Couch kumaras, hear us roar!
Couch kumaras, hear us roar!
The fitness snobs, the gym bunnies in lycra, and the wellbeing wonks deride the humble couch potato.
Wit's End
Dear Uncle Norm, this insurance thing is driving me to distraction
Dear Uncle Norm, this insurance thing is driving me to distraction
We've almost solved the scandal of the stolen Uncle Norm letters. My techo chap is nearly 61% sure we've tracked down all correspondence that the Russians hacked from my Uncle's Agony Aunt website....
Dear Uncle Norm, what's with you Kiwi whingers?
Dear Uncle Norm, what's with you Kiwi whingers?
Life gets more difficult. My last column revealed Russian criminals have hacked the Agony Aunt website that my alter ego Uncle Norm runs for celebrities - and sold their VIP secrets to Wikileaks.
Dear Uncle Norm, what's your average desperate VIP to do?
Dear Uncle Norm, what's your average desperate VIP to do?
I speak little of my second calling - as an Agony Aunt columnist on the internet - because my clients are celebrities, and beg for secrecy.
Madness a rule, not an exception
Madness a rule, not an exception
You'd be off your tree if you believed you were totally sane. Gaga, nuts, and cuckoo, not to mention seminally stupid.
Retracing colourful heritage in a kilt
Retracing colourful heritage in a kilt
Given my Scottish blood, my first Kilt Day was well overdue, writes John Lapsley.
Beware noisy restaurants, insulting the chef and the ripple effect
Beware noisy restaurants, insulting the chef and the ripple effect
One of my pet hates (life is improved by pet hates) is the cheerfully noisy restaurant where nobody can hear each other speak, writes John Lapsley.
Unable to hook up with fishing
Unable to hook up with fishing
A bloke I golf with tells me he suffers a rare affliction called barracouta finger. It throbs at night, gives him hell on cold mornings, and has caused a deformity near his knuckle. I’ve heard of...
1956 series the stuff of legends
1956 series the stuff of legends
A dodgy pub-quiz question for you: Who was the most important New Zealand rugby name during the game’s halcyon 1950s? This legend was known by everyone — his presence echoed through every...
Rosier spectacles are required for using our smarts
Rosier spectacles are required for using our smarts
If people are so much smarter, then how come they elected the Donald?
Going with the flow on 'Nothing Happens Day'
Going with the flow on 'Nothing Happens Day'
When I was 7, I understood the meaning of Boxing Day perfectly. It was the payback for Christmas - it was a day of catastrophe.
Getting the motor running gets the blood boiling
Getting the motor running gets the blood boiling
The surgeons who’d interfered with my insides instructed me not to drive. And so the Duchess, not truly born to the Ford Territory, took the wheel home from Christchurch.
Even prophets should get the rights of free speech
Even prophets should get the rights of free speech
By JOHN LAPSLEYBrian Tamaki, and the gay earthquakes? Discuss. Well, I say it’s time we turned this debate on its head, and showed the beleaguered bishop a little understanding. After all, being a...
Back-yard rules we know and love
Back-yard rules we know and love
Christmas is just a few overs away, so it's time the fatheads who run sport finally do their job and codify the rules of back-yard cricket, John Lapsley writes.
Candidates each face perfect opponent
Candidates each face perfect opponent
Last week's US presidential debate felt like peering through the porthole of your washing machine and discovering a marmalade tabby drowning a poodle, John Lapsley writes.
Modernity masks historical horrors
Modernity masks historical horrors
The Stasi guard posts, the machine guns and the barbed wire are gone, of course.
Streamlining the wardrobe liberates the tartan Armani
Streamlining the wardrobe liberates the tartan Armani
I've done the annual wardrobe chuck-out, applying a system of cold logic.
Talking ’bout my generation
Talking ’bout my generation
Popular myth paints baby-boomers as a bad lot.
Young fogeys: the rise of the crybaby
Young fogeys: the rise of the crybaby
The censors we despised in my youth were the older generation. Enshrined in a black duffel coat that I slept and smelt in, I co-edited a student newspaper which fumed against the prim grey elders who protected New Zealand from free speech.
Keep it out of the media
Keep it out of the media
Justice Cudlip Trout, my appalling neighbour, has been called back from gardening leave to take up the job of Government Truth Censor. In return for two prize marrows and a batch of his plum port, I have agreed to publish his account of his first month in the job. He insists much of what follows is true: