Film Review: Paw Patrol, Mighty Pups

On Friday night, I was hoping to see my good friend Sam Smith live in concert at Palmerston North's Royal Hotel. Unfortunately, one cancelled flight later, I found myself instead part of a hastily arranged Palmy Fringe comedy concept show, answering deeply personal questions fired at me by inebriated audience members for six minutes. Nothing, apparently, was off limits. It was a deeply unsettling and uncomfortable experience. And as such, a good comparison for when today I took the older two children to see Paw Patrol: Mighty Pups.

No pup is too big, no merchandising excuse to fleece money from parents is too small

It may come somewhat as a surprise in a film that features a gang of seven talking dogs, but you should prepare to check your expectations of scientific believability in at the door before viewing this film. As soon as the tinnitus-inducingly loud theme song had died away, we're straight into an improbable scenario in which Farmer Al has attached an oversized balloon to his back in order to clean the upper levels of his silo, but his floating away into the ether! What better way to rescue him than to launch a ladder, not for him to climb down, but from which to pop the balloon and send him plummeting to earth, ONLY AFTER WHICH THE PUPS SET UP A NET IN WHICH TO CATCH HIM. Not a moment too soon, either, as the net catches the rural bumpkin, with his hat, presumably subject to a different force of gravitation to that pulling Al himself earthwards, landing a couple of seconds later.

'It's not scientifically possible,' cries absent father Cap'n Turbott, nearby. Not about the plot of the film, mind you, but about the rocket ship that Foggy Bottom's evil Mayor Humdinger is planning to man on his mission to be first mayor on the moon. But of course, the good captain/bad parent is wrong, because screw science, and the rocket is accidentally launched, colliding with a meteor which JUST HAPPENS TO BE PASSING BY at low enough altitude, setting it on course for a catastrophic collision course with our heroes' home town of Adventure Bay. In the absence of Bruce Willis or Ben Affleck in late 90s action hero mode, the pups race around town, telling the townspeople to take shelter in their homes from the impending apocalypse, before the giant space rock lands, creating not mass destruction and extinction, but a tiny crater on the beach.

Oh, and it gives the pups super powers. Marshall can summon fire! Chase can run really fast! Sky turned into a member of Westlife and is flying without wings! Rubble is improbably strong! Everest can breath ice! Rocky has a big tool he can do amazing things with!

And Mayor Humdinger's nephew Harold has also gained new powers, which he uses to kidnap the pup's fearless but sadly mortal leader Ryder. Mayor Humdinger, a man clearly unsuited for public office, and who appears to see his position as an opportunity for personal aggrandizement rather than a calling to civil service (metaphor alert!!!), rides along in order to try to savage his ambition of achieving the frankly meaningless title of First Mayor on the Moon. What follows is a frantic blur of half an hour, as the Paw Patrol led by Chase dressed as an early 2000s Sri Lankan cricketer in one day international mode, tries to rescue the precocious Ryder, and save Adventure Bay from.... well, it's never really certain how Adventure Bay is at peril in the first place, but it's sure to be from something bad, anyway.

Aravinda de Silva

Chase

What a caper. There's action. There's repeated callbacks (hahaha, Mayor Goodwin's tulips got flattened AGAIN!!! It's just like when that guy kept saying Ari at that show we went to last night!!!) There's more twists than in a season of Game of Thrones, though considerably less sex and death), and there's an ending that may be a sly wink towards Raiders of the Lost Ark, or could just be coincidence. I dunno, I kind of lost track of the plot only slightly less convoluted than the puns at teh Wellington Pun Battle (November 22 San Fran Bath House) when the small child behind me delivered their own scathing review into their nappy. In the end though, it was loud, it was colourful, and it had more talking dogs than it had naughty words, so the kids liked it. And it was slightly less uncomfortable to sit through than trying to find an evasive but humorous answer to yet another personal question from an innebriated audience.

Revealed: All you need to know about Jacinda Ardern's pregnancy!

Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern has announced she and her partner are expecting their first child. The baby is due to be born in June. Ms Ardern plans to take six weeks off after birth, then return to work. That's it. Nothing else concerns you, it's a private matter. Stop complaining and get on with your own life. That goes for you, too, Mark Reason. There's plenty more stuff articles that need commenting on in disparaging terms, like this one about ageing reggae star Shaggy. Go on. Go to the bottom of it and type 'Who's Shaggy,' you big time wit. Or maybe pretend to confuse him with Scooby Doo's friend. It'll be hilarious, trust me.

No, seriously, that's it. You don't need to know any more, and we don't care about your reckons. OK Karl du Fresne? And whilst I'm at it, we don't care why you think that restaurant's racist menu was ok and oh my god why can't the PC brigade take a joke any more. Listen to people who actually were hurt by it, and who were offended by it instead. Or maybe you should get a twitter account and shout into the abyss where no one will hear you, and no one will answer you. Because no one cares.




























Stop scrolling down. That's it. Go away. You too, Garner, with your lazy open letter format. And keep your Jimmy Carr fanboy defences to yourself, too. That joke about how Dunedin needs an earthquake was really distasteful. People are still hurting from that.






















Stop it.





















Seriously.

Leaked! the extremely rough demo of Max Key's Eminem Diss Track

Almost a week has gone by since former fist son of New Zealand, and probably carrier of the dominant Ponytail Pulling gene Max Key announced on social media that he would record a diss track targeting one of the National Party's many nemeses, the rapper Eminem (as distinct from their other nemeses the Labour Party, Winston Peters, MMP, the general electorate, and common sense). The only catch was he wanted ten thousand Facebook likes first, surely an easy target in a world where a teenager managed to get 3.6 million Twitter retweets in his quest for some free chicken nuggets.

A rap rivalry for the ages

And indeed as predicted, Max has past his target, and Netflix and Children can officially revealed that he ha started recording demo versions of his track in his bedroom late at night, trying not to wake up his parents John and Bronagh. Unfortunately, given technical difficulties, he's been reduced to using freely available, Apple software, so we can only hope that the eagerly awaited final cut sounds a little more polished, Max.

And of course, we eagerly anticipate the Real Slim Shady's response to these vicious rhymes!

Finally, the truth behind NZ Political Sporting Witchcraft Revealed

The rule book keeping politics out of sport has been firmly ripped up today, as New Zealand reels at revelations of the extent to which their leaders have been meddling with the results of their favourite teams through the medium of curses, evil spells, and general witchcraftery.

The scandal, which threatens to destroy the very seat of parliament, the Beehive, in a large prophylactic bonfire, started to unravel following the shock loss of national rugby team 'the All Blacks' to their Australian counterparts in a closely contested game on Saturday night. Curiously
named New Zealand Herald reporter, NZ Herald-Staff, noted that the loss came barely days after
noted woman Jacinda Ardern had been selected as Prime Minister. Logically, rather than sub-par
performance, excessive hunger for a win in front of a home crowd by Australia, luck of the bounce of
a ball, refereeing performance, or scapegoat waitresses being to blame for the defeat, the reversal of
result was instead due to Ms Ardern placing a supernatural hex upon the team. Further investigation
by Herald-Staff noted that this sort of unsporting behaviour had precedents, with Ms Ardern's
predecessor as Labour Party Leader, Prime Minister, and sub-duck-weighing woman Helen Clark
having held office for nine long years during which the All Blacks had lost some matches.
Furthermore, Dame Jenny Shipley, who like Ardern became Prime Minister despite not even winning an election, once was working when the New Zealand representative team failed to make the final of the World Cup.

When questioned on this anomaly, Ms Ardern was surprisingly forthcoming. 'Look, absolutely, I placed a curse on the All Blacks,' she confessed at her Mt Albert electorate office this afternoon. 'Labour campaigned on a promise of a fairer New Zealand, and really, what could be fairer than letting Australia win a game once in a while? All through the campaign, we were displaying big signs saying Let's Do This. If anyone had stopped to ask, 'what exactly is This?' I'd have been only too glad to clarify. Let's Do a Curse On The All Blacks.'

