“And in sport, Chris Killen bagged a brace as Celtic downed Todham 2-0 in a pre-season friendly at Wembley last night…”. Todham? Todham? Who the F.C.U.K are Todham? This very piece of ‘sports journalism’ sums up New Zealand’s coverage of the beautiful game – a sign not welcome by yours truly. Incidentally, Chris Killen is a Kiwi, hence the actual coverage itself, but the journalist in question clearly needs to do some research for future reports, especially as the football season is bestowed upon us (it’s been a long summer, or rather a long winter given that I am on the other side of the world).

New Zealand, it must be said, though is trying its hardest to repel my enthusiasm. Unlike Australia, for example, these folk on my current side of the Tasman do not have the ability to show any match they like: Australia, I would argue, has got to be one of the best places in the world to watch the Premier League, despite the at times monumental time difference. The ‘red button’ option in Australia allows the user to watch any game of their choice, but in this neck of the woods there is no red button. Instead, their paltry offer consists of watching those matches that kick-off at the same time as the one match they have decided to show immediately after. They literally have no clue about the significance of football – who wants to watch a delayed version of a match? It’s all about the here and now with football and not two hours later when you already know the result.

Furthermore, there is only one 24-hour pub in Auckland, so this has become my new place of worship come the early morning kick offs (add 11 hours to BST kick off times to see what I mean). Amusingly, there is a sports bar located near us in the city – a title that in my opinion it should be stripped of: the blackboard outside boasts that they show live sport, but as I strolled past it this week in my attempt to find a pub for Tottenham’s first game of the season the very same board, under the title of ‘this week’s action’, read: ‘live football – delayed coverage of the English Premiership’. Don’t make me laugh! Don’t waste my time either!

Therefore, I decided to watch Tottenham’s first game of the season against Liverpool in the only pub that allowed me. (Luckily, this happens to be my local anyway, but I’m limited for choice – especially as it’s a bit of stroll home at 5am). That night, prior to our match against Liverpool was the Manchester United game, and I decided to meet my Irish friend, Connor, for it. (I bet you can’t guess who he supports?) Personally, I think he took what greeted us very well – a group of intoxicated people hogging the karaoke machine. Is there anything more annoying than a pissed person who clearly cannot sing attempting to do so? Yes. It’s a group of pissed people who all get their own microphone and attempt to sing in harmony. The noise was dreadful (not as bad as my pet hates – wind chimes and bag pipes, but it wasn’t far below), and they sung throughout the entire game. Luckily, the barman insisted that they shut up for the start of the Tottenham game (3am – haven’t this people got homes to go to?) and we managed to watch our compelling and comprehensive victory in peace.

Just like its football coverage, a number of other aspects of New Zealand life are lurking in the Dark Age. It seems that not a week goes by without me thinking: ‘that wouldn’t happen in England, or anywhere else the real world for that matter’. Take, for example, the rudimentary issue of obtaining a visa debit card. Because of my nationality I am not entitled to one, however Lysey is. In this country those with permanent residency rights’ or natives are allowed a flexible friend of the very variety, and for all the others it’s a ‘hard luck’. Of course, being British I am bound to rack up a mountain of debt and flee the country without paying anything back!

There are other examples: I am currently on a pay-as-you-go contract with Vodafone, and every month I am sent an email of my bill, which gives me a week or so to pay in order to continue with my current deal. Printing it out, I made haste to our nearest Vodafone store to pay (in cash of course because I cannot be trusted with a visa debit card), but could I pay my Vodafone monthly bill here? Of course I couldn’t – that would require something that most people refer to as common sense. Instead, the customer service-shy people at my nearest store demanded that I had to go to a Post Office to pay my phone bill. Obvious, really.

There are others. Since my last update I have landed a few more temporary roles, most of which have been supplied by one employment agency (read on to see what other depressing errands they have sent me on). Before embarking on any work, one is required to fill out a tax form and to also supply the necessary bank details in order to get paid. Well, as I was eagerly awaiting my first pay packet I had a phone call from the agency in question asking me to ‘pop in and supply an official bank statement with my personal account information’. Apparently, this is a standard requirement in New Zealand; in order to receive your payment you need to provide something official with your bank information – just to verify the information you have provided. Oh please! As if I am going to provide the incorrect bank information. If anything, this is the one section that I can guarantee will be correct.

Finally, as money has been hard to come by, one of our main sources of entertainment has come either via the telly or the internet. (It’s also usually raining or biting cold come the weekend.) The latter, it has to be said, is like pulling teeth: trying to connect to the internet in the evening in Auckland is like trying to crack the Da Vinci code. It seems that if more than three people in the city try to log on at once the system goes into overload, making Skype conversations, or anything else for that matter, a near on impossibility. (The best time I have found is in the middle of the day, say around 1pm NZ local time. That means people back home, such as you mum and dad, we need to speak at 2am your end if you want a fluent conversation from me – and one that doesn’t consist of constant expletives from me aimed at the telecommunications of New Zealand). Of the former, originality and New Zealand television are like chalk and cheese; they import a lot of shows from Britain, including the dreadfully benign Allstar Mr and Mrs. Of the five minutes I caught of this abysmal Saturday night show they were focusing on Wendy Richards and her partner. How long has she been dead? I am sure there will be more anomalies of every day life as I see it in New Zealand in my next update.

Moving on. Since arriving in Auckland we have been on the search for a new property, with a number of factors behind the house search: the building site opposite is a blot on the landscape, and as much as the scaffolding poles act as an eyesore, the on-going hammering is unbearable; the neighbours above seem to be running their own private gym as we’re convinced the tenants are lifting weights and then dropping them from a great height above; finally, with the 2011 Rugby World Cup due to be held in New Zealand, plans are afoot to expand the appalling public transport system (it will take longer than two years, believe me) and one of the projects include expanding an existing motorway exit to one of Auckland’s major roads. We happen to live beside that major road.

We have been here for over two months, so as one can imagine we have seen a fair share of apartments. Most of them have either been vastly overpriced, or are simply not an improvement one what we currently reside in (despite the aforementioned problems). However, from what was proving to be a fruitless task (most decent apartments were snapped up within hours of appearing on estate agents’ websites, usually by the growing number of students who call Auckland home) we came across a gem of a place, located about ten minutes by foot from our current digs. Our new abode will cost us the same in rent but for our bread we also gain a gym and a swimming pool. A picture really is worth a thousand words, and if you want to see our new place contact me and I’ll send you the link. (I refuse to publish my new address online).

In reference to the ‘dreadful errands’ that I have been sent on since my last update, I have been reading about the recession and the inevitable affects in has on the population. Experts in this corner of the world are urging people to partake in work that in essence is deemed a step down, just to make ends meet and to avoid signing on. That message, I feel, can be laid down to almost the entire western world, for we’ve all got outgoings to contend with. From a personal point of view, I have no issue with people signing on – all of us have different circumstances to contend with, but I would need to be deep in the proverbial to consider such a move. Besides, because of who I am New Zealand will not like me sponge off the system. (I have never had this confirmed, but I don’t care – I’m not that sort of person).

In order to help myself I have been dotted around a few various supermarkets of the city. My first stint, a three-day effort as that was what I was required for, was simply tidying up and stacking shelves. Apparently, the head honcho was due in town, so therefore I, plus a dozen others of various nationalities (including a Welsh chap who constantly cracked me up. I have very little time for whingers, but whenever I hear someone with a deep Welsh accent moaning I fail to hide my amusement) were doing just that. Because of our status of being disposable staff, I find that in some circumstances those who are actually full time members of the establishment feel they have carte blanche to talk to us however they like. One particular tosser, a Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons lookalike, tried this game with me.

Considering I take no enjoyment from this line of work I simply keep my head down, work hard as I find time goes quicker when doing so and communicate with as few as people as required. Doing just that, one afternoon this cartoon character lookalike of a colleague approached me in his own imitable way and pointed out that someone had spilt a carton of milk on the floor. His ‘oi, come here’ approach didn’t impress me; neither did his expectation that I was expected to clean up the mess. Of course, I told him to ‘feck off’, to which he replied that he was one of the assistant managers in the store and I have to follow his instructions. I don’t feel bad or sorrow for my outburst, and I got on with the job begrudgingly, but he never spoke to me like that again. Lysey suggested that because I was only here for a few days I should have sucked it up and got on with the job with no questions asked. I retaliated by stressing that if you let jumped up little fleas like this moron get away with their behaviour then they’ll keep going.

That particular chap, along with the majority of the other staff, could have applied to appear in Eastenders as no one smiled. For the record, I have no problem cleaning up any mess – as long as I created it. I do have an issue cleaning up someone else’s however – especially if they address me as such. After my outburst the idiot in question informed me that a customer had in fact spilt the milk, but I have serious suspicions about his claim.

Luckily that role only lasted a few days, but I have since been based at another supermarket, but in a different capacity – and on a different shift. My new role is that of a refurbishing one; this very supermarket is knocking down all its dilapidated shelves and coming into the 21st century (perhaps another anomaly of New Zealand life as this place was based in a time warp), and because of the inconvenience we would cause to the customers our work begins at past tea time with a completion time set for breakfast. Personally, I am surprised that the health inspectors haven’t closed the store as the place is a literal dump! I have been there for just under a fortnight, but within that time the tables in the canteen haven’t been wiped down once. The shop floor itself isn’t much better, and as for the toilets….

It must be said, I am not the biggest fan of working nights. Many moons ago when I was back home I did indeed work nights, but a totally innocuous remark put an abrupt end to that. Whenever departing the office having worked a 9-5 it’s customary to say something along the lines of: ‘Have a good evening – I shall see you tomorrow’. In this very role I muttered words to that affect, to which I was instantly corrected as the recipient of my jocular statement stated: “Don’t you mean tonight?” That was the straw that broke the camel’s back; this person was correct, as you do not have a life as you are literally at work day in, day out. You finish early in the morning only to be back at work that very evening.

Moreover, not only does it mess up ones social life, but it also plays havoc with the following daily rigours. As I am temping I am still in the process of applying for jobs, but by the time I wake up the very thought of completing application forms is the last thing on my mind. By the time the brain kicks into action I am then back at work. (Then I go back to a vegetable state as it’s very boring, but plans are afoot to fix the situation. Apparently the same agency has a few ‘suitable’ roles lined up for me that will put me back on a day shift).

The role is physically demanding, but it’s hardly challenging. Relating to the expert view on the recession and taking a step backwards in order to make ends meet, I am working alongside a qualified teacher, a bank manager and a civil engineer. As for the remaining other 37 people, I have no clue what they actually do as I simply don’t speak to them. (Blame the language barrier as the majority of them are from Samoa and they all seem to keep to themselves).

The only challenging aspect of the job came on its very first night. The agency left me under the illusion that I would be working from 9pm to 8am – a 10.5 hour shift every night. What they failed to mention, however, was that they actually send people home once all the work for the night is completed. Raging as it had just turned 3am, I explained to the lady that the shambles of a set up was not good enough as I had no notification that this could happen. I further explained that the last bus stopped running at 9.30pm and the first one in the morning was at 5.30am. She didn’t care, and I knew she wouldn’t do anything about it, but I wanted to vent my frustration on someone. Luckily, however, I managed to sponge a lift that night. For the rest of the duration of the project, finishing early has been a constant issue, but I have been fortunate enough to get a lift home with a variety of people as the 5-6 km walk home at night really doesn’t appeal. I was once told not to get in a car with a stranger, but since working there I have travelled with a Kiwi, a Chinese lad and a couple of South Africans.

On the potential threat of get kidnapped, I have also worked with the Afghans again who run the Persian rug company, mainly moving rugs and setting up their shop display. My facetious remark solely relates to the concerns of Lysey, who found it dodgy that I was initially expected to work at 11pm on a Sunday night. (The Sunday night shift never matierialised though, but instead I have worked a few Monday mornings for them, usually starting about 7am and finishing anytime after midday.) I appreciate her concern, but I found it a little OTT. I told her that if I appear online, donning an all-in-one orange jumper suite pleading for the Allies to retreat from Afghanistan with Arabic writing in the background she should be worried. Until I appear on Al-Jazerra news she should trust my instincts. Furthermore, the people who run the organisation are excellent, although they could pay more money as I often leave with my back in knots.

Finally on all things work related, that role that I had been waiting so patiently for (the role that was working for a company that dealt with computers, or a computer that deals with companies – the information was ambiguous at best) has failed to materialise. I have a sour taste in my mouth about the whole incident – one that tastes of unprofessionalism from the agency’s part. They have strung me along all this time, meaning I had rejected a few alternative roles as this particular job promised to last a substantial amount of time. The cowboys in question, and in particular the cowgirl who dealt with me, really do not know their asses from the elbows (or as I heard the other day, shit from clay) so I take pleasure in having no more dealings with them. (In Australia, the very same agency was also shocking: they are run by literal morons it seems).

Finally, since my last update I have not been all work (well, temporary work) and a dull boy, as I have actually maintained a social life. One particular highlight came on Saturday (8/08) when Lysey, courtesy of the powers that be in her hotel, arranged a free harbour cruise for the both of us. The trip lasted for nearly two hours, and in that time we toured the harbour itself; paid a visit to Rangatou Island (an island made up of volcanic activity – a first for me); sailed past the stunning Waiheke Island (there’s lots to see and do here – so much so that we’re planning on returning come the summer months. Bike hire is available and offers the best mode of transport to see the World War II caves), and strolled under the Harbour Bridge (it’s no Sydney, but the architecture – a 1.6km long bridge, was impressive nonetheless despite its dull grey exterior) – all of which was accompanied by an in-depth commentator. From the commentators readings’ I established that Auckland is colloquially referred to as The City of Sails, mainly because one in five people here own a boat. Moreover, one in three have access to a boat. Both Lysey and I fit into neither demographic, plus we know of no one who owns or has access to a boat. Lies, dam lies, and statistics. Nevertheless, nice trip.