Oldfashioned wisdom dispensed among the snowflakes
My Uncle Norm has returned from his resthome’s Grand European Tour, which was subsidised by their windfalls from the Seniors’ Winter Energy Payment.
While the tour was a great success, the group lost a grandmother during their ascent of the Matterhorn, and an octogenarian farmer scampered too slowly at the Running of the Bulls.
Norm is unscathed, but busy defending a breach of promise action brought by the Latvian milkmaid he took clubbing in Hamburg.
Readers will recall Uncle Norm writes agony uncle columns which offer oldfashioned wisdom. In times of terrorism by the snowflakes, he speaks ancient truths.
Norm has given me permission to reprint his latest pearls.
Dear Uncle Norm. I used to be a copper, then for a lark I applied for this Proctor job at the University. The way I do it is much the same as uniformed patrol. I shepherd drunk kids home, give life advice, and whenever necessary, burn the student newspaper. Recently, I spied three bongs in a student flat and (as you would) confiscated them. Now they accuse me of bong burgling. What should I do? — Proctor Scott.
Dear Proctor. You sound a splendid fellow, but believe me it’s wise to stick strictly to your job description. I’d always presumed a proctor was an uncomfortably long proctologist’s probe, but perusing my Oxford, I discover you’re a university official whose task is to ‘‘invigilate’’. Still baffled, I looked up invigilate and found it’s making sure the scamps don’t cheat in exams.
Bong’s meaning is much as I thought: ‘‘A lowpitched resonant sound made by a large bell.’’
Candidly I’m unsure how a proctor might better invigilate bongs. But it seems it can’t be done without angry offencetaking. Have you chosen an impossible career?
Dear Uncle Norm. Because my partner’s job requires travel — the United Nations last week for God’s sake — I grit my teeth, go with her, and endure the scrawny title House Husband. My jobs include getting our baby daughter Neve off to sleep, and frankly, she’s damn difficult. In New York I had her sit up with me watching the Cage Fighting which was terrific, but didn’t work. Can you help? — Clarke Gayford.
Dear Clarke. That’s odd. My bubs were gaga for World Championship Wrestling. I found the boys nodded off quickly with a dessert spoon of overproof rum, but the girls are pickier. If you give Neve a thimble of Baileys with a dash of Cointreau and a sprinkle of cinnamon, she’ll giggle for 10 minutes, then snore through to breakfast.
Call me oldfashioned, but isn’t it time you made an honest woman of Neve’s delightful mum? The girls at the resthome (we call it a ‘‘resort’’) are crazy for this. They say you’d be the wedding of the year, and bring on a national holiday.
(Wit’s End — Whaat? Honestly Uncle Norm, must you always put your Old White Foot in it?)
Dear Uncle Norm. You’ll be delighted I’ve seen off the Free Speech troglodytes at Massey. Last week my University Council (blessed are the meek!) voted to support my noplatforming Don Brash. We universities must set high standards for the better thinkers. We can’t progress if we let free speech include wrong ideas.
Can I run my next campaign past you? We’re named after an ancient Prime Minister called William Massey. My research reveals this frightful old fart hated Bolsheviks, fought the unions, and violently opposed the enlightenment of the Labour Party.
He even said: ‘‘Nature intended New Zealand to be a White Man’s country.’’
We don’t have a famous old Massey statue to tear down. But is this the right time to muster righteous outrage for my ‘‘Dump Massey from Massey’’ project? — Vicechancellor Thomas.
Dear vicechancellor. I see from your CV you are a qualified vet. Is it possible you’ve strayed too far from your first calling?
Dear Uncle Norm. Since I put that impudent umpire in his place at the US Open, I’ve been harried by bigots and misogynists who don’t understand me. I’d like a start in this summer’s NZ Open so I can get a decent rest in Auckland en route to Melbourne. Someone said the fuss might mean I’m not invited. Can you pull some strings? — Serena Williams
Dear Serena. You don’t need me, sweetheart. You can bonfire your umpires, but the tennis associations will still lay out the red carpet for you. It’s called ‘‘obsequity’’ which means . . . oh, never mind.