Actually, Mark, it's pronounced Winggardium LevioSAR

 Further investigation has turned up multiple instances of politicians use witchcraft to influence the outcome of games of sports teams they may see in a negative light. After Ms Clark was made patron of New Zealand Rugby League, her successor, John Key, put a jinx on the Warriors' NRL team. 'At the end of the day, I just feel like being a bit of an arsehole, actually,' he is rumoured to have told his deputy, Bill English. English was in turn himself the victim of an evil spell cast by Don Brash in 2002, which saw him lose a charity boxing bout and an election by embarrassing margins, and set in to place a chain of events that saw Brash become leader of the National Party, and threatened to send the country back to the 1840s.

Don't worry guys, he got up again. Cos they're never gonna keep him down.

Perhaps the most potentially infamous practice of dark magic, however, was Judith Collins's 2013 use of a dark incantation when, with Emirates Team New Zealand holding a seemingly unbeatable 8-1 lead in the America's Cup, she mistook Dean Barker's giant catamaran for a modified Subaru WRX. Sources say Collins had become drunk with perceived power after being placed in Slytherin House on a Pottermore quiz, and that to this day she still boasts about the time she made Dave Dobbyn cry.

One man who wants to reduce the influence politicians are having on sports results is Wellington philanthropist, economist, politician, footballing mastermind, ailurophobe, beach lover, witch-smeller pursuivant, and all-round good guy Gareth Morgan. Morgan, perhaps more than most, knows the lengths to which members of government will go to manipulate a fixture to their own ends.

'For ten years, the Wellington Phoenix have attracted the wrath of the Peter Dunne,' Morgan stated. 'People have long suspected him to look the part of a slightly creepy children's magician, the bow tie, the hair... But he's actually a dark, dark wizard. People think TOP was The Opportunities Party; Actually it was Take Out Peter, but the general public were too fucking stupid to see that, to see the evil in the man.'

The real reason they didn't get in is Gareth kept standing in front of the instruction to vote 

Morgan states that when the current ownership consortium took over the club, they hoped Dunne may have called his curse off, ending the run of poor results. 'We thought it was Terry Serepisos's unpaid tax bills that we're getting on his goat. But it was the crest. The Phoenix on the crest had a powerful bouffant, and Peter saw it as a challenge to his own. He needed the poor results to see the club go under, so his magnificent hairdo could remain unchallenged. But then he got voted out, so with a best squad ever, we think the Phoenix this year are going to have their strongest season yet.'

Some sort of freaky mirror image

Morgan famously launched his party in 2016 with a promise to light a fuse under parliament, fire being the only known way to destroy a known evil wizard or witch. So with Dunne gone, does that mean he will rest? 'No. The evidence shows that New Zealand needs a strong anti-black-magic party in parliament to keep the bastards in check and protect the integrity of our sports teams, but the public are just too moronic to see that now. Maybe the All Blacks losing will wake the Sheeple up, finally.'

And the cat culling policy? As with all TOP policy, it's based on sound evidence.'Kill their familiars,' says Morgan. 'The magic can't survive without the familiars.'

Thule Uban Glide running buggy review

A little while back, I interviewed professional ultra- and stroller- runner Michael Wardian, for what I had hoped at the time would be an inspirational and motivating piece for the Spinoff. My intentions were pure, but alas the sitting back and awaiting sports journalism awards to fall into my lap meant I wasn't doing much in the way of actual running. Again, something needed to change.

It was my lovely wife who suggested that perhaps what I needed for motivation was to enter a race. Not just any race, but my all time favourite race, the Tarawera Ultramarathon. If I entered in June, that would give me eight or nine months to get myself up to pace before race day. Of course, my recent history of entering ultramarathon a was hardy stellar. Three years previously I had signed up for the same race, only to find out barely weeks later that we were expecting our second child. Surely history couldn't repeat though, could it?

Don't let me down, Neil Finn

History repeated. Barely weeks after paying a few hundred dollars for the provision of a day of pain, we found out we were expecting our third child.

