Barry Frost

This is Barry Frost’s personal website.

February 2001

First of all I must underline how much we’re all missing our Richard. Poor Big Rich is feeling alone and neglected travelling on his own and has pointed out to me that I’m a bastard for not missing him in a written form. Fair point. So, Richard, if you’re reading this, start pulling some of the 18 year old totty on your bus and stop being such a big girl’s blouse.

Secondly, Sue and I are no longer homeless! We’re moving into the cool bedsitty flat in Devonport we visited yesterday downstairs from my workmate Leanne. We’ll also be sharing with her Scottish boyf Craig, a budgie, a cat, some Japanese and a so-laidback-he’s-horizontal Dutchman called Rick (our landlord). We’re looking forward to daily ferry rides to and from work in the sunshine and a plethora of takeaways, offys, a supermarket and beaches on our doorstep.

Sue and I are currently facing homelessness as of Saturday. We’d arranged with Fringe Ben to move into his 12-bedroom house at the end of February. We weren’t overly concerned when he announced that because he was leaving Auckland he was handing the responsibility of the house onto his housemate, Conor. We should’ve been concerned, though, as since then Conor has also left town and the current incumbents have just let out the last room in the house, unaware of what had gone on before. “Bollocks,” we thought.

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Dan’s now got a website with photos and an alternative travel blog/diary.

It was the big Hero Festival in Auckland on Saturday night, the New Zealand Mardi Gras equivalent, principally for the gay and lesbian communities. Standing at the end of our road outside One Red Dog on Ponsonby Road we had the perfect view of a multitude of naked arses, dykes on bikes, fire-breathing transvestites and all sorts. Top entertainment. My personal favourite was the naked dancing woman on top of a big float, her modesty saved only by a coat of gold paint. But that’s because I’m a pervert.

We then went down to our next-door-neighbour’s bar Kenny’s on K Road for the karaoke night. He’d promised us free beer so how could we refuse? It was karaoke night and, buoyed by the party atmosphere, Helen and I did a passable “Delilah” (in honour of her Welshness) before I disgraced myself by singing “Country House” in an Essex boy accent, a few beers later. I’m still shuddering at the thought of it.

Rich’s now upped-sticks and is off to Whitianga on the Coromandel penninsula for the start of his Kiwi Experience trip round New Zealand. Rather suspiciously Helen has also gone on a two-day holiday up there too. “Helen and Richard up a tree, K I S S I N G…”

The new tenants for our house are a group of young Kiwi students, fresh out of school and moving out of their parental homes. We met four of them last night, all 18 years old, bright eyed, eager and full of life. Us haggard, creaking British twentysomethings suddenly looked and felt very old as we contemplated cooking dinner, watching Shortland Street and the ironing that needed doing. Oh to be young again! (he says with all of his 22 world-wise years…)

The weather’s unbearable at the moment in Auckland. It’s so bloody humid all the time that you end up feeling sticky and irritable just walking down the street. You get a brief respite from the heat with a sudden downpour and then it’s back to the muggyness. Fortunately we’ve got air conditioning at work but stepping outside the front door reminds me of walking out of the plane into the Bangkok heat. And as for the flies and mosquitos… Apparantly it’s freezing back home in England but give me a nice, cold refreshing Winter anyday. You’re all so lucky!

No big plans for the weekend. Going to a barbeque with Sue tonight but otherwise it’s shopping for Jesus sandals tomorrow and sitting down in a quiet place. Everyone at work are asking which island I’m off to this weekend but I suppose that’s because we’ve got a reputation for kerrazy weekends away. Need to save up so I can afford the next spurt of travelling.

Damn that Anna Kournikova to Hell! Have now seen the back of her… well, not literally… that would actually be quite nice. And, while I’m linking, I knew it would only be a matter of time before there was a serious accident while someone was text messaging. The amount of times I’ve almost walked under a bus while walking down the street trying to compose a text message…

Can’t have escaped your attention that it was Valentine’s Day yesterday but is it my imagination or is it getting even more commercialised out of all proportion? Luckily I was in the fortunate minority of people that actually had “Valentines” and had a spanking Chinese at the Dragon Boat followed by ridiculously cheap beer at Margarita’s with Sue. Was a bit concerned earlier in the day when Helen texted to say there were two cards waiting for Sue at home, in addition to the one I’d given her. Fortunately it turns out they were from Rich and Stu who also sent them to Helen and Joanna. Alarm over!

Moving out day’s drawing closer: our landlord’s meeting our shortlist of potential new tenants tonight. Poor Joanna’s had literally hundreds of phone calls since we put our house in the paper and has now whittled the groups down to four and, amazingly, not entirely composed of “fit men”. Hope they don’t find our mouse traps!

