Unfriend. Chosen by the New American Oxford Dictionary as the word of the year. Apparently it has lex-appeal. I am completely underwhelmed by this choice. There are numerous words skulking around in the modern vocabulary that are far better, far less PC and far more vibrant than that anodyne choice.
To that end, here's the first pass at my words of the year. I'm being tentative about the final result as the year still has a few weeks to run and I know that at some time in that period a tantalising new piece of verbage will present itself and will need to be shared.
Yes, some of them you are familiar with, some have been pinched from other sources and some are just plain handy.
Without further ado, here be the list:-
Sucktastic (adj) An experience that was less than pleasurable and more akin to penance. "Riding Mountain Road with only a twenty one on the back was sucktastic."
Clusterfuck (adj) A procedure or operation that has gone more than a little awry. Can also be applied to persons on subnormal ability or intelligence. "The Mechanics Bay World Champs bunch is just a clusterfuck"
Self-attack (verb) Do one's own person a mischief, note this is completely different to onanism. "I engaged in self attack by answering the phone while operating the heat gun"
Footle (verb) Pinched from Charlie and The Great Glass Elevator, means to just buggerise about, something that I excel at. "I spent the day footling about the house"
Crocodile (noun) Weapon of bunch destruction, particular when the road slopes up, and up, and steepens.
Spousal Barnacle (noun) Self explanatory, needn't say anymore, except my Grudge Bearer is relatively tolerant of this term of endearment.
Mouth Breather (noun) Unsophisticated individual, usually with sloping brow, dirty knuckles and a love of draft beer. "The drain layer was a real mouth breather"
Tandemonium (noun) The two wheeled terror with four arms, four legs, two heads, two minds, a schism and one hundred and sixty kilogrammes of brawn on board. It will end in tears, arguments, and some strange dog-humping movements.
That's my initial list, any further suggestions are welcome, but rest assured anything too PC, cheap or unoriginal will earn some mockery and maybe a mention in the dispatches.
Speaking of which, I see that Sid got a special mention in the thank you letter from the Coromandel Rozzers after K2. Well done Sid, good to see that the Coromandel Constabulary have an eye out for you. To this end Junior and I are currently drawing up a petition, that will be circulated in the near future, suggesting that Sid has his own escort at K2 next year.
Collected assorted and random thoughts. In no special order here's a cranial dump that's overdue.
This week has already had two nights of convivial company, plenty of food and wine. Well worthwhile in making the world a better place, and further embedding my view that community is far more important than most people care to recognise. Community, not a physical, singular spot but the enriching, caring, philosophising, burden sharing, humour dispensing place that we all require. The food and wine were a small blot in my carcass reduction programme. Thankfully the set screw I stuck in the dial of the scales is holding fast and my belt is fibbing. A small price to pay.
Sunday's ride was quite special, Huia return through French Bay, Laingholm, then out to be broken on the roads. The day was perfect for it, the company excellent and the pain dished out, sublime. Although the low flying, then waddling ducks on the descent down to French Bay were an interesting sideshow before the climbing fest. As always, the end of the seal at Little Huia provides a great place to pause and reflect, and yet again the scenery didn't disappoint. It's incredible that one can be less than thirty kilometres from downtown Auckland and it's a completely different world. Sleepy, rural, historic, almost forgotten, it's a place of magic.
Not far from there, on the treacherous Manukau Bar, in 1863 New Zealand's worst maritime disaster occurred. HMS Orpheus, a Royal Navy corvette on route to delivery supplies for troops engaged in the New Zealand Land Wars, hit the bar, foundered and sank. Out of a complement of 259, 189 crew died. The graves of some of the unknown can still be visited in the regenerating forest on the back of the Cornwallis Peninsula.
I'm pestering the Domestic Tyrant to get me a pass for Fashion Week. She has outfitted the Air NZ VIP lounge, and tomorrow I'm off to photograph that for her, but come the real deal, when models and celebrity will stride the room, sit on the chairs, lie on the beds, and I'm most likely to be banished. This is most unsporting behaviour from her. Just a little charity, that's all I suggest it is.
Mikeal, he of onanistic pride, and I are going to ride from Tapu over to Coroglen return next weekend. He will be on his cyclocross rig, and I will ride my road bike. Partly out of sheer perversity I'm going to ride the road bike, just to show that it can be done, plus I want to make him whimper when we do get back on tarseal. I am looking forward to the long, steep metal sections and giant, mature kauri.
On that note, I'm heading back to continue nagging about Fashion Week.
Firstly I need to speak of the sin of Onan. Recently I was forwarded this picture. On first sight it shows a miscreant engaging in an act that is normally reserved for private places and not on your dearly beloved's sofa.
Technically this individual could not have committed the sin of Onan, because Onan's sin was spilling his seed on the ground. I have it on good authority that there was no soil in the room and the individual pictured did not wander outside and scare the neighbours. However in the broader, more current usage of the term onanism, I think he's guilty.
Just remember, my spies are everywhere, ergo one should always get the Love Glove out in a private locked room.
Onto more important matters than debating masturbation. Yesterday I enjoyed a great training ride. One hundred and forty eight kilometres of windy, damp, dirty pleasure. It had all the qualities that mark out a great ride:- company, quiet roads, scenery, a well planned loop, a shop in the right place and the smug sense of satisfaction that comes from riding in roughish weather that stops most others from venturing out. The gods also smiled on us, when the only puncture of the day was convenient enough to occur within a kilometre of the food stop. Also, as we rode, we could see large rain cells, rainbows and squalls, and we only really went through one. The roads may have been wet, but there was no traffic, and the weather was great to watch.
After starting with a bunch of eight, gaining one more in Manukau and then losing five at Alfriston, that left four of us to complete our chosen route. Our Wellington visitor, Tristan and I were fortunate enough to time our lap on the back to coincide with the block headwind on the Aka Aka straights. Messurs Junior and Troup certainly earnt their raspberry licorice there.
We also enjoyed a battling return through South Auckland with cross headwinds. Tristan maintains that he was tired at about one hundred and fifteen kilometres, but I don't believe him. The reason for my doubt is that when we entered old Papatoetoe he still wanted to go to Hunters Corner and look for Ladymen. I'm sure that he can find them Wellington, and not when he's in full lycra and covered with road film.
The ride will do all of us good, and bodes well for the next big one in four weeks time.