But... There was still an opening here! Rachel seemed convinced that this was an excuse to upgrade our perambulation equipment, and it turned out there was a specialist paediatric transportation shop just down the road from my parents' house! Soon, an expensive Thule Urban Glide double running buggy had arrived on our doorstep in a massive box, bearing the promise 'fits through most doors.'

Perfect for transporting your relationship's third AND fourth wheels

Unsurprisingly, pushing a stroller with twice the child-carrying capacity came with some downsides compared to the standard single buggy I was used to pushing. For one thing, it was twice the weight when fully laden. Secondly, I couldn't get into supermarkets with it, as although Thule had taken into mind the width of 'most doors,' they hadn't given any thought to those one way clacky supermarket security gates.

I needed to test the pram with a decent run, however. I checked with my old mate Mike as to whether there is a current double-stroller marathon world record, in the hope that if it was vacant, I could claim it by default. Unfortunately he thought there probably was. So I'd have to do some training, build up to the distance, so I allowed myself to be talked into a local charity 10km fun run along the local Manawatu river tracks.

The use of the term fun run should have raised alarm bells to start off with. I enjoy running. At least the idea of running. I'm not sure I could every describe it as truly 'fun' though. It's a grind, especially when you find yourself pushing a combined 40kg of child and pram.

So this morning I packed the kids into the Urban Glide, chucked in a couple of soft toys and snacks in the oh-so-sizeable zipable compartment at the base of the buggy, and headed out towards the startline. We started at the back of the pack in expectation of lack of fitness causing slow going, but soon, true to its name, the wheels started to smoothly glide across the frictionless asphalt, and we were impatiently overtaking other competitors. However, It wasn't long until my arms began to let me know exactly how displeased they were at having to propel the equivalent of a fully laden shopping trolley in front of them.

Ooooh, political

Not just a sedate, well-behaved shipping trolley though. This one had an attitude. Two attitudes even. 'Start running faster,' it scolded. 'I don't want to come last, overtake those people in front of us!'  'Can I have some chocolate now?' 'Why are you walking up this hill?' 'Why did grandma send their goldfish to the old goldfish hospital, and when is it coming back?' 'I'm hungry, I want some chocolate.' 'DON'T PUSH ME IN THE WATER!!!' 'PLEEEEAAAASE can we have some chocolate?'

Still, having a couple of not completely unsightly small children being pushed in front of me was proving a good way of getting additional support from bystanders. We reached the turnaround point, and headed back along the river. 3km to go, and a martial shouted at us, 'you're 4th, 5th and 6th.' It barely needed pointing out that the 6th place was held by the guy doing all the work. We passed a couple of firefighters, waking the 10km distance in full uniform, and with oxygen tanks on their back. Their extra load at least seemed better distributed than mine was.

A further 500m on, we were suddenly surrounded by walkers out for the shorter 5km option, and the superior manoeuvrability provided by the single front wheel, far in excess of what you'd expect from a double pram, came into its own. The comments kept on coming from other competitors: 'Oh, seeing you push that makes me feel guilty!' Feel free to trade places with me, then.

Finally, the finish line was in sight. A few posed photos, then I deftly tried to flip around, so I could cross the finish line before the kids. I'd done all the hard work, and I was going to be damned if the free-wheeling kids finished before I did. Unfortunately, all I managed to was to narrowly avoid flipping the buggy right in front of their mother. Insult was added to injury as my son was handed a consolation spot prize as soon as we'd uprighted ourselves. Nothing for Dad.

This was probably the first long run I've done where I've ended with my arms notably more weary and sore than my legs, but all in all, the three of us did have an enjoyable time, and the Thule Urban Glide provided probably the easiest and most comfortable means for me to complete such a run with two preschoolers in tow. And we beat the dad with the Phil and Ted double buggy, so read into that what you will.

And now, I guess, we're looking onwards, to the Ashhurst to Esplanade half marathon next month. That double buggy marathon record awaits.

Hairy MacLary is a piece of dangerous misinformation

New Zealand's best loved dog story, Hairy MacLary, is a sham. There. I've said it. 

