History is written by the winners. Of history-writing awards, mostly

So, getting old is a bag of poo. Things get wobbly, hair departs, music becomes shit and the kids won't get off your lawn. Also, you find yourself Turning Into One Of Those People. One of Those People who stay in on Friday nights, instead of more exciting alternatives. One of Those People who considers buying a Volvo, instead of more exciting alternatives. One of Those People who read in bed, instead of more exciting alternatives.

I have become a person who reads in bed. I don't like it. I suspect I will soon start watching One News, voting National and fearing the darkies. But it's a convenient flat surface where people will leave me the fuck alone. Right now I'm reading Michael King's The Penguin History of New Zealand. I say 'right now', which is not strictly accurate; it would make it hard to type. Michael King was a prominent NZ historian who died in 2004 courtesy a dodgy section of State Highway 2 through the Waikato. This occurred right at the height of his fame like some sort of beardy historian rock-star of sorts, as the Penguin History of NZ had been released the year before to massive acclaim and unprecedented sales figures. NZ has an interesting history - the last country in the world to be discovered and settled, in which the preceding few thousand years of human civilization were recapitulated on fast-forward over the course of a couple of hundred - and King's account is supposed to be one of the best. We'll see. A tad hard to make definitive judgements on page 29 of 570.

Yep. Not only reading in bed, reading HISTORY in bed. Stick a fork in me, I'm done.

Why read a history of a country you don't belong to? To understand it. As an acknowledgement that this couple-of-years-at-most OE is becoming a one-way trip. I am not a New Zealander, but I've helped make two. Since moving here I've bought three houses, held four jobs, been married, become a father, fought cancer, discovered pinot noir and figured out how to make brussel sprouts so that they don't taste of arse. This is starting to feel like home. Which, to an Australian, is supposed to feel like blasphemy, treachery and/or lunacy. Says more about Australian culture than NZ, of course.

The idea of national identity, and the idea (pushed particularly hard by MSM muppets during the Olympics) that you should only have one and it should be defended at all costs, has always grated on me. National identity is a very personal thing, but IMHFO it's got fuck all to do with flags and anthems and how loudly you can bray and brag about your nation's perceived awesomeness. The Olympics, and most media coverage thereof, is exhibit A for How To Do It Wrong, with the media and the lowest-common-denomunter punters pitched into a headlong arms race to see who can be the most cravenly cuntiferous. It's all a bit piss-dismal and ridiculous really, and is a fairly good reason to give the Olympics the swerve, in the most part. That, and the fact most of the 'sport' involved is Michael Mouse In Extremis, or gelded variants of proper contests. If you're going to get flag-wavingly, foreigner-baitingly frothy about sport, it might as well be one which isn't something inherently shit like dressage, ping pong or synchronised drowning.

Disclaimer: Burger Rings are not an official sponsor of the games of the XXXth Olympiad

This Olympics, I am mostly a New Zealander. There's something kinda refreshing about a nation that doesn't expect by right to win, and doesn't throw its toys out of the cot like a two-year-old when it doesn't. About coverage that celebrates participation, the efforts of other nations, and the making of finals over medal-fetish fappage. Admittedly, it's by necessity rather than design... but it's refreshing, just the same.

Not to mention the best thing about pretending to be a New Zealander at Olympics time: no longer having to pretend to give any kind of fuck about swimming.

The Doctor is OUT.