Brian Rogers Rogers Rabbits www.sunlive.co.nz

It's nearly November and time to again celebrate an ancient ritual – setting fire to stuff, scaring unsuspecting animals and generally behaving as complete idiots for one night of the year.

Some even manage to stretch it out, acting like pyromaniacs for weeks on end.

Guy Fawkes, of course, is supposed to symbolise some sort of connection to a failed plot to blow up the English parliament. Really though, NZ parliament needs a rocket…for not banning this nonsense years ago.

The same governments that have harped on about climate change and preach concern for health and safety, have blatantly, year on year, sanctioned the environmental vandalism and animal torture that occurs every Fifth of November, and usually drags on sporadically for weeks and months after.

Ironically the same people who bleat on about emissions, gun control, fossil fuels, the ozone layer and battery hen farming… will be among those on November 5 taking part in pointless gunpowder emissions, using fireworks as lethal weapons and creating fire hazards, polluting the atmosphere and inflicting terror onto any animal within earshot.

Come people, this was 410 years ago, on the other side of the world. It has no relevance here or now. Get over it, make 2015 the last year we bother with this outdated, dangerous ritual.

Maybe a few decades ago, when we may have been short of family entertainment, this seemed like a good night out. But along with whaling, bullfighting and slavery, Guy Fawkes really needs retiring to the history files. These days there are so many more worthwhile ways to spend our time and energy. For goodness sake, we even have Sky TV.

Even a laser light display would be a better option than blowing up millions of dollars of gunpowder and scaring the bejesus out of every living creature, and setting fire to their habitats.

Go on, go ahead. Go out there and burn yourselves stupid. But please, can we make this year the last?



Paranoia over Tasman

It's not surprising that the Aussies, so daunted by the might of the All Blacks, have resorted to silly name games in the lead up to the RWC final this weekend.

It seems the Aussies can't bring themselves to call the NZ rugby team ‘All Blacks'.

As part of some sort of childish mind game, they're running with ‘New Zealand', according to reports this week.

That will play right into the hands of the All Blacks, I suspect.

Nothing like seeing paranoia in the feeble minds of the opposition to spur them on!

The latest effort is the Telegraph labelling the All Black captain Ritchetty Grub on its front page. Uh?

Which brings us to the subject of team names; if we're going to sink to the levels of the Australian press.

We've always said the Aussie cricket team should be called the Wombats.

Which I guess means Chubby Cheika's rugby team should be the Womballs.

Getting our own back

Here's a bit of payback, from here on we should refer to those teams as the Wombats and the Womballs.

That would be entertaining and serve a bit of justice.

Although after the weekend, their rugby team may also be known simply as 'the losers”.

Failing that, we could take a leaf out of Rabbits reader Bruce's book and do as he suggests:

'If for some reason you feel a great urge to sing along with the Aussie National Anthem on Sunday morning, I highly recommend this new, improved (more honest!) version:

Australians all let us despair
For we are but a joke.
Our seas are full of sharks and rays
Our skies are full of smoke.
Our land has none of nature's gifts
‘It's not fit for man or beast.
Our sole redeeming factor is
Our neighbours to the East!”

Either way, at the end of the tournament, the biggest joke really is not either NZ or Aussie, no matter the outcome of this weekend's final. It's the English.

Parting shot

This information was shared with us, from persistent reader Chris:

The teacher asked the class to write down the type of work their daddies did. The children, very excitedly scribbled their answers.

One by one the teacher asked each child to stand and describe the job. There was much fun and laughter, apart from little Tommy.

'Tommy, why do you look so sad?” asked teacher.

Tommy slowly rose to his feet and replied: 'My dad is a stripper in a gay bar.”

The other children remained silent, as Tommy continued.

'Sometimes he doesn't come home and my mummy sits crying. Sometimes, he sells his body for other men's pleasure.”

There were gasps around the classroom. The teacher acted quickly and dismissed the rest of class, telling them to go play.

She walked up to Tommy and asked 'Is all that true, Tommy?”

'No, not at all, Miss. He really plays rugby for England, but I was too embarrassed to say.”

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