Dangerous propaganda, up there with anything Don Brash has written

Stuff recently posted an interview with author Lynley Dodd discussing how he was inspired by a cheeky dog she once saw take a bag of bones from her local butcher. What a scamp! What a loveable rogue! So she went home and wrote a series of books about him, which have been passed down from generation to generation of New Zealander, delighting children and adults alike, before the cold, harsh reality of what happens when dogs are allowed to roam free hits home. Dangerous dogs are no joke. Alan Partridge can tell you that.

So, as a counter point for the generations of young Kiwis raised in the belief that letting your pet run wild is acceptable, I have rewritten the he classic story to teach some more realistic consequences.

No need to thank me. Just consider it my civic contribution to dog ownership standards in New Zealand.

Hairy MacLary from Donaldson's Dairy (2017)

Dedicated to the loving memory of a bad dog.

Out of the door, and off for a walk, 

Went Hairy MacLary from Donaldson's Dairy

With Muffin McLay

Like a bundle of hay

Bottomly Potts

All covered in spots

Hercules Morse

As big as a horse

And Hairy MacLary

From Donaldson's Dairy

They set of towards town, with a sniff of their noses

They stopped off at Miss Lawson's and they dug up her roses

Then Bottomly paused at the shop of Tom Clegg

He needed a slash, so he lifted one leg

Then he let out a stream that was steamy and golden

It seemed never ending, so long he'd been holding

Next on to the butcher's, Hairy snuck through the door

Then stole out with some sausages, steak,chicken and more

They felt so much better, having eaten that meat

And now Hairy was horny, luckily Muff was in heat

Hairy looked at her longingly, out stuck his small log

Soon they were mating, in the style of a dog

But Hairy's a small dog, you'd think he'd need a ladder

But instinct kicked in, and soon he had had her

All loved up, the pooches kept wandering 'round town

Hercules shat on the path, near the local Countdown

Such a large beast will provide quite a stool, I should warn

A dark brown soft serve ice cream, with small bits of sweet corn

What a day! Time was flying! Oh, how it passes!

The dog pack rejoiced as they sniffed each other's asses

What winning! These canines were on a clear roll!

But around the corner lay....

ANIMAL CONTROL

And the cops were there too! For dangerous canine

Was the call that came through to the council hotline

Hercules growled, and rushed with teeth bared

The officers understandably were very scared.

One cop drew his pistol, and without a word

He shot, and the Mastiff dropped to the curb

Lifelessly Hercules fell to the ground

The other dogs, terrified, were led to the pound

Seriously, would you trust this dog to roam free in public?

Later that week, the Donaldson clan

Ventured down to the pound with their mind on a plan

To pay a small fine, a nominal fee

A few hundred bucks that would set Hairy free

But sadly, the D's, they were in for a shock

When they found their dog ownership rights had been blocked

'You leave your gate open' the officer scolded

Mr D fainter, his legs under him folded

'Your Hairy MacLary and his pack of wild hounds

Have been escaping your garden to terrorise town.

Your fence is too low, your gate is left open.

Your dog has more wanderlust than you would be hoping.

'For the capers they cause are not meet caterwauling

Last week an old lady was maimed in a mauling.

Wild dogs are a vector for diseases like rabies

But it's not just the health risks, it's also the babies!

For Hairy is clearly aware of his needs.

He's seeking out bitches, and spreading his seed.

'I'm sorry Sir, Ma'am, but this cannot go on

If you think your responsible dog owners, you're wrong.

Your dog's a risk to health, through injury and infection.

But at least now he's dead. We gave him an injection.'

RIP Hairy MacLary, and your horrible mongrel mob.

Album Review: Melodrama by Lorde

Save us Ella Yelich-O'Connor, you're our only hope

As a middle class father from New Zealand with a Twitter account and a blog, I knew it was my expected civic duty to have an opinion on the new Lorde album. This follow up to Pure Heroine had been teased about for months, with an epic and anticlimactic scavenger hunt around Auckland announcing the first single leading into a word puzzle where fans were invited to guess the album title from the first and last letters.

