Dances With Chazzwazzers

That’s the great thing about these Kiwis. Give ’em the very staple of British life and they’ll improve it out of all proportion and give it back to you with interest. Take rugby for example. From being a stodgy, civil war re-enactment of a part-time past time for hungover, wheezy fat boys as it lovably was (and sometimes lovably still is) back home, over here they made it the very lifeblood of the country, enlisted the strongest, fittest and bloody biggest athletes, instructed new parents to have their toddlers spinning lofted passes out of their cots in order to keep the production line alive and made it into eighty minutes worth of power packed pyrotechnics.
The All Blacks are one of the most iconic names in sport. They still lead the way.

Take music, we gave them The Beatles. They gave us Crowde… Yeah, ok, bad example.

But meat pies? Man alive. Even in the most died in the wool, chain-me-to-my-oven-and-force-me-under-great-duress-to-bake-effete-prawn-vol-au-vents-naked-for-the-rest-of-my-worthless-life-before-I-submit-to-your-evil-regime great bakeries of the UK will they dejectedly yield to New Zealand supremacy. The hand that fed them has been bitten again.

So while we had Steve Ojomoh, they had Zinzan Brooke. While we had, and indeed have, Oliver Adams, they had, and most certainly have, from the Jaffle Pie Company; Jesters. They appear to be another take on the acceptable face of food franchises, I’d imagine they’ve got bakeries in every town. If this is the case, I’m in for a treat over the next seven weeks.

In desperate need of some light relief following my visit to the life-shorteningly dull National Clock Museum in the Town Basin, I search frantically for the comfort that only a good meat pie can bring a man. In what is (sadly) to be the only use of this phrase in a while, Cameron Delivers!
Well, Cameron Street anyway. Slap bang in Fun-Gary’s (Couldn’t think of any more, so in a shout out to one of my childhood heroes, Hello Mr Wilmot!) CBD, Jesters Pie Shop is a noxious melange of purple and yellow like an LA Lakers changing room in dire need of a re-fit. Thankfully the staff are more appropriately attired. Forget the name, the business of pies is no laughing matter here.
As is proved by Jesters’ extensive menu. Pies of all fillings and sexualities align their expansive counter.

The Maharajah, The Stockman (Hello Uncle Tom!), Miss Muffet, Dr Pepper, William Tell, they’re all here. I go for the Southern Man, and the quintessential Kiwi treat; Steak & Cheese.

At first glance, with its bulging circular crust it looks a bit like Saturn, then on closer inspection of the pie top and its distinctive pentagon resembles an Adidas Tango after a pack of Alsatians have finished with it. But what a colour? a perfect gold Louis XIV would be happy to come back from the dead for. The faultless pastry looks short crust, but, is actually a variation of puff, again I think the long deceased Sun King would approve of this nod to la cuisine Francais. My first bite takes me into a deliciously tangy cheesy ozone hovering ominously above the meat. Thick chunks of steak in a rich, thick gravy complete a superb first pie since my return to New Zealand.

Roll on next Friday. If you’ll forgive the tedious space metaphor one more time, today’s effort was out of this world.

The problem with spending so much time on your own and with an over-active imagination is that your brain processes all sorts of shit for too long a period of time. As I was hiking the hinterlands of Fun-Gary (Hello to my mate the mechanic!) earlier today taking in all the scenic splendour of New Zealand’s Northland I got thinking along the lines of what if….

Well, what if I meet this stunning Kiwi lass while I’m out here, fall head over heels in love, we end up marrying and decide to move to Blighty. How the hell would I tear her away from all this?

Fun-Gary probably doesn’t get into the top twenty of NZ attractions, because like the Greatest British Song Ever Written there’s far too many contenders vying for a place among the elite. Heading out from the Town Basin, along the Hatea River through the gently picturesque Mair Park and the rainforest of Kauri Park up to the dramatic Fun-Gary Falls before heading back down to the historic harbour via the Abbey Caves, the views are effortlessly stunning pretty much everywhere you look.

