Ring them bells

Bells are being rung in Auckland today as the first Rugby World Cup chickens come home to roost.

These graceful migratory birds have taken more than two years to get here. Veteran birdwatchers say their arrival could have been predicted from the day Murray McCully was made Rugby World Cup Minister.

On the Auckland waterfront, crowds gathered to see thousands of chickens landing on Mr McCully's head and shoulders.

They will stay there for some time to come, along with the albatross already around his neck.

In some cultures the chicken is considered a bird of ill omen.

An anthem for our times

On the eve of one of the most momentous events in New Zealand history, it seems right to pause, reflect and—yes—pray for the men about to go into action, bearing the hopes and dreams of a nation on their shoulders. I know that tonight, and indeed every night while the Rugby World Cup is on, men and women will gather and pray to whatever gods may be for the safe return of our boys, bearing the necessary silverware. Around many a humble hearth tonight, hands will be joined and voices raised in songs of acclamation. But what will they sing? The words of our national anthem, though rich in lyric resonance, don't seem quite appropriate for the occasion. Humbly, as just one New Zealander wishing to play his part, however small, in the quest for imperishable glory, I offer this new version.

God of Nations, if you're there,
Now's the time to show you care.
Hear our Rugby World Cup prayer:
God defend our All Blacks.
Keep them safe from injuries,
Guard their hamstrings and their knees.
Till the final's over, please,
God defend our All Blacks.

Men of every other team
Think that they can steal our dream.
Help us prove that we're supreme:
God defend our All Blacks.
Put more power in Carter's boot,
Make our scrum beyond dispute,
May our tactics be astute
In the forwards and the backs.

God of Nations, get this straight:
Failure we just will not tolerate.
If you really are our mate,
End this 24-year wait.
Help the ABs go for broke
Or they'll be a worldwide joke.
If you're such a decent bloke,
God forbid the All Blacks choke.

Amen.

Happy Phil

The nation's eyes were on the Southern Ocean today when Labour leader Phil Goff was given back his freedom and released into the sea.

Thousands of New Zealanders have taken this plucky little chap to their hearts since he was found stranded at the top of the Labour Party.

Bewildered and lost, he kept making flapping motions that—scientists say—were a desperate attempt to get people's attention.

Dubbed 'Happy Phil' because of his fixed smile, he survived for months on a diet of dead rats.

But his keepers inside the party were growing increasingly concerned about him.

When they said it was time for him to go, the navy came to the rescue.

The frigate Helen's Legacy weighed anchor at 51 degrees south earlier today and Happy Phil was brought on deck.

Though a little reluctant to go at first, he was soon walking along a specially designed plank, helped by a few encouraging nudges from keepers equipped with long poles.

A final prod, a last smile, a splash—and he was free.

'It is a far, far better place he has gone to,' said skipper Captain Ahab Cunliffe.

Happy Phil has been fitted with a GPS tracking device so we can all follow his progress. First he went left, then right, then left again before doubling back on his tracks, then standing on his head. Scientists say he may never be the same again.

The Helen's Legacy was last seen wallowing in heavy seas, with a terrible list.

The expedition to the non-prominent area

'The alcohol display area must not be in a prominent area of the store.'—Parliament's justice and electoral select committee recommending changes to supermarket and grocery stores under the Alcohol Reform Bill, in the hope of making the purchase of alcohol less attractive and more difficult for young people

The first night

We've camped tonight, Jason, Jarod and me, at the southern end of aisle 2. It hasn't been too bad getting this far, but we know that the hard part lies ahead. It's important to get some rest. The old maps have turned out to be useless; familiar landmarks are just gone. The major display of DB that used to be near the entrance is no longer there, and all the way down aisle 1 we saw no sign of the shoulder-high stacks of cask wine that usually dot the landscape. Instead, we had to pick our way through some rough country that took us past the tinned tomatoes and creamed corn, before abseiling safely down to a ledge beyond specialist teas.

The second night

Good progress today—we're camped halfway down aisle 9—but I'm worried about Jarod. He seems listless, pale, and tires easily. Jason and I keep having to wait for him to catch up. He keeps licking his lips; I think he's in Steinie withdrawal mode. Not far to go now, mate, I say, encouraging him. The trouble is (and I don't tell Jarod this), to be quite honest I don't exactly know where the liquor shelves are now. The last guys to make the attempt got as far as aisle 14 and had the delicatessen counter in sight before pulling back out of sheer exhaustion. They told me they reckoned the booze was somewhere beyond the deli but had to admit they hadn't actually seen it.

The third night

It's just Jason and me now. I think Jarod knew he was holding us back. He left the tent last night saying 'I'm just going outside for a while, dude,' and we never saw him again. He was the bravest guy I ever knew. We didn't say much today, Jason and me, just slogged on past cake, buns and confectionery. We left the deli behind us late in the afternoon and since then we've been in no man's land. It's fucking dark, man, and a sort of mist has come down. I thought I heard a wolf howl. But we've got to get through. They're counting on us back at the party.

Editor's footnote: the diary was found in a sleeping bag halfway down a ravine several metres west of organic nut bars. Two bodies lay nearby, dead of dehydration. Unbeknownst to them, the first Tui lagers were just around the corner of the next aisle. The last scrawled lines in the diary read:

'The piss, man, it's out there somewhere. Some day, some way, it will be found. In a non-prominent area. If we have blazed a path to it, if we've done anything at all to make the going easier for those who come after us, then our sacrifice won't have been in vain. Sink one for us when you get there.'

Cot case

Police investigating a serious disturbance in Dunedin three days ago say they're making progress with their inquiries and expect to make an arrest soon.

They're releasing few details at this stage but it's understood the incident in question involved toys, and a cot.

Inspector Kevin Plekhanov says he can't comment on speculation but there were several unsavoury aspects to the case.

'The toys were thrown with some force from the cot,' he says.

Police are seeking a middle-aged woman wearing a cloth cap and carrying a hammer and sickle. She has a large chip on her shoulder and a mote in one eye. Other identifying features include an overdeveloped sense of entitlement.

A Ms Clare Curran is helping police with their inquiries.

Operational matters

The Minister of Labour, Kate Wilkinson, said today that she was not responsible for the Minister of Labour, Kate Wilkinson.

Questioned in Parliament, Ms Wilkinson said Ms Wilkinson's actions were not something she could comment on. 'That is an operational matter,' she said.

Ms Wilkinson would neither confirm nor deny that she was a cabinet minister and a member of the current government.

Approached by reporters outside Parliament afterwards, Ms Wilkinson referred all further questions to the Minister of Labour.

The Minister of Labour's office said the minister was unable to comment on matters relating to her portfolio.

Asked when the minister would be back, a spokesperson said that was commercially sensitive information.

Ms Wilkinson later issued a statement saying she was not at any time and never had been, nor could she, and in any case, whatever.

Asked if she actually existed, Ms Wilkinson said that issue was still being worked through by a committee of inquiry and it was not up to her to intervene.

So young

There's a group called Youth for Act? Holy Christ. Who are these people? Where did their parents go so wrong? What can be done to save them? We need rescue missions, fund-raising campaigns, ways of offering them a better life. There may yet be hope for these unfortunate youths. It breaks my heart to think that they may be growing up regarding Don Brash as an object of veneration. Is there anything at all that we can do to help?