My guess was M£*#€@$&%?~A

Then came the artwork. A clear reference to Picasso's Blue Period.

We're Blue, da ba dee, da ba da ba da ba dee da ba da

Unless anyone can think of another artist who works with such beautifully shadowed brushstrokes?

Well, maybe we all DID misunderestimate him

It all led to today's climax, the release of Melodrama. Was New Zealand ready? Was

it ever. The nation had been left rudderless and without a leader since the resignation of beloved figurehead Richie McCaw, and without a cultural touchstone since Peter Jackson had run out of  Tolkien books to adapt into lengthy and pointless films . Even our country's defining moment in the history of handshakes has been eclipsed by the British.

Bring on our new Lorde, our saviour.

I fired up Spotify (free edition), typed in Melodrama, and let rip. And what a ripper. Lorde clearly corners her targeted market of middle aged men who have procreated right off the bat, starting with the lead single Green Light. It's a dad joke that easily wins my heart! We know this song, it's been everywhere. I last heard it being blasted by a DJ resembling an alpaca who's career had reached the heights of playing at an Australian Burgerfuel at 6pm on a Friday. The dancing on cars, the pianos in toilets, the kissing on light up dance floors, it's got the New Zealand experience written all over it, and we love it.

Track 2, Sober, sounds similar, the mellow start leading eventually into a banger of a chorus, but something is wrong... Can a song called Sober really describe the New Zealand? Surely Lorde knows that it's not the drinking, it's how we're drinking, and no amount of minimising that and claiming to be sober is not going to alter New Zealand's sorry rate of alcohol related injuries?

Also, I don't think you're truly sober if you're reviewing onion rings that look like this, Ella

We carry on, every song a certified New Zealand grown platinum hit. Or almost every song. I listen to Louvre, expecting to hear a soaring masterpiece, reminiscent of crystal pyramids and fine arts, but something's wrong. Sure, there's the odd highlight, but something doesn't quite feel right. Then it hit me,  this is exactly what Lorde meant it to mean. This isn't a song describing the Louvre as a cultural custodian of Europe's finest sculptures, paintings and artefacts. It's meant to bring to mind the Louvre as experienced by an 18 year old antipodean backpacker, rushing through the corridors, before pausing briefly to appreciate a work of genius they've only heard about until now through schoolbooks. A work of high intellect, this is captured perfectly by Lorde, who, it seems, is not aiming for a global hit album accessible to her fellow countrymen and women, but producing for the world a true insight into what it is to be a New Zealander.

Liability, in contrast, serves as a stark warning to her country of birth, against using the teenaged songstress as the basis for its entire cultural identity:

I understand, I'm a liability
Get you wild, make you leave
I'm a little much for
E-a-na-na-na, everyone

Indeed, what happens when it does get us wild, when Lorde does get a little much for everyone? We love her, but Melodrama does contain, for example, explicit language, words only previously acceptable in everyday use in middle New Zealand if used after a tough rugby match or climbing a very tall mountain. Is it wise to hitch our cultural wagon to a young girl who may turn out to be such a loose linguistic cannon?

Before long, I found myself I found myself listening to the last track of the album, Perfect Places, a song title that surely described any place you had access to this record for your auditory perusal. Time had flown, I'd had fun. Then it struck me how familiar this song sounded. The tune, the lyrics, they were essentially the same as an untitled secret track after song three, minus a few spoken lyrics:

Hi this is Lorde

You can listen to my

New album

Melodrama

Here on Spotify

Genius. It was the ultimate musical callback, playing on themes already expressed in the album and I loved it. This is why Lorde is such a treasure, inserting little jokes into her music, revisiting them later on in the record. Sure, she's a liability at times with the odd F-bomb, but this is why as a nation we are happy to have her as a global ambassador, a truly worthy heir to our other great Lord, of the Rings.

Overall, 14 stars out of 10. Get used to it New Zealand, this record is our national identity until at least the 2019 RWC.