Outraged

by Paul Henry

  MY TIP FOR THE FIRST-TIMER:

  Remember: no one is looking at you.

  EXECUTIVE SUMMARY ON NUDITY:

  It’s no big deal!

  ANECDOTE:

  One of those life experiences you will probably never forget is the first time you visit a nudist establishment. I was in Mammoth in California. I was on a road trip and had driven that day from Las Vegas, an amazing drive that takes you through Death Valley into the mountains. So you see desert, mountains and forest, in both extreme heat and snow. The next day was going to take me through the centre of Yosemite National Park, but a large section of road was closed due to snow. The best alternative route was to zigzag between California and Nevada towards Sacramento. A great road trip, but who wants to spend a night in Sacramento? Not me!

  I had recently been told of a commune-like spa named Harbin Hot Springs in the bush north of San Francisco, so I called them and booked in for three nights. The communal aspect alarmed me, so I booked the most expensive and exclusive accommodation they had available. I am not a great sharer of things like accommodation! To be fair I had been told it was clothing optional by people who are not nudists, but they said the hot springs were fantastic and, if you can cope with the resident hippie clan and so long as you didn’t go on the weekend when it filled up with ‘homosexuals on the hunt’, it would be quite an experience and a relaxing stay. None of those things bothered me, so with some level of excitement and expectation I embarked on another great drive through America. After leaving Mammoth at about 10am, I found myself on a road of rapidly decreasing width and quality in thick bush with the GPS telling me I should ‘turn around when possible’ as I was not on a road at all. It was about 7pm. By now it was dark and just a little foreboding. In the back of my mind I was running through the scene in the movie Wrong Turn where he still had the chance to turn back but chose not to. What a twat! Blood-bath ensued.

  I had just started to look at the fuel gauge in the way you do when you are completely lost, when a light appeared in the centre of the road ahead. As I drew close I could see it was a kind of sentry box, occupied by some sort of aging, feral mammal with dreadlocks, swaddled in a hessian throw. He looked like Dustin Hoffman at the halfway transformation mark in Tootsie. The small Harbin Hot Springs sign seemed a little redundant.

  One of the most ironic things about these places, which you would assume were all about personal freedom, is the strict and seemingly endless chronicle of rules and regulations. Honest to God, even though I had booked in and driven a million miles in a day to get to this isolated oasis, mini Hagrid in the sentry box took me through the daunting list of dos and don’ts (mostly don’ts) one by one.

  No cameras, no cellphones, no internet and — by far the most concerning — no alcohol. I had a boot full of cheap wine (sorry, trunk full of cheap liquor) and quite an appetite for a drink, but Dustin was deadly serious. Clothing optional came at quite a price. After following the map to the car park, I parked and looked again at the map. The paths were poorly lit, and clusters of hippie-like folk had gathered. It was quite a walk carrying inappropriate luggage past dormitory blocks and cottages to my accommodation. One of my bags was my banker’s attaché case. Jesus Christ, I must have looked out of place.

  Before I even opened the door to my room I had promised myself I would be leaving at first light and bugger the cost. On opening the door, it was confirmed — this was just not me. Let’s just say the feral theme continued.

  There was just time to make the communal dinner in the dining hall. I was in luck. This was the night the bush people came down from their huts with their offerings to share. Save me. After what was a far too healthy meal, I went for a swim. I just took all my clothes off in my room and paraded to one of the pools. At some point over the next few hours I was won over. It was a melting pot of endlessly interesting people who had no clothes on. The waters were brilliant and the experience priceless. I left at the last possible moment three days later with a complete tan.

  THWARTING:

  So, I had intended to make my point by publishing the following pictures of me naked with the following captions. My publishers were unsure as were some others, but I didn’t care about their concerns. It seemed to me, given my views on nudity, that my credibility could be called into question if censored pictures accompanied my views. Essentially, I didn’t give a damn what people thought. However, there are a very few people whom I care a great deal about and whose concerns are important to me. My daughters were horrified. (Mostly about what their friends would think!) In a way, their horror at the thought of their father publishing shots of his penis in his book is the perfect confirmation of my views. The next generation are already well repressed in the nudity stakes.

  To all the ladies, and the men called Quentin, who are now devastated by the revelation that they were so close to seeing my manhood but at the final hurdle fell: sorry!

  So anyway …

  This is a picture of a chubby 52-year-old man at a ‘clothing optional’ (nudist) resort, Living Waters Spa, in Desert Hot Springs, 20 minutes from Palm Springs in California. The reason you can’t see anyone else in the picture is that, for perhaps obvious (although somewhat ironic) reasons, cameras are not permitted. As a result of that, the photographer is the resort owner, Jeff, and the naked man is me.

  Now I know, you might say almost anyone can appear naked in a published picture as an arse shot. So there’s another picture of the same naked 52-year-old from a different angle on the next page.

  Nothing that unusual: an aged male human body. Back to your homes … Nothing much to see here!

  My mum.

  Mum circumnavigates the Sky Tower at 80 years old.

  Standing at the bow of my boat.

