Te Radar: Strolling bow-legged through NZ's hillbilly heaven

HUMOUR

I have no doubt that the hookers were happy in Hamilton this week.

Once again hordes of horny-handed hillbillies were descending on the otherwise-sleepy hamlet for the orgy of rural consumerism that is The Fieldays.

Revisiting the event after many years I thought I would be surrounded by the musky stench of damp Swanndris. Fortunately rural folk have forsworn the swanny for polar fleece.

I was immediately attracted by a sign that said "Mechanical Bull". Disappointingly it was a traditional faux-rodeo type and not a high tech cyborg-impregnator.

I decided to try my hand at riding it despite the cackling of a coterie of children.

I could only assume these school- uniformed adolescents were busy earning NCEA credits doing "research".

Their laughter increased in tune with both the bull's and my animated flailing.

I hobbled to the opening ceremony where the Navy Band provided a jaunty musical medley, as we waited for the event to be opened by the Leader of the Opposition.

The New Zealand flag was escorted on by those valiant protectors of the rural economy, the MAF Beagle Team. Fortunately they weren't distracted by any rogue fruit carrier.

As the flag was raised, Don led around nine others in the sizeable crowd in a rousing mumble of the national anthem.

He is clearly revered by the rural constituency. One man held up a child and said, "Look son, there he is, the Prime Minister in waiting, Don Clark"

It wasn't the only case of mistaken identity.

Don credited his minion Shane Ardern with being the most famous tractor driver in New Zealand.

Surely Ardern's antics come nowhere near rivalling Sir Ed Hillary's epic endeavour to become the first person to drive to the South Pole in a tractor?

Labour's spokes-personage on agriculture, Shrek, appeared to be absent.

The seven Rural Bachelor of the Year finalists, clad in a uniform of moleskin pants and gingham shirts, looked a pretty decent bunch of well-groomed blokes.

Initially their self-deprecating way with words made Reuben Thorne look like one of our finer orators.

But, with classic rural understatement, their boyish coquettishness quickly won over the crowd.

I thought: if these blokes can't find themselves a strapping rural woman, what chance have I?

Meanwhile, the Suzuki motorcycle display team was committing both death and parent-defying motorbike acrobatics.

Their tricks were acknowledged by the large crowd with a laconic exuberance, expressed by a slight head twitch and a muttered "Oh yeah."

Afterwards, with a lovely touch of rural irony, a chap from OSH delivered a largely neglected warning on the dangers of farm bikes.

By mid afternoon, sated by the abundance of agricultural accoutrements, I left.

My feet were weary and my groin ached from the damage afflicted to it by the mechanical bull.

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