As much as I’m proud dear old Bedfordshire, the miles of ever-changing powerful panoramas of this part of the world knock my beloved home county into a cocked hat. Then I got thinking, you know what?, home’s home. Bedfordshire may not have the stand-out sensational selling points of this particular underrated part Northland in this wonderful country, but delve a little deeper and Bedfordshire is a real treasure trove, a celebration of life. So without further ado, here are, in no particular order, The Seven Wonders of Bedfordshire (according to Dances With Chazzwazzers, anyway….):

1. The Forest of Marston Vale. Running south from the county town of Bedford towards the M1 motorway, this regenerated woodland area, through many years hard work, has triumphantly morphed from a brick making backwater to an outstanding area of natural beauty. Surf Brogborough Lake, take a trip on the Vale’s train (The Fenny Flyer) or walk or bike among segments of the 61 square miles of countryside to get for a tangible understanding of the thinking man’s dales.

2. The Devonshire Arms, Bedford. So hang on, there’s no TV blaring out some inconsequential rubbish, no pool table, dart board or fruities? No over-bearing moronic Muzak? No food? So no drizzles of this? No reductions of that? Nothing involving a pretentious use of an everyday kitchen item for the benefit of a small quantity of grub and a large portion of chef’s ego? Nope.
Just good ale and lots of it. And genial hospitality (Hello Martin & Naomi!). And conversation. An oasis in the desert of mediocrity that passes for Bedford’s pub scene.

3. Woody’s Tree. This venerable Baum proudly acts as the unofficial gateway to the picture-postcard villages of Ickwell, Northill and Old Warden as well as one of the county’s main tourist attractions, The Shuttleworth Collection. Get past Woody’s Tree and you’ve safely made it away from the suffocating new towns, the insufferable retail parks and into an idyllic world of village greens and South Eastern Bedfordshire woodland. This iconic tree was so-named after one of my chums (Hello Wood-man!) once acclaimed, unannounced, on the way back from football, “Wow, that’s a great tree. I’m naming it after me”, and so an arboreal legend was born.

4. Hulcote. I have been lucky enough to live here for thirty-odd years and as hamlets go its probably the best in the world. No pubs, shops, or Drive Thrus. No matter. Steeped in history, Elizabeth I is said to have favoured one of the local properties as a summer retreat, while during the last war Winston Churchill stayed in another of the houses when overseeing operations at nearby Bletchley Park. in addition to this, the church, St. Nicholas, is one of few that escaped Henry VIII’s little strop around about the reformation. In addition to local lore, there’s plenty more countryside to lose yourself in and pleasant farmland. The garden cricket is pretty good too.

5. The Burger Van Outside The Kenilworth Road End, Luton. “Naaaaaaaxxxxtt Puh-leeeeeaaaasssse!” An ear-splitting, banshee-like announcement beckons you forward. Come rain, shine, snow, fog, light drizzle and through thin and thinner these girls are there, furnishing thousands of Hatters fans with their pre-match tucker. Work makes you fry. And they don’t half work hard those girls in the van. Demonstrating the principles that made our country great; industry, humour, pride, enterprise and over-reliance on greasy foodstuffs, no one walks away from this eatery underfed or disappointed. That comes ninety minutes later.

6. Battlesden Hill. (Hello Hill Farm folk! X) Simply stunning, sweeping views of Bedfordshire. Time always seems to stand still when I’m here. Overlooking the South West of the county, it is a sight that takes in busy green hills full of sheep and cattle, far away rustic villages and of a time when things were surely simpler. Evocative scenes that bring all those emotions of love of county and country that we English, frankly, are for the most part dissuaded from experiencing.

7.

Enough said….

Postscript. Oh yeah, that stunning Kiwi lass from my imagination earlier? Sadly she is just (as with a lot of other things in my head), how would Captain Mainwaring term it; in the realms of fantasy.

I have not got the hang of this. I set off to yesterday’s hastily rearranged match in Fun-Gary (Hello Mr Flower, well done on your new Elstow CC role.) determined not to be caught out by the weather.

A fresh wind had blown away the stickiness of the last few days, one or two drops of rain hung around like Jason Gallian, the skies looked like some kind of grey ripple ice cream. Contemplating another afternoon on the knoll, I packed my bag with two waterproofs and a book for the inevitable delays while I put in my walking shoes and fleece. I was prepared. Then this happened.

Bother! Sun cream, how on earth did I forget that?

England won by 46 runs and I witnessed something I hope I see a lot more of in the coming months. A hatrick wicket maiden over by an Englishman. Congratulations Stuart Broad.

