Body paint and magic dirt

On Monday morning I got up at sparrow's fart to fly to Palmerston North. Sorry, I'll retract that, as it was factually incorrect. 4.30am is far, far earlier than any self-respecting sparrow with normal digestive habits would have even considered cranking one out. Point is, I got up stupidly early to fly to Palmerston North. On purpose. Now, can I possibly convey in these words how much of a shithole Palmerston North is to the blissfully unaware reader who might not ever have experienced its utter, utter crapness? Unlikely. If I was that good a writer I wouldn't be going to dodgy research conferences in Palmerston Fucking North would I. Suffice to say that it is not a place you want to be. Imagine a tenth-scale model of Adelaide, except without the interest or excitement.


When sitting on a plane, on a runway, in a paddock, in pre-dawn darkness, waiting for the Air NZ techs to reboot the 737 (they literally turned it off and back on again), there are a few things you'd probably not see. One of which is aforesaid Air NZ techs running around with jumper leads. The other is Air NZ's 'wacky' new safety video. 'Wacky' is an adjective best attributed to crap radio morning crews, not so much safety briefings meant to provide you with the means of separating yourself from grim death should Boeing's finest have a disagreement with the Earth's surface. But NOOOOO. Some marketing wonk has decided Air NZ is 'the airline whose fares have nothing to hide' - i.e. hidden taxes and charges. Neither have anyone else's. It's called ADVERTISING LAW. However, that minor point hasn't been allowed to detract from aforesaid wonk's Creative Concept: Air NZ staff in bodypaint! Geddit? Nothing to hide? GENIARSE!!! Of course, it's all tastefully done, with nary a hint of tit. Which makes it UTTERLY POINTLESS. And that fucking cover of 'Got You Under My Skin' is retina-clawingly twee.

But that's not the real problem. The real problem is this. You're a man. It's early. TOO early. You're a long way from your bed. You've gotten up before you've.. erm, gotten up, as it were.

And some trolley dolly wearing nothing but a couple of coats of Dulux is cracking cutesy jokes at you.

This is NOT what you need in your life right at the moment.



But at least the cute brunette hostie's lovely buttocks (skip to the end) were more memorable than Palmy itself, which appears to be a large light industrial estate with a paddock in the middle of it.


However, bizarrely, there do seem to be a few Flange Gasket fans about the place, judging by this monument to Our Angus, dodgy drunken hero of In The Worst Possible Taste:


But at least they have a sense of humour in Palmy. Particularly at the airport, where they charge you a $5 'development levy' for the privilege of leaving (ostensibly for improvements to the carpeted shed that is Palmerton North International Airport's main and only terminal, despite the fact no such improvements have been done since 1979) - and then put you on a plane narrower than your missus' shopping-trolley hatchback and wave you off in the direction of Wellington, home of The Worst Weather In Christendom, into howling northerlies and crosswinds, fishtailing like a bogan's ute and bouncing like that brunette hostie's buttocks. Or at least how they do when I close my eyes and go to a Happy Place. Which I was doing a lot of as the pencil plane repeatedly and spontaneously dropped like a fridge off a waterfall and my lunch began exploratory research as to how a return visit might be received by key demographics, like the statuesque dark-haired girl with the expensive looking camera opposite me.


This is to prove it is actually possible to walk away from a Beech 1900D which has managed a perfect three-point landing - both wingtips and the nose touching down in quick succession - in a standard-issue forty-knot Wellington gale. And then get on a 737 with the bodypainted brunette (and the nasty blonde, and the incredibly gay dude, and the other incredibly gay dude, but I wasn't paying immense volumes of attention) for another hour and fifteen home. Still, they had bagel crisps and Steinlager Pure to give away, like a drive-by Black Thundering that you could actually enjoy. No icy cold 600mL Coke Zeros or copies of the new Christina Aguilera single here. Thank fuck. And for once, possibly a record amongst the Air NZ domestic fleet (at least this far south of Auckland), one of the hosties was younger than forty-five. Would have looked decent in bodypaint, most likely.


(About the only remotely SFW bodypaint image I could find on Google Image Search. Plenty of less-so variants therein, if that's your bag, man.)

A mortal note to finish on: vale Dean Turner from Magic Dirt who passed away from a rare form of cancer a few days ago. I can't claim to have been a huge Dirt Freak but they were definitely one of that generation of Australian bands who I grew up listening to on Triple J, along with the likes of Spiderbait, Grinspoon, Regurgitator, Custard, the Living End and so on. To state the obvious he died far too young and will be sorely missed. The same weekend, it was reported the Hoodoo Gurus' Brad Shepherd had evaded a narrow scrape with cancer, so at least we might again see the Gurus - or hopefully even the Monarchs - astride a stage damaging eardrums again. Not something we'll ever get to again see of the Dirt, sadly.

This is the Dirt cranking Vulcanella live for Channel V's Detour of 2004 - the lyrics are self-indlugent teen angst pap that Adalita (bogan goddess that she is) should be ashamed of, but it does have a Big Dirty Fuck-Off Riff to it which deserves due respect.



Play it loud. The Doctor is OUT.