KEY POINTS:
In ramshackle hamlets and tumbledown shacks (the only housing those in Auckland can afford) the simple folk of a faraway land (with a standard of living 16 per cent below the OECD average) huddled round their trusty crystal sets to hear the glorious news ...
Reserve Bank Governor Alan Bollard says he'll continue to raise interest rates until the Government stops trying to bribe voters by spending truckloads of money ...
"Not that glorious news, you idiot! Change the station!"
Welcome back to the Caribbean ... [crackle, crackle] ... where we've seen a magnificent knock from Stephen Fleming, despite his injuries. And its not over yet [more crackle] ... Fleming prepares to face the next delivery, standing bravely on one leg, his right arm in a sling ... [yet more crackle] ... Malinga begins his run-up. So does Vass. And Muralidoosra - the Sri Linkans are throwing everything at the plucky Kiwi captain. They're coming in now ... and Biff! Kapow! Wallop! Three sixes off one ball! New Zealand have won! They've won!! 374 runs in the 10th over. A stunning performance ...
Tarnation, as the old road builder used to say. Why can't life be more like the Boy's Own Paper?
And he's right, unlike those well-paid politicians who plan to make him pay an extra 10 cents a litre for his petrol in order to fund their loony love affair with antiquated, outmoded, inflexible, futile, feelgood 19th-century transport solutions like trains.
Life should be more like the Boy's Own Paper. Phlegm and the team should win in the nick of time when the stakes are down and the chips are high.
But they don't. They choke. On Anzac Day, for crying out loud!
Which we were. Clustered round its wirelesses, the whole country suddenly found itself staring at a nightmare remake of that shocking Toyota ad where even the dog says rude words.
Profanities were uttered. Expletives weren't deleted. Expressions that start with bug and end with are did resonate from the plush depths of (hire-purchased) La-Z-boys throughout the downcast land.
Outer Roa was outer control, maddened with despair.
And even madder the day after our boys' own Caribbean carumble when bloomin' Bollard casually strolls out to the crease and whacks any thought of putting a deposit on a modest penthouse in Remuera right out of the park!
It was a short innings but a big hit, that's for sure! With no appeal to the Third Umpire.
Oh no. We didn't go upstairs on this one.
There was no big screen graphic flashing the welcome words Not On in response to Doctor B's heartless decision to shove the OCR right up our left deficit.
No, we just had to lump it. The finger stayed down and the rates went up. End of storey, as the old apartment dweller used to say.
And that was it. Two lots of bad news in the same week. First the ACR, then the OCR. Now, one we could probably handle. We could live with the misery of the OCR or the ACR (the Awful Cricket Result). But not both. Not within 24 hours.
That's enough to make the strongest Anzac seek the comfort and counsel of a stiff drink - or a soft counsellor.
Of course, if life was like the Boy's Own Paper it wouldn't be that way. If life was like the Boy's Own Paper Stephen Fleming would not only have got his Vass into gear and hit the winning runs but the ball - glorious missile of retribution - would have crashed through the window on the top floor of the Reserve Bank and struck the dastardly Doc right on his fiscal noggin, thus preventing him from implementing his fiendish plan to ruin the lives of God-fearing mortgagees (like Garth).
Alas, alack, yarroooogh and blast, life is not like the Boy's Own Paper.
The Black Heads do get squeezed out of the World Cup.
And Dr Bollard gets to rain on our Parade (and Avenue) when he could have been saving our bacon by raining on the pitch.
That's just how it is, ladies and gentlemen. Our batters are bankrupt, our bankers are bonkers and, pretty soon, every motorist in Auckland will be pumping an extra 10 cents a litre into old Brother Hubbard's cupboard so he can drive the city loco. Well, to be fair to the Mare it'll probably be the ARC that'll drive Auckland loco.
But the point remains. We're way off track - in cricket, in cash and in commuter solutions.
The Black Heads are blouses, Bollard's a bounder and if there are any politicians who genuinely believe it's fair or sensible to slap another tax on citizens compelled to use an already overloaded road network in order to get around the sprawling metropolis that competing councils and their planners (?) have created, then those laughable legislators would do us all a favour if they built a flamin' ARC and sailed away in it forthwith.
And if they don't, we will, because the pride of Anzac Day aside, this has not been a good week for Outer Roa's home-owners, car drivers and cricket fans.
On the contrary, its message is clear: if life was indeed the Boy's Own Paper we would all be in the Tuck Shop of despair.