Venturing down to the ground today along with some inquisitive Swedes, Swiss and Somersetians (along with ECC’s new recruit- though he doesn’t know it yet- Chelmsford Charlie) and a French girl from the hostel, that particular feat will take some explaining. Anyone got one of those tea towels handy?
As well as some sun cream…..

Appendix 1: It has happened before. Again, when setting off for cricket it was overcast with a chill breeze. Several hours later this happened.

Seriously. Slip, slop, slap.

(By the way, hello to The Goosh-Big Red- and Phil, thanks for the photo. Great days.)

Like the stretcher-bound Anthony Quayle in The Guns Of Navarone, there’s been several times I’ve wondered whether it would be best to go on without them. Sat like a dead weight at the bottom of the rucksack, taking up valuable book space, I’ve thought about leaving them behind in exchange for an interesting curio or a souvenir t-shirt. Now I’m in New Zealand their value has rocketed higher than the international career of James Tredwell.
New Zealand is not a place for espadrilles and not only because of the suspicious looks they attract from some of the lock forward shaped locals. New Zealand is a place for real shoes.

Behold! My ‘callipers’ as they have been Christened, rather harshly I think, by an old pal of mine (Hello Chubbs!). Either way, for five bucks with staff discount from the factory store (Thank you Laura, I’m still very grateful!) they are worth their weight in gold over here.

So with a few hours to go before the start of play, weather permitting naturally, at The Cobham Oval, I thought I’d have a bit of a stroll around Fun-Gary (If you’re reading, hello Wilstead FC legend Mr Ward!) and the surrounding area. Heading up from the Town Basin to Mair Park then up to Mount Parihaka (Pack it in smut fans, it’s a Look Out Post….) it was two hours rewardingly spent and a reminder, as if I needed one, as to why this country is so close to my heart.

Against the backdrop of the gathering Northern gloom the Cobham Oval’s scoreboard stoically offered a beacon of hope. “Cricket, Where Anything Can Happen!”

How very true. Sadly today in the Northern District’s capital, Whangarei (Pronounced Fun-Gary, apparently. Hello Mr McCafferty!) this happened…..

Cue a well-worn playlist of rain related songs from the venue’s PA system. At the start of the tenth over, with the New Zealand XI 69-1, play was abandoned for the day. The match has been hastily re-arranged for tomorrow with a further fixture scheduled for Wednesday.

England and their supporters, of which there quite a few here in Whangarei, will hope this isn’t portentous for the rest of their time here.

If you’re clicking into see various shots of the Great Wall or a dramatic Shanghai cityscape night scene, I’m afraid you’re badly out of luck. Instead, there’s a few photos of me auditioning for a place in Great Britain’s Olympic Gurning Team. Plus some nice beaches and other stuff.

One for Grandma really (Hello Grandma!), just so she knows I’m still about. Anyway, thank you to China, the man not the country, for sending me the pictures. The least I could do is let the good readers of DWC have a look at your good work.
Thank you fella, I’ll get you a Caaaaaalllldd One when you’re in Bedfordshire next.

Beach scene between Coogee and Bondi, Sydney.

Outstanding shot of China’s left hand ruined by some beach or other in the background.

Fifty shades of blue? Well, about two really….

The Melbourne Walking Tour, a real low point of the last six weeks. A ‘highlight’ from the tour; more chuffing vandalism. I mean ‘street art’, sorry.

Proper graffiti this. No irksome left wing rubbish connotations, just a nice picture.

Manly Beach, looking as manly as I can. Don’t all rush ladies.
Oh you’re not. Right.

Paroxysms of ironic delight after realising yet again we’ve been ripped off for a walking tour. The Blue Mountains is the soothing backdrop.

One of the world’s most iconic buildings ruined by some dreadful posing. Sorry.

Yeah, you get the idea with this one….

Here we go, the sum total I’m left with after six unforgettable weeks in this great country….

Marvellous, as my hero Richie would say. Can’t wait to come back.

Plane’s on the runway. Auckland-ho!

Have a great weekend all.

A trek alongside the Torrens River yields views of some delightful woodland and with the coots and moorhens doing the rounds on the riverbanks alongside the unwelcome predatory presence of the gulls and swans I’m transported back to dear old Bedford and a springtime walk along the Embankment. I say spring because, since leaving Perth, the weather’s been distinctly un-summery here in Adelaide.