  BOATING

  Serious recreational boating is perhaps the very worst investment in entertainment you can make. If you are infected with the curse of a love of boating, you lose all financial perspective. Friends and family will say things like, ‘Why don’t you just rent a boat when you want to go out on the water?’ That statement betrays their total lack of understanding. Clearly no salt water in those veins!

  For me the line that best sums up the passion that is boating is this one: ‘They were the best of times, they were the worst of times.’

  It is a passion that gives and takes, sometimes simultaneously. It can easily cost you as much as, or more than, buying and running a house, but with no chance of capital gain. Quite the opposite in fact. Your vessel is deteriorating as you read this sentence. The deterioration can’t be stopped. You just have to throw shit-loads of money at slowing it down.

  It is outrageous that an intelligent person such as I am, who is capable of wisely investing and spending, can shit as much money as I do on boats. But as I write this, I am smiling at the thought of my current small ship just waiting in the marina to let me know what else needs fixing on her.

  When a door latch breaks at your house, it can be fixed for, say, $50. The same problem on a boat will cost $500 to repair — and when they have finished, they are only ‘almost’ sure that it’s fixed, and have spotted two other things that are looking dodgy! I think it was Dennis Conner who described yachting as like standing over the toilet, flushing money away. May have been someone else, but it pretty well sums it up. A great friend of mine, Peter Williams QC, a man who has flushed a not inconsiderable amount of cash down the toilet on boats, describes blue-water sailing as like being in prison, but with the added risk of drowning. Both men are true boaties. They know, as I do, that life is not complete unless you have the escape vessel moored nearby.

  The prize for the true boatie is in the ownership. Yes, you may hardly ever take her out. And yes, she may treat you like shit 90 per cent of the time. But she’s yours. She is your total protection from Mother Nature. And when you are out at sea, there is nothing other than the grace of your ship and your stewardship of her that keeps you from floundering. It is raw and basic and fuck’n fantastic. It is living, and
you can put a price on it: shit-loads of money!

  EXERCISE FOR THE BOATIE:

  Divide the total cost of annual ownership, including depreciation of your vessel, by the number of days you take her out. The figure you come up with should be approximately one-tenth of the cost of leasing a vessel four times as luxurious as yours for a day. If it is less, you are living the dream. If it is more, I salute you!

  FACT:

  I actually love my boat. As I have loved all of the boats I have owned while I have owned them.

  SUPPLEMENTARY FACT:

  I own two boats. The one I hardly ever use, and the one I never use. Reluctantly, I decided to sell the one I never use. I procrastinated for quite some months, took a long look at her while selecting photos for the sales brochure — and decided she was far too beautiful not to be mine!

  ANECDOTE:

  I was alone on the deck, leaving the Bay of Islands early one morning on the largest small ship I have ever owned. Autopilot on, I was standing on the bow as the sun rose. Perfect weather and sea for the trip back to Auckland. The engine was thumping away beautifully, and 40 tons of perfectly maintained vessel was sitting beneath my feet. As I rounded the rim of the bay, I was joined by six large dolphins on the bow wave. Rising and falling on the smooth swell, this was pure paradise. This was one of those cameo experiences that you need to remember when a diesel engineer is saying, ‘Fuck, this looks bad!’

  NOTE FOR FUCK’N GREENIES:

  What did you think of that story? One man, 40 tons of fibreglass. One huge diesel engine thumping away through paradise! P.S. The dolphins were delicious!

  SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTE:

  I once owned a launch for two years that I used three times.

  SUPPLEMENTARY, SUPPLEMENTARY ANECDOTE:

  I once saw Dennis Conner in the supermarket. He bought tinned peaches.

  POSSIBLE FACT:

  Tinned peaches do not help you win the America’s Cup.

  LIST:

  Reasons why, on a perfect day for boating, your boat is still in the marina:

  You are working to pay the marina fee.

  Your vessel is crawling with diesel engineers saying, ‘Fuck, this looks bad!’

  You are at your beach house in Omaha. Wanker!

  Everyone in your family has told you that they honestly don’t like boating.

  You just can’t be bothered untying the ropes. (‘Sheets’ if she is a yacht. Wanker.)

  You have been told that two door latches are looking dodgy, and you can’t face another bill.

  You need to fill the tanks, and you only have a spare 18 grand on your eftpos card.

  Your embroidered polo shirt is in the wash.

  Your boat is for sale and you don’t want to get her dirty.

  ADDITIONAL FACT:

  All boats are always for sale!

  AMERICA’S CUP

  What a stupid sport!

  For decades it has been rendering itself down to the point it barely exists. The ultimate indictment of those who have had a hand in taking the America’s Cup to the brink of oblivion is the fact that, after years off the water and after millions spent in courtrooms, only three teams put themselves forward to challenge. One of those teams was ill-prepared and missed most of their races. One other team refused to race until issues were sorted in court. Yes, some issues were still outstanding, even after the event started.

