Sometimes all it takes is a little bit of torrential rain to sort the D-Man from the boys.

I’ve been a little pissed-off lately because heaps of these young punks at work have deciding to cycle in as well. Something about the price of oil, or methamphetamine, or some shit like that, meaning they can’t afford to drive their boy-racer cars anymore.

In some ways this is good.

Less cars and more bikes on the road goes someway towards evening out the odds as to whether it will be me or someone else getting hit by a SUV this week.

But it’s also annoying, because I always get to work late, and, in recent days, there has been no hot water left by time I get to the company showers, because all these new young early-to-work goody-goody cyclist punks have been hogging it.

But not this morning.

I rode in, despite the pouring rain, and felt an immense sense of pride when I got to the bike racks and found I was the only one Hard Enough to handle the wrath of Mother Nature. Not like those 30 other Fair Weather Cyclists.

“WHO’S YOUR DADDY NOW, BITCHES?!!!”, I cried out as I locked up my bike.

Sure, my lungs were half full of water, but I was also The Man.

Then I overheard some one go: “What kind of an idiot cycles to work in weather like this?”.

Goddamn? What’s a guy got to do to earn a little respect in this five-sheep-town?

Punks.

Man, it’s days like this that I wish I still worked for a newspaper.

The country’s biggest story over the past couple of days? A cat has spent the past week trapped up a palm tree.

Three fire trucks couldn’t get it down. Two animal control officers with cherry pickers couldn’t get it down. Napier residents built a gangplank from another tree to the palm, but the cat still wouldn’t come down.

The cat’s cries were keeping residents awake at night.

So the SPCA was called in, which advised shooting it down. Killing it dead.

Permission was sought from the Prime Minister, who authorised use of the Airforce to Napalm the moggy’s ass. But then the Prime Minister remembered that little old cheap-ass NZ no longer had an Airforce, so she dispatched the SAS, armed with deadly rubber band guns to bring the cat down. They missed. Hit some endangered birds instead. Oops.

A $400 bounty was offered to anyone who could bring the cat down, dead or alive.

Yesterday a house painter, trained in the ancient art of Cat Whispering and armed only with a ladder and a Marmite sandwich, managed to do what all the King’s Horses and all the King’s Men could not.

The cat ran away upon safely (sort of) reaching ground again and could not be reached for comment. I don’t blame it. If some bastard wanted to shoot me just cos I got stuck in a tree, I wouldn’t be too happy either.

What did this little “rescue mission” cost the country?
10 billion dollars.

But, oh, it was sooo worth it. I still haven’t stopped laughing.

I always wanted to cover a Cat Up Tree story.
I consider it to be the height of journalistic excellence.

The closest I ever came was reporting on a dog that played soccer. I had a bit of a 1-on-1 kick around against it and, damn, that Jack Russell terrier was good. It was totally kicking my ass. So I tripped it up and stole the ball and scored a goal. Yeah! I rock!

If you've ever wanted to know a little more about New Zealanders, I suggest you go visit Vile File’s site.

She's just done a post exposing the Seven Habits Of Highly Annoying New Zealanders.

None of these apply to me, of course.

I'm: The Man.