Now I can completely empathise with how you chaps in the UK have had it these last few weeks…..

Stopping at an understatedly beautiful scene, I watch as the River Torrens lurks murkily away from view to behind a curtain of Red Gum Trees, Sheoaks, reeds and bullrushes. I glance across the bridge at what will become the venue for the last Pie Day Friday in Australia; an unremarkable looking kiosk situated at the end of the Par 3 on the North Adelaide Golf Course.
The course is a municipal one, but for location and backdrop alone rates fairly highly on those I’ve seen in Australia. It’s a nice little spot if a little windswept. I contemplate a quick round but being so near to New Zealand and so far from my last Caaaaalld One, I decide against it and the demons of self hate remain inside their despicable little hideout somewhere inside the back of my mind.

A pie sits in cellophane solitude in the golf shop’s pie warmer. The last turkey in the shop, though this will surely be variation on a theme of beef. South Australia must be the only state in which you can’t buy Four N’ Twenty’s or Pie Face goods, so I make do with the local equivalent: Vili’s.

The surface looks like a Day 4 one from up the road at The Oval. There’s so many cracks and marks on this, I’d have good money on Swannie getting a five-for on it. As is now standard I liberally smear the pie top with no frills tomato ketchup, which sticks obediently to the surface. Biting down, the pastry shoots out in magpie friendly flakes. The well-warmed beef is the hottest thing I think I’ve experienced in my time in Adelaide. The meat, minced, is like a Four N’ Twenty version of bovine gloop but with a stronger, more offal-like taste. The ketchup springs into multitask mode, acting as an adhesive to the brittle pastry, a welcome balm-like substance against the heat while also countering the over-strong kidney flavour. No wonder the humble red sauce is so revered in these parts.
The Vili’s pie does a job. Only just.

Going with a local metaphor; of the famous cricketing Chappell brothers who played here with such distinction in the 70s, this pie would definitely be Trevor.
And like Trevor, I can’t imagine this pie going down too well in New Zealand.

(Hello Geoff!)

My last full day in Australia and a tribute, of sorts, to one of my heroes as a kid and my third favourite Australian (behind Richie Benaud and Donk from Crocodile Dundee). Rolf Harris.

The basis behind my excursion to Adelaide was that it was the remaining one from five of the traditional Australian Test Match venues on the list yet to have visited. At MCG, SCG and The Gabba I was fortunate enough to have been present for a match. At the WACA in Perth I got to the museum and after some begging was allowed into the ground. At the Adelaide Oval, I just missed the guided tour, but was allowed to bowl around the arena, taking care not to disrupt any of the renovations going on around me. Which was nice.

I’m doing my best to stay out of pubs and the nearby McLaren Vale Wine Tours. So having seen most of the South Australian state capital and with a few moments to spare before my bus tonight, I thought I’d take a leaf out of Rolf’s sketchbook and have a bit of a dawdle.

Um-chuck-aha-chook-a-um-chuck-aha…..

Today’s proposed trip to The Adelaide Oval has been postponed because Adelaide, just for today, appears to have done a Weather Exchange with Manchester. Which must be good new for ex-England footballers as there will be no need to defrost their cars this morning. So Mancunians, get out and drink in the exported South Australian suuuuuuuunshiiiiiiinnne!

The Adelaide Oval can lay claim to being one of Test Cricket’s most picturesque grounds. However, due to the expected crowds of Englishmen coming over for The Ashes later this year, it’s currently having a bit if a facelift. Let’s hope it’s a bit better than Warnie’s….

As a result of the building work, one of the ground’s major attractions, The Bradman Collection has been put away in storage until the refurbishment is over. Luckily, The South Australian State Library has some iconic Bradman memorabilia on show. Sir Donald Bradman, as you’ll all know, was born in New South Wales but settled in Adelaide later in life, which this state is rightly proud of.

Pictured below are the bats he used to make the then highest scores in Test cricket (334 v England, 1930) and First Class Cricket (452 NSW v Queensland, 1930), the highest score at the SCG (340 NSW v Victoria, 1929) plus the bat used to score his first Test century (1929 versus us again…) and his hundredth Test century (v India, 1947).

Eighty years from now, the question must be asked. Will they have something similar on display in honour of Mitchell Johnson?