People think that Wellington is a beautiful coastal city
Nestling in the Antipodean sun of New Zealand,
Land of the Kiwi Fruit (and the bird so cleverly named after it),
Capital of a free and democratic land happily far away from Australia,
A veritable boutique city of art and vibrant culture,
With award-winning wineries only a short ride away
On the back of a helpful itinerant 300 lb Maori porter-warrior.
And who can ever forget about the wonderful geysers
Which adorn everyone's bathroom and supply 24-hour hot water?
People think, 'O how fortunate are the residents
Of this wondrous metropolis' where [in a good week]
Anyone can attend a concert by the world-famous
New Zealand Symphony Orchestra playing in uncontsrained tandem
With Te Papa Tongarewa and his skiffle-dub and rap combo,
And where you can eat lamb non-stop for 365 days a year
And still have a few million sheep left over for other things.
But there is a darker side to this paradise on earth, oh dear me, yes,
And if you dare to read on, prepare to be shocked to your very marrow.
I went into a gentleman's outfitters, with my slightly effeminate friend Rory,
In order to purchase some lovely new pink linen trousers for him,
Only to find they only supplied manly tailored shorts and I declined, saying,
'We'll pass on those'. Now, this led to a terrible misunderstanding
Which only those who have spoken to a New Zealander can appreciate.
You see, the NZ accent is a little unusual in so far as vowels go:
Those quaint folk choose to mispronounce every single vowel sound,
And thus the shop assistant [a seven foot rugby player of total fearlessness
But not well-endowed in the thinking department, I regret to report]
Misunderstood me and believed I and Rory wished to urinate on his goods.
Accordingly he picked up his conveniently located Enfield rifle
[a sad souvenir of his great-grandfather's one-way trip to Gallipoli]
And blew a hole right through poor dear little Rory's chest
Which obviated the need to purchase any new clothing apparel permanently.
I was fortunate enough to get out of the shop door before the butch fellow
Could take aim a second time [he needed a second to wipe Rory's blood
off his sunnies, for which I thank God from the quivering depths of my heart],
And thus I was able to skedaddle down the street and take refuge
In a rather sophisticated bar called Kiri's [after the opera singer, I assume]
Which I was a bit disconcerted to see was 95% full of hirsute drag queens.
I seriously considered going to the cops, as I sipped a tasty vodka and lime,
But I feared the volatility of their righteous Wellingtonian reactions
When I told them about Rory's wish for some pink linen pants with turn-ups,
And the tale of the vowel mix-up might lead to ultra-violence on their part,
So I wisely decided to call it a day and take a taxi to the airport toute de suite.
I really do hope my travel insurance policy will pay to buy some new shoes
As I fear my pale mauve Nike high-heel loafers are indelibly blood-stained now.
Gold trophy winner
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