  The true outrage for me is that I was an obsessive follower of the America’s Cup. It was a truly outstanding event. If it were not for Team New Zealand, this regatta would be a complete joke. As it is, it’s not quite complete in the laughable stakes. Watching these amazing pieces of plastic and dust fly over the water within the finest tolerances is a spectacle to behold, but how much better should it be? Oracle Team USA should be bloody ashamed of the way they have damaged this sport.

  At the time of writing this, as was always going to be the case, Team New Zealand and Luna Rossa are into the Louis Vuitton Cup final. No surprises there. As Artemis did not have a boat for much of the regatta, it seemed unlikely they would win many races! I’m glad I don’t know the final result, though, as it might distract me from my contempt of those who are destroying the sport.

  The America’s Cup should be about a challenging boat race, pitting vessels and sailors against each other. Rendering teams down to the ultimate challenge. Spectator boats should be jostling for position as supporters of numerous teams from many countries show their colours in triumph and defeat. But what is it? A courtroom drama so hard to follow it’s almost lost me. God, I hope you lose, Oracle! You have almost plucked to death the goose that laid the golden eggs!

  ANECDOTE:

  one of the finest America’s Cup moments for me was the end of a race on the Hauraki Gulf. Stars and Stripes were having a bastard of a regatta, but had just won against … I can’t remember who. I was supporting them anyway, as I knew they couldn’t beat us but I wanted to see them try. I also had a soft spot for Dennis Conner. (The only reason he was such an arse was his overbearing passion for the cup and yachting.) I had been out on the water in my boat watching, and as Stars and Stripes headed for home I saw dirty Dennis at the helm. I’m sure he waved. I know I did.

  FACT:

  New Zealand fell in love with the Luna Rossa team on the Hauraki Gulf. They were too good-looking to beat us, but we still wanted to look like them. They could out-class us in every way, but they would never chino their way to beating us at yachting!

  THE NEW ZEALAND HERALD

  What a nasty, negative little rag The New Zealand Herald can be! Led by editor Shayne Currie, it is at times little better than a parish-pump newsletter on a large budget, gone tabloid. And that actually is my main gripe: it poses as a credible daily when in fact it is often nothing more than a shabby tabloid. This of course is just my opinion. And I may be wrong. But that’s the guts of The New Zealand Herald: opinion, posing as fact. Often it is wrong or distorts the truth.

  I dare say there are some decent human beings in its ranks, possibly with some talent, in fact I know there are. But at times, Shayne Currie and a troupe of performing hacks can fumble their way through the news of the day as they see fit. Thank God it’s a dying medium if that is the best we have.

  Posing as a media expert in the know, John Drinnan appears to say basically what he bloody well likes. On one occasion he contradicted a direct quote I had given another publication. I had said I turned down a job offer from TVNZ. Rather than looking at the possible ramifications of my rejecting this offer, he chose, as the expert in all this, to point people to the ‘real’ truth: quoting an unnamed insider, we were informed that this was not a job offer at all. I was merely on a list of possible candidates. For fuck’s sake, I am in my fifties: I do know a job offer when I see one. Anyway, thanks John. You twat!

  Brian Rudman is one of the many columnists employed by the Herald to pontificate on issues in lieu of actually reporting news. He can be entertaining and at times almost informative. But his comments about me at times have been spectacularly incorrect, according to a named source, Paul Henry. On one occasion he got things so wrong while pontificating on my clearly disastrous broadcasting ability that he appeared to contradict himself in the same missive. You see, when he’s on a roll, he’s on a roll and bugger reality. Another twat! In my opinion.

  One of the saddest things is that many people do still believe what they read in the ‘paper’. These people trust its news and facts rather than see it for what it is — theatre and speculation. More fool them. No — Herald fool them.

  About their leader Shayne, I would say just this: I don’t trust him. In fact, a phrase often used by a former broadcasting colleague of mine, Pam Corkery, whom I rate very highly, ‘I wouldn’t give him the steam off my piss’, springs to mind.

  SUPPLEMENTARY OPINION:

  Perhaps the hardest job to do spectacularly well in a tabloid posing as a credible daily is that of gossip columnist. For years Rachel Glucina has excelled in her role wit
h the Herald. Her column has expanded to become perhaps the whole honest point of the paper on the weekend, with supplementary reporting during the week. In a country as small as New Zealand, risking relationships with those you need on a weekly basis is a tightrope walk of extreme and continual peril. She has found a beautiful balance between confidante, best friend and bitch. She has coerced, blackmailed and bullied stories out of people with stunning finesse. Doing this job well is not so much about being liked as it is about being feared, and I know some pretty powerful people who have feared Rachel Glucina. In short, on a staff so packed with also-rans and hacks, Rachel shines brightly.

  ANECDOTE:

  On one occasion, in order to prove my standing as New Zealand’s most racist inhabitant, Herald staff, reporters and a photographer invaded the private hamlet where I live and interviewed my neighbours. They also interviewed the proprietor of my local dairy. How excited must they have been to find so many races living immediately around me. Including some of the races I was reported in their own paper to be most offended by. You can just imagine the disappointment they must have felt on finding that these foreigners actually seemed happy to live in my vicinity. In fact some even liked me. Worse, they said I was nice to them. How would they report that?