayne Mapp, English Pubs, George Best

25th November | 2005

............... George is best and Englands dreaming.

The opposition spokesman (the only spokesman actually) for the eradication of political correctness had a fine example to eradicate this week when government David Cunliffe was attacked for recommending Asian national MP "wead", rather than "read", a particular document.
The obvious ethnic slur was attacked by fellow National Party minister Tau Henare. Surely Mapp was handed an opportunity to declare talkback radio’s rallying catch cry “It’s political correctness gone mad!”. Instead Mapp has remained silent on the matter.
Why? This should be right up his alley. Even the Jimi page is able to suggest follow up, ignorant and disaffected clichés;
“Everyones lost their sense of humour”
or the timeless qualifying rejoinder
“Some of my best friends are Asians”
Which would enable him to talk about how much they enjoy a bloody good old laugh at their own expense.

This morning however, we find that Mr Mapp wasted no time in commenting in todays Herald on the requirement for wheelchair access at a bush walk in Westland. And although he takes the opportunity with both hands he fails once again to use the essential sentence (IPCGM).

I have to admit some sympathy for Wayne’s stance, this is taking the access point one step too far and this will join the bloody hip hop tour to be trotted out when anyone wants to make a politically incorrect point. If one was to extrapolate skyward towards where this whole thing may lead, one can imagine a world where climbing the Himilayas is prohibited until cripples get access there as well, which seems clearly ludicrous. Mind you, building a disability ramp up Mt Everest would be surely earn a place in the Seven wonders of the world (What would it knock out? The pyramids? The great wall of china?). And it would be one the greatest achievements of the modern world. Certainly the greatest politically correct one.

The Himalayas. Once MAF, OSH and Franz Kafka get offices here. Ramps will be required.

And to those who wonder how the disabled could possibly contemplate climbing the worlds highest peak remember, a man with one leg called Mark (“What’s his other leg called? Boom! boom!) climbed Mt Cook.
But he was apparently assisted by a passing helicopter.

Author and bully, Alan Duff who recently said he was ‘sick and tired of hearing about disabled people’ is no doubt unimpressed by the attention again given to ‘bloody cripples (bastards!).’
Duff is currently working on a book called “One Small Worrier” about a whinging midget cripple with cancer.
‘It’s about accepting your lot and getting on with it.” said an angry, gruff Duff.

Closing time's over (I'm not lying).

In Britain years of 11 o’clock closing is about to come to an end. The idea is this will bring about an end to the binge drinking culture that exists there.
They are dreaming.
Like many kiwis I worked in a few bars in London and punters would wander in, set up camp and drink steadily till leaving. This will just mean they leave later. I had one guy called Dave who would arrive say “Hi mate. Pint”
And that was about it, communication wise, for the whole night. When his pint was low I would look over at him, raise my eyebrows, and give him a refill. He would barely say a word to anyone all night. That whole bar was like that. They never talked about the issues of the day, politics, sport, anything.. They just supped. And I think the English culture is largely a supping one, while your at the pub. If they stay longer they will sup more. Simple.
That’s only a minor problem though. The big issue will be finding an Indian restaurant to have a curry at, come 2 o’clock in the morning. Cos that was the other thing my silent supper Dave used do. Have a curry. Apart from the opening ordering salvo, the other great discourse we would have went like this;
Me – “Pint dave?”
Dave – “Hold it for now Mate. I fancy a curry.”
Me – “Right you are then.”
And off he would go into the night in search of a burning arse for the morning.
Frankly I despair of Dave and the thousands like him searching the streets in vain for a curry house and I expect the government in a few months will rush through, with urgency, the first reading of the “Emergency Indian Restaurant Hour amendment bill”.
In my time in London I couldn’t believe how much it shut down at 11. I had been living in Sydney and the nightlife went on like, all night, as night life should. As long as you didn’t mind a sitting at a gay bar in King Cross, where you may have to look up at the occasional cavorting leather jock strap inches from your nose, you could hang out in the bar till the wee hours. In London the pub shut and that was that. After-hours drinking, occurred in increasingly weird and desperate venues. A Spanish club that only sold sangria or a filthy Turkish restaurant.
The best place though, was a takeaway bar in Finsbury Park that also operated as an off-license, I think illegally. There was always a massive, conspicuously disproportionate queue outside the place and once at the counter, people would order some token item on the menu and then booze. So it was like;
“one sausage, chips, a fried haddock and a bottle of vodka mate”
I found it very amusing and could barely contain myself, which I suppose in retrospect was very uncool.
When it was my turn, with little ceremony - I cut to the chase;
“One mussel, a dozen bottles of lager, small hip flask of whisky, bottle of white wine and what red wine do you have?”
Very funny.
I remember they sold deep fried mars bars as well and with the ‘destroying the health of customers’ market so well covered I am surprised they didn’t sell heart bypass operations too.
“Five oily chickens, chips, a dozen deep fried mars bars, two cases of whiskey and throw in a couple of coffins please gov’nor.”

Finally leading on from that, a word about soccer great George Best, who as you read this, is either dying or dead. He was a football genius but he was also an unparalleled genius as a hedonist. In this area only Keith Richards was his superior. He wasted his talent/money/life and quite literally pissed it up against the wall.
He summed it up in this quote;

“ I spent a lot of money on birds, booze and fast cars. The rest I just squandered.”

How superbly punk rock and decadent. He would have taught those romans a thing or two.
The best story, which many of you will know and which will be recounted endlessly on his death, is this one (it may or may not be an orchestrated piece of self-promotion).
A waiter arrives in George’s room with the finest champagne and salmon. He is in bed with a Miss World or a Miss Universe (or both). There is money strewn all over the room, and the waiter says

'So, Mr Best, tell me - where did it all go so wrong?'.

SO have a drink (or 40) this weekend in his honour.