I confess to fascination with wetness, an appetite quenched every time I open my newspaper.
Wetness is absolutely a male thing, well evidenced recently, when Wellington's newspaper carried a photo of an arms folded, grim-faced, middle aged wet. He was complaining because Lower Hutt's Council Art Gallery, the Dowse (named to commemorate the world's worst ever driver, he also being a former mayor) was showing a nonsense film exhibition which included a three-minute item by a Qatari film-maker of unveiled Muslim women preparing for a wedding. Available only to women viewers although why any would want to watch is a mystery, our saturated complainant was protesting at his prohibition. That's a fairly serious level of dampness, admittedly not of Tsunami proportions but certainly the Tongariro River in flood. Amazingly he wasn't bearded which is characteristic of most wets. But could you possibly imagine any woman in history giving a damn if they were prohibited from a three-minute film of say Muslim men praying or whatever?
When the Social Credit Party reached its zenith in the early 1980s it became a magnet for the nation's wets. They were a cartoonist's delight with their beards, toupees, safari suits, walk-shorts and Skoda cars. I miss them immensely even though I played a mickey-taking role in their demise. The advent of line dancing filled the gap in providing them with a new outlet.
On that note readers may recall the Education Department's television advertisement a few years ago. It began with shots of line dancers followed by a short message to kids that this could be their fate if they don't study hard at school. The department pulled the advert when line dancers protested, a great shame as it got the message across perfectly.
When Murray Chandler returned from chess success in Europe in the late 1970s I was one of 20 invited challengers one Saturday morning in the Wellington Town Hall. We were seated at a long table before chess boards while Murray raced up and down the other side making snap moves, all before an audience of several hundred spectators. Murray quickly disposed of most of the players and it got down to four of us hanging on in, when my attention was drawn by spectators to my girlfriend beckoning frantically over people's heads to me to leave the table.