Why do I even bother? Had a massive email crisis at work today. Firstly I was great in diagnosing a new virus, disinfecting everyone’s computers within minutes and helping infectees over the country sort themselves out. Then it turns out that in fixing things, our email server’s buggered and no-one can receive external emails. Passing the buck to the engineer: can’t understand why the stoopid pooter doesn’t work! Think it’s about time I gave up on the blasted things anyway.

Advertised our house in the Herald this morning. Poor Joanna, Rich and Helen have had the phone ringing non-stop with people clamouring to takeover the rent and are scrubbing feverishly as I write. Hope the househunters can stand the stench downstairs…

Sue and I had an extremely pleasant and sophisticated Saturday at the Devonport Food and Wine Festival. We sipped Chardonnays, Rieslings and Sauvignon Blancs from around the country, basking in the sunshine and relaxing to the jazz. Pity 25,000 other Aucklanders had the same idea but it wasn’t too crowded and we had a fantastic ferry ride there and back.

Killed a mouse last night. I’d assumed that putting mouse traps out would mean a quick, sharp death for the poor little bastards. But, no, I came upstairs last night to find one wriggling around, head clamped at a horrific angle in the trap and his eyes bulging. Kindest thing to do was put him out of his misery and, as I brought down the Broom of Justice, Sue screamed in an extremely uncharacterstic girly manner. Feel a bit guilty but, in our mice-infested house, it’s honestly either us or them!

Hate Valentine’s Day? Send your ungrateful other a Dutchbint Evil Valentine’s.

You can now comment on anything I say: click on “Discuss” below any post to add your comments.

It was Waitangi Day yesterday here in New Zealand and therefore a public holiday. The day is supposed to commemorate the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi, the founding document of New Zealand, in 1840 between the native Maori chiefs and the British Crown. Shamefully (being British) some of the early settlers weren’t exactly honest, stealing land from tribes and to this day disputes still plague New Zealand society. The Pakeha (the whites) simply spend another day at the beach while Maoris seem to rekindle their resentment and bitterness.

As an (albeit British) outsider, there’s a lot of racial intolerance among the whites for “moaning, minority Maoris” who make up 17% of the population while the natives seem to cling on to past injustices 160 years after they were committed. Also minorities such as Pacific Islanders, Chinese and Japanese are growing and growing in New Zealand to create a much more diverse society: it’s no longer just Pakeha against Maori. The All Blacks are the perfect example of how Kiwis can put their differences behind them with Christian Cullen (white) performing the Haka alongside Jonah Lomu (Maori). I know it’s not as simple as I make it sound, but it’s still a major issue in New Zealand.

Best get off my soapbox! We spent the day in the sun watching New Zealand get stuffed by Sri Lanka. It really was quite embarrassing to watch the home team get completely thrashed by nine wickets in a one-day international. Cheap day out, though, and it was great to visit Eden Park. Can’t wait to go back for the rugby: a sport this country’s actually quite good at!

Looking out of my window (on the 25th floor of the third largest builiding in New Zealand, I might add) I can see right into the penthouse suite of the Auckland Centra Hotel. Guests sometimes forget that, despite being so high up, they’re not completely invisible to the outside world and, apparantly, oblivious undressers often expose more than they’re aware.

On Friday, however, one group of people went a rather gruesome step further: a naked, fat, middle-aged woman (why are they never attractive?) decided to bounce around on her penthouse balcony waving to us with her jugs flying. Meanhile her friends seemed to be making porn films in the bedroom, pressing themselves up to the glass. Brightened up my Friday afternoon.

There’s now 13 more photos for you to enjoy, mostly from our trip to Great Barrier Island but there’s also some from Piha and Muriwai beaches. Just wish the scans could do justice to how blue the water was and how green the trees were - far cry from Essex!

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This sorry excuse for a travelblog has now reached over 1000 visits and it’s up to about 20-a-day. Hopefully some of you enjoy what I write and aren’t just searching for ladyboys and naked Shortland Street pictures, although looking at my referrals tells a different story. Thanks everyone for visiting and (hopefully) reading this rubbish!

What cheese are you? I’m a Danablu, unsurprisingly a Danish blue cheese. Mmm. (Link from dutchbint.org).

Going round Fringe Ben’s massive 12-bedroom house tonight to meet its residents and see if the room he promised us is up to scratch. Only a month left before we’re moving out of our home and we’ve still got to tell the landlord (who thinks we’re staying for a year - whoops!), advertise in the paper, sort out final bills, sell Bertha and a million-and-one other things.